“You didn’t mean to upset her,” Joe reassured her. “And who knows? Maybe her stomach was just upset. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Easy for you to say,” she said. “I just hate knowing when I’ve caused someone else pain. I’ll probably lie in bed all night replaying the conversation and wishing I hadn’t brought it up at all.”
“And I’ll be thinking about it, glad you brought it up,” Joe added. “Because now we have a name for my mystery man. John Lawrence. And the woman at the piano bench had to be Alice Bennett. Weird that my dreams are of someone I’m related to.”
Doris came and delivered their pies, setting a fork next to each plate. Kathleen broke from the conversation to look up. “Thanks, Doris. This looks delicious.”
As usual, Doris had walked away from the table before the compliment was complete. The woman was nothing if not efficient.
She dug her fork into her slice of pie. “There has to be an explanation. You probably heard family stories about Alice at some point in time. Even though you don’t remember, maybe you overheard a relative talk about her when you were a small child? People internalize things without even realizing it.” She gave him a look up and down. “I took psychology in college and remember a thing or two.”
“Maybe,” Joe said dubiously. “But the dreams are so vivid. It’s like I’m there, experiencing it. Where would that much detail come from?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
They continued eating their pie in silence, while all around them conversations abounded. From the kitchen, they heard a bell ring and a man’s voice call out, “Food’s up for table six.”
“It’s not just my imagination,” Joe said after a moment.
“Clearly not just your imagination. You dreamed things that actually happened, kind of like being psychic in reverse. Maybe . . .” Here, she looked thoughtful. “Maybe it’s true what some say about all the experiences of our ancestors being wired into us. Our predisposition toward certain foods, our temperaments, our metabolisms—some people believe that all that stuff is inherited. It’s not that far-fetched that our psyches would be stamped with the experiences of the ones who came before us, is it?”
“I guess not,” he said. That idea, along with the realization that the events in his dreams were real, made him feel better. The dreams didn’t come from his mother’s death or a mental illness. There was nothing wrong with him. He was just replaying events from the past over and over again at night in his dreams. But why? That was the real question. Alice’s death was terrible, but it had happened long ago. It’s not like he could prevent it, and he couldn’t heal his grandmother’s pain.
“Maybe all of us unknowingly carry those kinds of memories, and you, for some reason, are just unconsciously replaying them.”
He suddenly remembered how the dream had been altered the night he spent on Kathleen’s couch. “That’s a good theory,” he said, “except that I had the Death Dream again this morning at your house, and for the first time, it changed. This time, it ended differently.”
“Oh?” She waited.
“This time, when I was holding the dying woman in my arms, heartbroken, I could finally see her face.”
“Yes?”
“And it was you.”
She studied his face, checking for signs he was kidding. Seeing none, she said, “Joe, you’re giving me the chills.”
“Yeah. I know. I’m sorry. It’s weird. I’m not sure what to make of it.” He took a sip of his water.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I don’t know. It was odd waking up at your place, and then you were getting ready for work and it felt awkward, so I just left. Also, I had to let it sink in, think about what it could mean that I saw your face in this sad, sad dream.”
“And what do you think it means?”
“That I’d be heartbroken if you died?”
“Oh, that’s so nice.” Her smile was dazzling.
“I’m not being nice. That’s really how I feel.” As she sat across the table from him, all he could see was how extraordinary she was. She was so stunningly attractive, so clever, so kindhearted that he didn’t know why everyone in the restaurant wasn’t looking at her. Instead, they were dipping their fries in ketchup and talking about the weather. It was as if there was a movie star in their midst and all of them were unaware, while he, on the other hand, couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
He’d memorized all her gestures and mannerisms. How she stopped midsentence to thank the restaurant staff, whether it was the hostess seating them or a busboy clearing away plates or Doris taking their order. The way she tried to hold back from laughing until it came out in one delightful burst. And that laugh? It was like a melody. He would do the most ridiculous things just to hear it. He was shameless, really, the way he went out of his way to get her to smile. When that happened, her joy reflected back at him, and over time he longed for more. Luckily, she gave freely of her happiness.
“Well, hopefully, I won’t die,” she said finally. “At least, not anytime soon.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen,” he’d assured her.
That night, with the storm raging outside, Joe wondered if she was awake at that moment as well. When the rumble of thunder came, he decided that no one could be sleeping through this. He got out of bed and pulled the curtain back to look out. It was dark, far darker than it would be at Kathleen’s house, where the streetlights lit the way. When flashes of lightning lit up the sky, he could clearly see, for a split second, the trees whipping in the wind. There would be limbs down in the morning, no doubt about that. He could add yard cleanup to his list of things to do. The thunder came in surges, building and ebbing as the rain came down in sheets. He felt sorry for anyone out in this weather. Even driving would be a challenge. A person would definitely need to have their windshield wipers on high.
He pulled the curtains aside and dragged a chair to the window, positioning himself to watch the storm’s light show. This was one of those times it would be nice to have someone there with him to share the experience. The rain softened to a gentle patter, and in the distance, he could now see rolling waves on the surface of the lake.
Lightning flashed lower in the sky and then zigzagged downward, striking a tree. Crack! Joe’s jaw dropped as the top half of the tree broke off, and limbs flew in every direction, like a bomb had detonated.
He leaned forward, peering downward, thinking the lightning strike might have started a fire, but there was no sign of flames. Still, he mused, it could be smoldering unseen. Unlikely, but did he really want to take a chance? He exhaled in frustration; he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep until he checked.
He pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt, knowing they’d be soaked by the time he returned. At the bottom of the stairs were some work boots, an ancient pair he’d found in the barn and had used a few times already. He slid his feet into the boots, grabbed a flashlight, and went out to inspect the damage.
He went into the cluster of trees, moving instinctively until he came to where the lightning had struck. Just as he’d seen from the window, the branches and limbs of the tree were scattered in every direction. Walking around the tree trunk, he saw that it had broken off at shoulder level. From the scorch marks, it looked as if the lightning had hit the trunk on one side. The rain fell steadily, and he walked around the tree, shining a beam of light from every angle, glad that he wasn’t seeing any burning embers. He had the rain to thank for that, he guessed. The tree looked half-dead, the wood too damp to burn. Tomorrow, he’d gather up the mess and saw down the remaining part of the tree.