Hidden in Dreams Page 9

  The woman stared at her. “Do I look all right?”

  Elena motioned for her to roll down the window. The woman struggled with the controls. When the window opened, Elena said, “I meant, are you hurt?”

  “I . . . No. Yes. I don’t . . .” She retook her two-fisted grip on the wheel, and rocked her upper body. “Why is this happening to me?”

  Elena reached through the window and took hold of the woman’s rigid shoulder. She glanced about, saw that the minivan was empty.

  “I’m coming back from a job interview. There were ninety applicants. The man told me I was lucky to be interviewed. I don’t need an interview. I need a job. We need the money. My husband lost his job at NASA. We have kids in school. And now . . .”

  “You are just driving home,” Elena said, hurting for her. “And you get caught by a tornado.”

  “I want my life back under control.” She released one hand so as to beat against the wheel in time to her words. “I want to feel safe. I want to take care of my family.”

  Elena stood on the wet grass and watched as the cars began to filter back onto the highway. The truck straightened slowly, rumbled across the grass, and gradually accelerated away. Elena asked, “Would you like to pray with me?”

  When the woman nodded, Elena spoke words she scarcely heard. After the amen, Elena said, “I am a clinical psychologist. If you think it might help you to talk with someone, I would be happy to meet.”

  She wiped her eyes. “We can’t afford . . . My husband’s medical insurance is running out next month.”

  “There is no question of payment. Do you have a pen and paper?” Elena wrote down her details, handed it back, then asked, “Do you belong to a church?”

  “Not for years.”

  “Perhaps you should think about joining. Most of them will have support groups for families facing situations just like yours. I have found great comfort in worshipping among the family of believers.”

  The woman put the minivan into gear and said through the open window, “You are an angel from God.”

  Elena stood there a long moment after the woman drove away. Then she headed home.

  • • •

  Elena sat on her little screened-in porch and cradled the phone in her lap. Out beyond the still waters, lightning flickered from a massive dark wall. She took a long breath and dialed. When Reed Thompson answered, she said the words she had rehearsed a dozen times in her head. “This is Elena Burroughs. I apologize for calling on a Saturday evening, but I am taking you at your word. I am phoning in an hour of need.”

  “Wait just a moment.” There was a muffled conversation, then the president of Atlantic Christian said, “My daughter is taking over the grill. I saw you on the news. Where are you?”

  “I’ve just gotten home.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “I don’t . . . No.”

  “Come straight over. Please. I insist. We’re the pale-brick house just off the entrance to the college. Say, twenty minutes? Excellent. Until then.”

  Elena dressed hurriedly and left her condo. She did not want to be out in the car again. Especially when it started raining, and lightning rumbled, and the streets grew slick once more. She felt a sudden fear rise up, but pushed it aside. Soon enough she passed through the tall brick gates marking the entrance to ACU. The president’s house was just on the right, set back behind a wide oval drive.

  Reed had the door open before she cut the motor. He called to her as she rushed through the drizzle, “We just managed to get the grill under the awning before the deluge. Dinner was saved.”

  “I’m sorry to have bothered—”

  “We’ll hear no more about that. I’m glad you called. Now give me your coat.”

  The home was graceful in a professional manner. The president’s role included fund-raising, which meant he entertained on a regular basis. It had been this way at Oxford, and was the same here. The president’s home was a place for important meetings in a comfortable and elegant setting. It came with the job. A pair of large living rooms opened to either side of the foyer. Behind one was his office, behind the other a formal dining room that could hold twenty people. The kitchen was large enough to support a staff, but tonight it held an informal gathering of family and friends. Reed Thompson introduced the pastor of Riverside Baptist Church, the pastor’s wife, and their three sons. There was Gary Jamison, the provost, and the head of the engineering department, a bullish man with a wife who looked like the model she previously had been.

  Then a young teenager entered through the rear doors, and Reed introduced his daughter, Stacy. In this willowy young woman, Elena saw traces of the mother who was no more, and whom Elena wished she could have met. Stacy’s gaze was happy, her laughter genuine, but the hint of loss was there. She had her father’s broad mouth and wide forehead. But the flashing green eyes that captivated all three of the pastor’s boys were definitely from the absent mother. As was the hair, the color of mahogany, with streaks of honeyed sunlight.

  They dined in a screened alcove off the home’s rear. The garden was lit by spots buried by the trunks of a dozen palms. Candles burned from tall metal pillars to either side of the glass table. At the table’s center, lilies floated in a crystal bowl. Elena watched the fifteen-year-old Stacy take her mother’s place, and imagined the memories that welled up each time she set this table, or lit the candles, or heard in her father’s compliments the silent yearning for a woman who had left them too soon.

  Over dinner Elena described the tornado. They listened in silence, and replied with genuine concern. Elena then went quiet, and listened as the talk turned to recollections from other hurricane seasons. What she heard was a current that ran far deeper than the spoken words. Here were people she could trust, she decided. Either she opened up, or she didn’t. They would not pry. But as she listened to the talk and the quiet laughter, there in the ruddy glow of flickering candles, she saw the faces of friends she had yet to truly know.

  She said softly, “I would like to share something with you, and ask your advice.”

  She talked them through it all. The dreams and the dreamers. And because of the role he played, she told them of Jacob Rawlings. The provost’s wife knew him from the television, and called him both handsome and charming. Which, of course, he was. Reed frowned at this, which for some reason caused his observant daughter to smile. When attention turned back to Elena, she went on to describe the assembly of journalists, and the way it had left her feeling.

  “The local news channel covered it,” Reed Thompson told her. “It’s also been picked up by the business cables. I thought you handled yourself very well.”

  The provost asked, “So you think this is only the beginning?”

  “I can only tell you what the dreams have been saying.”

  “So we could be looking at a new depression.”

  “Or worse,” Reed said. “If it’s true.”

  Only the pastor had not spoken. He was a tall man and held himself slightly stooped. His name was John Daniels. His three sons could have been cloned from the father, dark of hair, with sharp intelligence in their coal-black eyes, all of them even possessing the father’s cleft chin. They glanced his way several times, and took note of their father’s careful wariness, and said nothing as well. It was Stacy who asked, “Do you think God is behind this?”

  The former model said, “How could it be anything else?”

  “A dozen people dreaming the same dream around the globe,” the provost said. “I’d call that pretty concrete evidence.”

  Reed asked, “Elena?”

  She replied, “This entire year has been very difficult for me. My house in Oxford burned down; my insurance company has claimed criminal actions and refused to pay until the courts decide who is to blame. Almost everything I owned was tied up in my former home. I agreed to a lecture tour, which brought in some income but forced me back into the limelight, which I loathe. I came here, basically wanting to hide away. What happen
s, but I’m suddenly thrown back onto the stage, and if what I said today is true, this is only the beginning. And all I’ve been thinking about is how much I dislike this, how distant God seems, how nothing is the way I want it.

  “Then after the storm passed I helped a woman on the highway. She was coming back from applying for a job she didn’t get. And I saw another person whose life is out of control. And I finally realized that this isn’t about me at all. I need to do God’s will. He’s taken me out of my comfort zone before, and it wasn’t easy, but when it was done I had the feeling . . .”

  When Elena hesitated, the pastor spoke for the first time. “Tell us.”

  “I lost my husband seven years ago. For the longest while, I felt as though life was only going to be half-lived. But in the midst of the turmoil last year, I grew into a new life. It might not have been what I wanted, or how I saw myself. But I had a sense that every day mattered. I’m sorry, I haven’t said that at all well.”

  “You found a new purpose, a new definition of what mattered most.” Reed Thompson’s voice was low and melodious, as though reading off of a script he had studied for years. “You grew beyond where you had been. You often did not like it, because it meant leaving behind many things you cherished. Or so you thought. But you haven’t left anything behind. Have you?”

  “No,” she murmured. “Not really.”

  The provost asked, “So what now?”

  “I’ve been rushing around, handling things. Being the professional. And the result is just like those cars on the highway. Twisted in every direction, out of control, no one knowing what just happened or what’s coming next. And that’s wrong. If I am really here for a purpose, I shouldn’t do anything until I have a clear understanding of what God wants from me.”

  The provost’s wife said, “But the dreams.”

  “The urgency,” the provost agreed.

  “Precisely because this is so important, I must take care,” Elena replied. “And right now, all I can tell you is, God has never felt more silent.”

  The pastor’s wife reached out in both directions. “Let’s join hands and pray. Elena’s right. It’s not enough to have dreams. There also has to be vision.”

  12

  Reed Thompson and his daughter picked her up for church the next morning. Elena did not want to go. She had woken early from yet another dream, and the burden of dread filled her still. Twice she picked up the phone, intending to call and say that she was unwell. Which was certainly true. But something stopped her, and when the university president’s Buick pulled up into her complex’s parking lot, she was waiting on the tiny lawn fronting her building.

  Reed and Stacy seemed to sense her need for space, and said little on the drive. Elena found the silent car a comfort. The two of them seemed more than daughter and father. They were also friends, people whose relationship had been forged by unwelcome fires, and strengthened as a result. Elena waited until they emerged from the car and Reed was drawn into a conversation to say, “I apologize for being so quiet.”

  Stacy Thompson held herself with a model’s precision, as though aware of her every move, and gesture. This was no doubt the result of serving as her father’s partner at any number of public events. Her strong features were accented by a distinctly Florida tan. She seemed very comfortable within her own skin, which was borne out by her response, “I know all about the need for space, Dr. Burroughs.”

  “Please, call me Elena.”

  “When you were walking toward the car, Daddy said you looked like you were being chased by shadows.”

  “I had a bad night,” Elena confessed.

  “Was it the dreams?”

  She hesitated, then replied, “I’ve had another one.”

  “It must be awful, coming under attack when you’re most defenseless.”

  Elena examined the young woman, and decided that was precisely how she would have described the loss of a mother while still a child. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. But that is exactly how it feels.”

  “Here comes Daddy.” Stacy Thompson had a great deal of experience at hiding her thoughts behind a professional smile. “I’m glad you came today.”

  As soon as she entered the Sunday school class, Elena felt the same. The church was a bastion of old Florida, built in the late sixties when the space race was just starting, and Melbourne became home to industries servicing the Cape. It anchored the point where the causeway bridge entered the barrier island. The low whitewashed structures were connected by covered walkways and well-tended tropical gardens. Palms fronted the inland waterway and lined the parking areas. There was an air of calm simplicity to the place, a haven that welcomed and comforted.

  Stacy left for the young people’s class. Reed Thompson led Elena into a room whose door held a handwritten sign claiming it was for married couples. He introduced her around, then invited everyone to be seated and led the class in an opening prayer. They were studying the second chapter of Daniel. Reed revealed a different side here, an unexpectedly easygoing nature. He gave a ten-minute review of the passage they had read that week, which involved King Nebuchadnezzar’s first dream, and his threat to kill the wise men of Babylon if they could not reveal the message. Then Reed opened the class to discussion.

  The class responded with a variety of issues that covered everything from the current economic crisis to problems with children. From time to time, Reed pointed out lessons that could be drawn from that week’s Bible passage. Otherwise he let the class take the discussion wherever they wished. The result was part Bible study, part encounter group. Elena observed the people and heard the discussion and decided this was what she needed, a space to reflect in prayer-filled safety.

  • • •

  As they emerged from the church service, Reed Thompson was drawn into a clutch of somber-looking people. Stacy walked over and said, “They’re part of the church’s governing body. They want Daddy to join. He’s said no three times. They think if they keep pestering him he’ll change his mind.”

  “I can understand why they’d want him.”

  Stacy’s gaze was clear and very direct. “You look much better than when we picked you up.”

  “The time here has helped a great deal.”

  “I’m glad. Daddy says sometimes the people in there thank him, when all he did was sit and listen.”

  “Your father,” Elena said, “is a remarkable man.”

  Stacy tilted her head to one side and smiled. “He likes you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Last night after you left, Daddy asked me what I thought of you. He never does that.”

  She found herself wanting very much to know: “What did you tell him?”

  “That you’re not like Mom. And I think that’s a good thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mom’s life focused on the family. At least, that’s what I remember. I was only ten when she died. She stopped working when Rob was born. That’s my older brother. Rob doesn’t like talking about her. But he goes quiet sometimes when he’s home, and I know he’s thinking about her.”

  “You are a very perceptive young lady,” Elena said.

  “For my age,” Stacy finished for her.

  “Actually, for any age.” She hesitated, then added, “But you didn’t really answer your father’s question.”

  “That’s exactly what Daddy said.” Stacy’s smile was broader this time. “I told him I’d like to be your friend.”

  Which was why, when Reed turned around, he found Elena’s arm draped around his daughter’s shoulders. He took that in, and said merely, “Well, well.”

  • • •

  Elena refused their invitation to join them for lunch. Not because she didn’t want to go. But because her time away from the world and its demands was over. She told them that, certain that they would understand, and they did. Reed and his daughter both responded with the grave nods of people who had come to know the dictates of a world that only knew one speed�
�full-bore.

  She ate a salad standing at her breakfast counter. Only when she was done with lunch and had brewed a fresh pot of coffee did she turn on her phone. There were a dozen messages, hardly a surprise, given her assumption that the third dream would not have come to her alone. Three of the messages were from Jacob, and she called him first.

  He greeted her with “What took you so long?”

  “I was at church.” She disliked his tone enough to add, “You should try it sometime.”

  He was silent a moment, then, “Hold on, I want to bring in Rachel. She is as desperate to talk with you as I am.”

  She heard the phone click back on and Jacob said, “Rachel, can you hear us?”

  “Yes. Elena?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Jacob, did you tell her?”

  “I wanted to wait until you were with us.”

  Rachel said, “There’s been a third dream.”

  Jacob said, “We’ve had it confirmed now by nine of the subjects.”

  “Don’t call them that,” Elena said.

  “The . . . Why not?”

  “They’re not subjects. I’m certainly not.”

  “It was just a word,” Rachel said. “It is far more than that. It is a classification, and it is a false one. This is not an experiment. And they are not subjects under anyone else’s control.”

  Her tone forced them both to pause. Jacob said, “How do you want us to refer to them?”

  “Call them what they are. Dreamers.”

  Rachel asked, “Can we please return to the matter at hand?”

  “I have never left it,” Elena replied.

  Rachel said, “You’ve had the dream also. Haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Jacob’s tone grew increasingly uncertain. “Yours was the same as the others?”

  “Another warning,” Elena said. And instantly the images were there in her mind. Filling her interior vision with such brutal force that the world beyond her eyes paled to insignificance. “I stood with a crowd before a window. On the other side, television screens showed markets around the world in a panic. A ticker tape ran across the bottom of the screen. Portugal had defaulted on its national debt.”