what you’re saying must be true, but the dreams aren’t going away. If anything, they’ve become clearer, more graphic… more like a memory than a dream.” Keisha grabbed the doctor’s hand and held on as if to a lifeline, her coffee-brown fingers a stark contrast against the other woman’s pale flesh. “Last night I awakened in the garden. I was naked and there were scratches on my arms and legs. Scratches, as if I’d been running through thick brush. I have vivid memories of streaking through Golden Gate Park -- only I wasn’t human. I was a wolf.”
Dr. Wilson blinked in surprise and stared down at their clasped hands. “Goodness! You haven’t mentioned somnambulism, though sleepwalking isn’t uncommon during periods of extreme stress. Has this happened before?”
Keisha slowly released the grip on her therapist’s hand. “I don’t know for sure. At least two other nights… I don’t know anything, anymore. Look at my hair!”
Her expression one of pure confusion, the woman stared at Keisha. “What about your hair?”
“I have it braided by a professional. It’s supposed to last for at least a couple weeks. The mornings after I dream, the braids are undone. It’s always been curled really tightly… it’s getting straighter. It’s longer. What’s happening to me? What am I going to do?”
Blinking owlishly, obviously at a loss for words, the doctor glanced down at her notes. “Have you gone back to work?”
Keisha felt the subtle withdrawal, the woman’s struggle to remain professional.
“I see you’re a licensed landscape architect. You have your masters degree in…” She paused a moment, reading through her notes. “Ah, here it is, landscape architecture and design with a strong background in botany.” Dr. Wilson smiled gently at Keisha and took a firm hold on both her hands. “You’ve spent seven years training for your profession, so you must obviously love what you do. I would think the beauty of working with growing plants and flowers would be every bit as healing as talking to me. It’s going to take time, dear. I can’t ask you to forget an event that’s obviously too powerful to be forgotten, but I can ask you to accept the fact your life was spared, that you’re mentally strong and in good physical health. Your body is recovering, your mind will heal as well and at some point the dreams will go away.” She patted Keisha’s hand. “I want you to work on those exercises I gave you. Keep a record of any other nocturnal events should they occur. Just jot down whatever you recall when you awaken.” Dr. Wilson sat back and folded her hands in her lap, a sign their session had ended. “We’ll talk again next week.”
* * *
Keisha stood silently on the corner of Polk and Van Ness in the heart of San Francisco and waited for the bus. People of all ages passed by on either side, some smiling in her direction, others brushing past as if she didn’t exist. They didn’t know. None of them knew what horror she’d seen, what fears still filled her heart.
She knew she looked perfectly normal, knew she projected an air of success, of control. She’d better… she worked damned hard at it. Anyone who noticed her would see an attractive young woman of color, tall and slim, professionally dressed in a neat navy blue pantsuit, her shoes and bag perfectly coordinated and obviously expensive, her hair tightly braided back to a neat little bun at the nape of her neck.
Not a hair out of place. Everything under control.
Professional. Successful… normal .
Little did they know.
Dr. Wilson said she would heal. She’d have to if she wanted more than a pale imitation of life.
The bus pulled to a stop and Keisha climbed on board. She paid her fare and moved to an empty seat near the middle of the bus. A supermarket tabloid lay on the seat and she shoved the newspaper to one side.
The graphic photo and even more graphic headline leapt out at her, left her skin clammy and her
Dr. Wilson blinked in surprise and stared down at their clasped hands. “Goodness! You haven’t mentioned somnambulism, though sleepwalking isn’t uncommon during periods of extreme stress. Has this happened before?”
Keisha slowly released the grip on her therapist’s hand. “I don’t know for sure. At least two other nights… I don’t know anything, anymore. Look at my hair!”
Her expression one of pure confusion, the woman stared at Keisha. “What about your hair?”
“I have it braided by a professional. It’s supposed to last for at least a couple weeks. The mornings after I dream, the braids are undone. It’s always been curled really tightly… it’s getting straighter. It’s longer. What’s happening to me? What am I going to do?”
Blinking owlishly, obviously at a loss for words, the doctor glanced down at her notes. “Have you gone back to work?”
Keisha felt the subtle withdrawal, the woman’s struggle to remain professional.
“I see you’re a licensed landscape architect. You have your masters degree in…” She paused a moment, reading through her notes. “Ah, here it is, landscape architecture and design with a strong background in botany.” Dr. Wilson smiled gently at Keisha and took a firm hold on both her hands. “You’ve spent seven years training for your profession, so you must obviously love what you do. I would think the beauty of working with growing plants and flowers would be every bit as healing as talking to me. It’s going to take time, dear. I can’t ask you to forget an event that’s obviously too powerful to be forgotten, but I can ask you to accept the fact your life was spared, that you’re mentally strong and in good physical health. Your body is recovering, your mind will heal as well and at some point the dreams will go away.” She patted Keisha’s hand. “I want you to work on those exercises I gave you. Keep a record of any other nocturnal events should they occur. Just jot down whatever you recall when you awaken.” Dr. Wilson sat back and folded her hands in her lap, a sign their session had ended. “We’ll talk again next week.”
* * *
Keisha stood silently on the corner of Polk and Van Ness in the heart of San Francisco and waited for the bus. People of all ages passed by on either side, some smiling in her direction, others brushing past as if she didn’t exist. They didn’t know. None of them knew what horror she’d seen, what fears still filled her heart.
She knew she looked perfectly normal, knew she projected an air of success, of control. She’d better… she worked damned hard at it. Anyone who noticed her would see an attractive young woman of color, tall and slim, professionally dressed in a neat navy blue pantsuit, her shoes and bag perfectly coordinated and obviously expensive, her hair tightly braided back to a neat little bun at the nape of her neck.
Not a hair out of place. Everything under control.
Professional. Successful… normal .
Little did they know.
Dr. Wilson said she would heal. She’d have to if she wanted more than a pale imitation of life.
The bus pulled to a stop and Keisha climbed on board. She paid her fare and moved to an empty seat near the middle of the bus. A supermarket tabloid lay on the seat and she shoved the newspaper to one side.
The graphic photo and even more graphic headline leapt out at her, left her skin clammy and her
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