|
|
by Kimberly Heggen August 1999
Disclaimer: I don’t own the boys (I’m sure they’d cost too
much to feed), I’m just taking them for a little therapy. I’m a firm believer in the idea that one performs better if one gets rid of distractions, or at least deals with unfinished business. In my recent attempts to work on post-TS by BS fic, I’ve been having a hard time moving forward with the story. Scenes that are supposed to be light-hearted and funny turn angsty and wistful, (much to the despair of my co-writer) and whenever I write from Jim’s point of view I find that he’s still carrying a load of guilt over the events of TS by BS. I never intended to add my voice to the collection of wonderful epilogues out there already, but this story is a little bit of therapy for myself as well as the boys. No weeping, wailing or gnashing of teeth (sorry!), just some long-overdue discussion.
Cocooned in blankets and stillness, I jerk violently awake as the shrill sound of my alarm clamors for attention. With a groan, I roll over and flick the proper button, returning it to its usual state of sitting unobtrusively on my bedside table. Only then do I frown and remember my dream of a few minutes ago. As I snatch at the fast-fading shreds of memory, they dance teasingly out of my reach and fade to insubstantiality. I’m left with only fragments, but I’m able to assemble them mentally into a jigsaw puzzle that I’ve been seeing a lot of lately... perhaps every night for the last few weeks. It’s the classic anxiety dream of the student. I’ve had some variation of this dream on and off for years. Usually, it’s time for finals, and I dream that I’m wandering through the hallowed halls of Rainier University, trying to remember which classes I signed up for at the beginning of the semester. Typically, I discover to my horror that I’m registered for some upper-level Biology class that I never knew about and wouldn’t have been able to have a clue about anyway. The new version, though... well, I’m finding it a bit disquieting, to say the least. But that’s enough woolgathering. I glare at my alarm clock and heave my stiff and reluctant body out of my snug little bed. I initially started taking these early morning runs as part of a fierce campaign to leave myself no free time for self-pity. A busy Sandburg is a distracted Sandburg, right? I’ve gone through enough therapy to know that too much time moping around will be inherently bad for me. Anyway, I’m starting to find the experience addictive in itself. I’ve been able to return to the loft with a clear head each morning, and some sense of renewed purpose... for a few hours, at least. I’ll be glad when I start at the Academy next week and some structure returns to my life. It will be an enormous relief to be a student again, if only for a short while, and even if it’s in a discipline I never thought I would ever enter.. Clothed in a T-shirt, sweats and sneakers, I go to the kitchen for a slurp of orange juice to give my blood sugar a lift. Impulsively, I snag the carton and chug-a-lug directly from it. Hey, what Jim doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right? Briefly, I wonder if a Sentinel can taste whether someone’s been drinking directly out of the container. Just as my lips leave the carton, a large and heavy hand lands on my shoulder. “Backwash in the O.J., Sandburg, and you’ll be cleaning out the fridge for the next year.” I choke, sending a fine orange spray into the air as I whirl about, practically levitating. “Geez, Jim!” I sputter out, when I can breathe again. “Don’t sneak up on me like that! It could kill me!” I turn to face my smiling tormentor. “I thought you’d still be asleep,” I say, almost accusingly. He takes the carton from my hand and swigs from it himself before returning it to the fridge. “I see. Situational ethics, huh? It’s okay to drink from the carton if no one sees it?” The warm, teasing tone of his voice belies the stern words, and I find myself relaxing again. “I woke up when your alarm went off, Chief,” he goes on, “and I decided to get up.” I run one hand through my disheveled hair. “Oh, Jim, I’m sorry. I keep meaning to get a new battery for my watch so I don’t have to use that alarm clock. I know it’s too loud.” “It’s okay, Chief,” he reassures me. “Actually, I was wondering if you wanted company this morning.” For the first time, I notice he’s dressed in workout clothes as well. My face splits in a spontaneous grin, one of few that I’ve smiled in the last few days. “Sure, Jim. If you think you can keep up with me.”
After a couple of hard miles, we stop for a breather in the park. I sink onto the bench next to Jim. I’m secretly pleased that he actually seems to be breathing a bit harder than I am. I’m surprised that he wanted to come along. Since my dismissal from Rainier, we’ve been practically living in each other’s back pockets, and consequently I’ve tried to be careful to give him as much time away from me as I can. We’re together most of the day at the station as it is, plus most evenings; I figured he’d want a break. “Hey, Chief?” Jim asks quietly, staring at some distant specks which are probably birds, but only Jim would know for sure. “Have you... have you been sleeping okay?” I shoot Jim a surprised look, but he’s still looking up at the trees. “Yeah, I’m sleeping fine, Jim,” I answer carefully. “At least seven or eight hours a night.” Time for a little Sandburg misdirection here, I think. “My body’s probably not used to that, after so many years of being short on sleep. It’s more than I’m used to getting. I’m probably going to have a hard time getting used to a regimented schedule again when I start the Academy next week. Between those classes, and working with you, I’ll be -” “That’s not what I asked.” Jim’s low, even tone cuts through my babble. He folds his arms on his chest and leans his head back, stretching until something gives with an audible gristly pop. I grimace involuntarily at the sound. Yuck, I wish he wouldn’t do that. “Chief, for at least the last several nights, you’ve been talking in your sleep. A lot, and pretty loudly. It’s been waking me up.” He says this in that same reasonable tone of voice, without accusation or rancor... but I find myself flushing with embarrassment anyway. So, it’s bad enough that I’ve been having childish anxiety dreams; I seem to be disturbing Jim in the process. “I’m sorry, Jim. I had no idea. I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen anymore.” I look away, down at the pea gravel of the path. Jim snorts. “Sandburg, unless I’m sadly mistaken, sleep-talking isn’t exactly under voluntary control. What makes you think you can just stop it?” I don’t answer, but lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees with my chin cradled on my hands. After a few seconds, I can feel Jim’s hand on my left shoulder. “So,” he says quietly. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, Chief? Or shall I just repeat the phrases I’ve heard you muttering in your sleep?” I shake my head numbly, miserably, and make one last-ditch attempt to head off this conversation. “Jim, isn’t that kind of an invasion of privacy?” This comes out practically as a whisper... which, I guess, doesn’t really matter. “I mean, you don’t have to listen, do you?” I want to feel more annoyed, but it’s hard to meet Jim’s honest concern with anger. Sometimes I think he’s harder to deal with when he’s being kind than when he’s being his more usual abrupt self. The hand on my shoulder tightens briefly. “What have you been dreaming about, Blair?” I resign myself to the inevitable. “A recurrent dream.” My voice is a little stronger than before. “A nightmare?” “No, not exactly.” I pause, searching for the right words. “I’ve had it, oh, maybe five or six times that I’m sure of. But it’s always so hard for me to remember in the mornings. I just wake up feeling uneasy, and I remember little snatches.” I give a brief, humorless laugh. “Maybe I need a dream catcher.” “A dream catcher?” I nod. “They’re trendy now, as a design for fake Native American jewelry and stuff like that. You’ve probably seen them... sort of like a spider web in a round frame, usually with feathers around the edge. The legend says that if you hang one in your window, you’ll remember your dreams when you wake.” I smile in spite of myself. “My mother used to sing me a song about a dream catcher, about a spider’s web. She always told me that to remember my dreams was the first step in making them come true.” The smile fades. “I don’t think, though, that I want this one to come true.” “Come on,” Jim prompts gently. “You must remember some of it.” “It’s always the same, the parts I do remember. I’m at Rainier, wandering the halls. Sometimes it’s one building, sometimes another. There’s never anyone else there, even though I open all the doors I can find. “Then I start climbing stairs, lots of them. The elevator never works in this dream. Eventually, I get to the top of the stairs, and go through a door. Sometimes I go through several doors or walk down some long hallways. But I always come to one door, off by itself. “As I get closer, I can see a nameplate on the door.” I hesitate; this is the part I didn’t want Jim to know about. He doesn’t need to be reprimanded by my wounded subconscious. Again, he squeezes my shoulder slightly. “Out with it, Chief.” “The nameplate on the door has my name on it. Only... only it says, ‘Blair Sandburg, PhD., Department of Anthropology’.” I hurry through the rest of it, ignoring Jim’s sharp intake of breath. “I try the knob, but it’s locked. I go through all of my keys, but none of them fits. Then I give up and turn around... and that’s the worst part.” Now, I lean slowly back against the bench, dislodging Jim’s hand in the process. “Everything looks wrong. The halls, the stairs, they’re all gone. I’m somewhere in the city, somewhere in Cascade, but I’m lost. Utterly lost, and completely alone.” We sit there side by side for a while. Jim doesn’t say anything, and I don’t really trust myself to look at him. I swallow hard against the sudden pressure in my throat, fighting for control. Dammit, I should be over all of this by now. The rational part of me has accepted that my life has changed, and that I will never again be the academic in the ivory tower. Not for me, the world of research, teaching and theoretical knowledge; instead, I’ll continue my single-minded pursuit of the only subject that really means anything to me anymore. And I’ll do so, eventually, as a sworn police officer, not as the objective observer that I once was. Ivory tower? Objective observer? Who am I kidding? Since I plunged headfirst into this Sentinel business with Jim, I’ve stayed about as objective as, as... well, as a man working with his best friend can get. I’ve been shot, almost killed, scared out of my wits... and watched with pride as Jim has slowly mastered control of his senses. Right. Objective. Jim’s soft, steady voice interrupts my reverie. “So... do you wake up then?” Huh? Oh, the dream. I shake my head. “There’s more, but I can never remember any of it. Maybe it’s just as well.” He’s taking this a lot better than I thought he would. I finally risk it, looking at Jim and meeting his gaze. Then I wish I hadn’t; the look on his face is almost too much. An infinite sadness seems to well forth from those blue eyes. Lost in that sympathy, that regret, it’s a moment before I realize he’s speaking to me. “You’re not alone, Chief. I hope you know that.” I close my eyes. “I know,” I whisper. “My head knows it, anyway. I guess it will just be a while before all of me knows it, all of the time.” Jim’s quiet again for a bit, and I get the feeling that he’s weighing out his words carefully. “You know,” he says at last, “I’m both glad and sorry about the way things have turned out for us. Glad, of course, that you’ll get to become my official partner. Glad that Megan and Simon didn’t die that day. Glad that I still have you as a friend, even though I wasn’t exactly a model of patience and understanding when the news about your dissertation broke.” “Jim, it’s okay. It wasn’t your fault, not really.” I sit up and open my eyes again, watching him with concern. “No, anything that screwed up takes a committee. You were... a bit careless, your mother was thoughtless, Sid was unscrupulous, and I was a total bastard about the whole thing. The only innocent parties were Megan and Simon, and they paid the price.” For a moment, I sense a heavy veil of guilt dropping onto Jim like a physical weight, before he shakes it off. “But that’s over and done with. What I’m really sorry about... is your lost dreams. I can’t fix that for you, Chief. No matter how much I want to. All I can do is hope that someday, you’ll wake up one morning and realize that you’re doing exactly what you want to be doing, and that you’re happy. It might take a while, but it’ll happen.” He drops his gaze momentarily, then raises his eyes to meet mine, almost shyly. “If I’m lucky, you’ll still be here, in Cascade, working with me, when you have that realization.” Tears sting my eyes briefly, and I blink them away with annoyance. I will, I vow silently to myself. I will be here. “Thanks, Jim,” I manage to respond. “That helps. Honestly, it does.” He lifts his hand again and rests it gently on the back of my neck. “Chief... I’m not naive enough to think that one talk with me is going to fix anything. I think... I think you’re going to keep having that dream, for a while. You lost something, and it can’t ever really be replaced.” “And I’m looking for it, in my sleep,” I add, slowly. He nods. “You know this sort of thing better than me. But what you can’t solve by logic, your subconscious will try to solve for you.” Now he smiles at me. “Just... please, tell your subconscious to be a little quieter about it?” “You got it, Jim.” I stand up, and stretch, grinning. “Race you back?” And when I do reach that point in my dream, where I’m all alone, I’ll make myself look back at this morning. I will remember Jim’s words of concern. I’ll remember the look on his face just now, as he expressed his hope that I would stick around long enough to give it all a chance. And I will spread it as healing balm on my troubled soul, and I will dare to dream again. (finis) |
|
© 1999-2001 by Kimberly Heggen. All rights
reserved. |
