Devil's Lake

5 - Haunted Dreams

"Alison? Alison?"

I tear my eyes from the portrait on the wall of a storm at sea. It's not the first time I've seen this portrait. In fact, it's been here since the first time I entered this office eight months ago. But this time I have been struck by how real the waves look. It's like I can almost make out movement. Maybe it's just the sound of the rain outside that enables such an illusion. It's been storming on and off for almost a week now.

"Huh?"

Ms. Ray, my counselor, tilts back in her chair and taps her fancy stylus on her tablet computer. It occurs to me that she could be playing solitaire rather than taking actual notes. Maybe she's doodling.

"You were talking about Philip Dussault," Ms. Lee says. "How you feel like you've become obsessed with him."

I look at my counselor – her designer glasses, her boy-short haircut, skirt suit, her I-just-graduated-from-college youthful appearance. She tries so hard to look professional but can't seem to get rid of that sneer of distaste off her face. She doesn't like me, I hear myself think, but then I respond. So, why don't you just ask for another referral? . . . Because it's obviously impossible to find a good therapist. The profession is a load of —

Ms. Ray sighs heavily and checks her watch.

Oh, screw it. Give her a chance. "I—I've been having nightmares," I say.

"You're changing the subject?"

"Eh, maybe," I say. "I don't know. Feels related."

Her stylus bounces across her tablet. "Okay. So, tell me about these dreams."

I look back at the waves in the portrait. It seems easier to call to mind my memories of the dreams while I look at it, makes me feel like I'm dreaming again. A chill comes over me, and I wrap my arms around myself.

"I'm walking into the lake— in the dream," I say. "It's night, and someone is singing—or maybe it's just the insects humming. Anyway, it's a full moon. Kind of romantic, you know? And the music gets faster and louder the deeper I walk into the lake. Each note—it— it seems to force me to continue and to . . . uh . . . " I close my eyes. "embrace death?"

Neither of us say anything for several moments.

"Philip is there," I say but deliberately withhold how few clothes he's wearing. "He tells me to be brave, and I keep moving forward. The water eventually covers my head, but it doesn't feel like I can't breathe. Instead, I just keep walking. Everything is dark for a long time, and then there is this red light. I walk closer and closer toward it, and I can hear my heart beat in my ears. Faster and faster and faster. But then it stops, and I realize I've died and the light before me is the gate to Hell."

My therapist waits a moment to speak.

"Okay."

She swipes the stylus across her screen a few times. "So, you've been having this dream for how long?"

"A week."

"Since your graduation."

"Since my trip to the lake," I say. "I didn't get home in time to attend my graduation."

"I see."

Her eyes scan the screen as she mumbles a few sentences, "Philip hasn't called. . . . blames self . . . avoidance . . . lake, lake, lake . . . hmm."

I roll my eyes. A counselor who skims her notes out loud? Give me a—

Ms. Ray leans forward in her leather chair and looks at me. "Alison, you know you can be straight with me, right? I'm going to ask you to be real honest now, okay? No judgment regardless of what your answer is."