Stripping down to his briefs, Joe slipped between the sheets and turned off the bedside lamp. He’d been afraid that he wouldn’t be able to sleep at all without the nighttime pills he’d gotten at Trendale, so he was glad when a wave of fatigue washed over him. There was something rewarding about the feeling of drifting off to sleep, particularly after a long day. And it had been a long day, at least emotionally.
Joe dreamed.
Again, it wasn’t the shapeless nonsense of most dreams but a scene unfolding sequentially as experienced by someone who was there. He used the word dream when describing it only because he didn’t know what else to call it. There were some similarities. He experienced it during the night while he slept, like a dream. Also, he had no control over what unfolded. But there were differences too. More vivid than a memory and more real than a dream, it felt like he was there, thrust into the situation, hearing and seeing and smelling and feeling all of it. All of it. He had no choice in the matter. He never knew he was dreaming at the time he was experiencing it, just that he’d been thrust inexplicably into someone else’s life. He was another man, or at least that was the sense he got, and when he was this other person, he wasn’t Joe Arneson anymore. When he woke up, it was always with a shock at finding himself transported to a different body.
The dream he had that night started off on a positive note. For the most part, the emotion he felt during it was one of joy. He saw a young woman sitting at a piano, playing dramatic, vibrant music. Others were in the room in his peripheral view, but he couldn’t have said who they were or how many there were. He had eyes only for her. Her hands fluttered over the keys like the wings of a bird. She wore a simple blue dress, and her hair was swept up, revealing the back of her neck. Oh, the music! She played with a passion, pouring her soul onto the keyboard, the music swelling, and his own mood swelled with it. Above and behind her, there was a flickering of light, something that puzzled him when he thought about this dream later. What was that? The pulse of light was large and erratic and had the attention of everyone else in the room.
Joe was along for the ride as an unidentified man. He walked down an incline to join her, surprising her by sitting next to her on the bench. She gave him a quirk of her lips, a small brief smile, but kept playing. He was so close now that he could see the sweep of her hair as it was pulled back and pinned in place. Again, he noticed the graceful arch of her neck above her collar. He had to fight the urge to kiss it; he sensed they didn’t know each other well and that kissing her around other people would be shameful in some way.
Her hair was a warm golden brown. It was frustratingly hard to get a good look at her face. Her hands were small, but that didn’t stop her fingers from moving deftly up and down the keyboard. She leaned into the piano, pressing with a fury, the music building and building and then softening. Above them, the lights quivered, casting moonbeams over her. The people behind them gasped. He leaned in cautiously, wanting to inhale her, all of her, aware that this was his moment, that he could physically connect with her while everyone else was distracted. All he wanted was a touch, and an innocent one at that—the brush of his hand on her arm or his knee against hers. He would have settled for one brief moment of connection.
It wasn’t destined to be.
Just as he leaned in, he was jerked backward by someone gripping the collar of his shirt, yanking so hard that he was thrown to the floor with a force that took his breath away. The room swam above him, the flickering lights outlining a figure leaning over him in a menacing way. In the dim light above the man’s head, he could make out what appeared to be a crystal chandelier mounted on the ceiling.
He couldn’t see a face. What he heard was a threatening voice saying, “Keep your disgusting hands off her!”
When Joe woke, the words were still ringing in his ears, and his heart raced as if he’d faced real danger. At Trendale, he’d had discussions about this particular dream, with Dr. Jensen suggesting that he had the power to change the outcome.
“This is your mind creating these images, Joe. Next time, you can be ready for this guy. You know when he’s going to knock you down. Turn before that happens, and stand up.” Dr. Jensen chuckled. “At least make it a fair fight.”
Everything the doctor had said made sense, but nothing he suggested ever worked. Some part of Joe wondered if he really was mentally ill, destined to have these awful dreams dog him for the rest of his life. He wasn’t sure his heart could take it.
Lying in bed, Joe mentally re-created the good parts of the experience, remembering the sight of the woman’s hands and the back of her neck. Her thick upswept hair. And the way she played the piano with such passion, her hands running over the keys, her right knee bobbing in time.
He could vividly recall the urgent feeling of being drawn to her side, closer and closer. An emotion had overwhelmed him, and even now, out of the dream, it stayed with him. Joe had never been in love, so he couldn’t speak to that, but longing? He knew longing, knew it well, and sitting on that piano bench, he’d felt the ache of it all the way through.
As he fell back asleep, the woman was still on his mind. He’d been so close, so very close. If only he could have seen her face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
1983
As promised, Pearl arrived at the house at nine the next morning. This time she was alone. Joe watched as she pulled up the circular drive in the old sedan, accidentally driving onto the lawn a few times before correcting and veering back onto the pavement.
By that point, Joe had already showered, eaten some breakfast, and made some phone calls—initially to his father and then to his friend Wayne. After that, he’d tried a few other friends. No one could help him.
He’d been hoping his father would drive to Pullman to pick him up, or at the very least, tell him he was welcome to come back home again. Instead, his father informed him that neither was going to happen. “I talked to Dr. Jensen this morning,” his dad said in a brisk manner. “Since your condition hasn’t responded to medication, he thinks you’d be an excellent candidate for electroconvulsive therapy. They’ve had terrific results on patients who—”
“Stop right there,” Joe said. “Electroshock therapy? No, no way. Not happening. Absolutely not.”
“Joe,” his father said. “I had my doubts too at first until it was explained to me. Believe me, Dr. Jensen has your best interests at heart. It’s an extreme therapy, but yours is an extreme case. You’ve said yourself that none of the talk therapy or medication made a bit of difference. I’ll come up today and drive you back to Trendale, and Dr. Jensen can explain it to you himself.”
Joe knew better than that. Once he was inside the facility, there would be no turning back. He still remembered the feeling of being locked up, unable to leave. Having his long-lost grandmother show up was a lucky break. Nothing like that was likely to happen again.
“How about I come home and get some sort of outpatient treatment?” he said. “There has to be a doctor in the area who will see me.”
“I’m sure there is.” His father sighed. “But I think we’re beyond outpatient, don’t you?” His father had a habit of voicing his opinion as a question. It was damn annoying.
“I don’t feel like I’m beyond anything,” Joe argued. “Being in my own home will provide me with the security and family support I didn’t have at Trendale.” He’d picked up some of the staff lingo and now used it to his advantage, lobbing it back as a defense.