“She’s got a troubled sleep pattern. Some childhood enuresis.”
“But nothing chronic in adulthood.”
“It just started five months ago. While she was a juror on the Bogeyman trial.”
“Sounds more like stress.”
“That’s what I think, but I want to cover all bases.”
“Sure, I’ll see her. Thanks for the referral. Sounds like a fun one. I’ve been dealing with brain tumors all week. People our age or younger. Must be something in the air.”
She rang the gate bell just after five. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and her face was drawn. When I took her hand it was limp and damp.
I gave her a glass of water and sat her down. She took a sip and put her face in her hands.
“What’s happening to me, Dr. Delaware?”
I touched her hand. “We’ll find out, Lucy.”
She tightened her mouth. “It was different this time. This time I saw more.”
Taking a deep breath. And another. Sliding her hand out from under mine. I sat back.
It took a few more minutes for her to compose herself. “Remember the grating noise I told you about? What I thought might be sex? It had nothing to do with sex.”
She leaned forward. “I saw it. They were digging a grave—burying her. The grating was their shovels hitting the rocks. This time, I was closer. Everything was clearer. It’s never felt this real before. It was . . .”
She put a hand over her eyes and shook her head.
“I was close enough to touch them—right behind them. It felt so real.”
“The same men.”
“Yes. Three of them.”
“Including your—including Lowell.”
She bared her eyes and licked her lips and stared at the floor. “He was one of the diggers. Working hard—huffing and puffing. They all were. And cursing. I could hear their breathing—harsh, like runners. Then they put her in, and . . .”
Her shoulders started to shake.
“I started to feel myself transforming—my soul leaving my body. I actually saw it, fluttering like this thin white feather. Then it entered her body.”
She stood suddenly.
“I need to walk around.”
Pacing the room, she covered the width of the glass doors, then retraced her steps. Repeated it twice more before returning to her seat.
She remained standing, both hands on the chair back. “I could taste the dirt, Dr. Delaware. It felt as if I was in that grave. . . . I tried to shake the dirt off of me but I couldn’t move. It kept coming down on me—stuffing me. I thought: This is what death is like, this is terrible; what did I do to deserve this, why are they doing this to me?”
Her eyes closed and she swayed so low I jumped up and caught her shoulder. Her body tightened but she didn’t seem to notice me.
The sound of the tide rose up from the beach, like a swell of applause. Suddenly, her breathing quickened.
“Lucy,” I said.
As if her name were a posthypnotic suggestion, she opened her eyes and blinked hard.
“What happened then, Lucy?”
“I woke up. Found myself on the floor . . . again. My legs . . .” Wincing.
“What about your legs?”
“They were . . .” Spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “Spread—spread wide, in front of everybody. It made me feel so sluttish.”
“People understand accidents, Lucy.”
She looked at my hand on her shoulder. I removed it and she sat down.
“God,” she said. “This is crazy—am I going off the deep end?”
“No,” I said firmly. “You’re obviously reacting to some kind of stress, and we’re going to find out what it is. I also want you to see a neurologist to rule out anything organic.”
She caught her breath and looked at me, terrified. “Like what? A brain tumor?”
“No, nothing like that, I didn’t mean to alarm you. We just need to rule out a sleep disorder that responds to medication. It’s unlikely, but I want to be careful, so our road’s clear.”
“Our road. Sounds like some kind of journey.”
“In a way it is, Lucy.”
She turned away from me. “I don’t know any neurologists.”