Falling Awake(68)
Author: Jayne Ann Krentz

She waved the pointer with a flourish, trying to regain the attention of some people in the back row who were chatting among themselves. The tip of the wand moved across the top of the podium, sweeping her carefully arranged notes to the floor.

For a moment everyone in the room, including her, stared at the fallen note cards.

“Excuse me.” She crouched and frantically gathered up the cards.

The murmur of conversation in the back row got louder.

She staggered erect and put the cards back on top of the podium. Gripping the edges of the stand she looked out at her audience, half of which was now engaged in low-voiced conversations. Someone’s cell phone rang. Just to make matters worse, the person took the call.

I don’t believe this, she thought. It’s just a really bad dream. Okay, maybe not as bad as a crime scene dream, but darn close.

With an effort of will she gathered herself. Thirty minutes to go.

“Step two,” she said through gritted teeth, “is to look through your dream log at the end of each week. You will be searching for recurring themes and ideas, but my advice is not to waste time on the more traditional interpretive approach, which relies on symbols. In the old days of dream research it was felt that every element in a dream actually meant something other than what it appeared to be. If you dreamed about a closed door you were experiencing a fear of change. If you dreamed about a mirror in which you cannot see your reflection you were worried about how others see you, and so forth.”

The man with the neatly trimmed beard raised his hand. “What’s wrong with taking that approach? I’ve always heard symbols are important in dreams.”

In the back row, Tamsyn gave a tiny, negative wave of her hand and shook her head. Not hard to interpret those symbols, Isabel thought. Tamsyn wanted her to leave the topic and get back to the discussion of dream logs.

But she couldn’t ignore the one person in the class who was actually paying attention, she told herself. She smiled at the bearded man.

“The idea that our dreams contain critical symbols that must be interpreted is extremely ancient and comes down to us from a variety of cultures,” she said quickly, trying to rush through the explanation. “It was strongly reinforced in the twentieth century by Jung and Freud and others who took a psychological approach to dream research.”

Another hand went up. She pretended not to notice.

“It is extremely risky to put too much emphasis on symbols in dreams for the simple reason that there are as many interpretations of various symbols as there are people who try to interpret dreams,” she continued. “While some analysts would see that closed door I just mentioned as a symbol of fear of change, others would interpret it as the rational barrier that stands between our civilized nature and our deepest, most primitive thoughts and repressed desires.”

The woman who had just raised her hand spoke up loudly.

“But the door must mean something,” she insisted.

Isabel spread her hands. “It could be just a door with no particular significance at all. Maybe one you noticed out of the corner of your eye earlier in the day when you walked down the street. That’s the problem with dream symbols. If you attempt to use them to interpret the meaning of your dreams, I suggest that you do not rely on a dream encyclopedia or theories of universal archetypes. Instead, think of the objects and events in your dreams in terms of personal context.”

In the back row, Tamsyn sagged in her chair, apparently resigned to disaster.

“What’s context?” the bearded man demanded.

Isabel turned to him. “I am talking about what is going on with you in your own life. Are you facing a major career decision? If so, maybe that door does represent a fear of change or having to make a choice. But deal with the decision-making process while you are awake. Don’t look to your dreams for solutions. A decision that appears rational and right in a dream is actually quite arbitrary and may be entirely wrong for the waking world. Dreaming and waking thought are two different states of mind, literally.”

“I thought this class was supposed to be about tapping into our dreams to get creative answers,” someone whined from the fifth row.

Another phone warbled. A man in the tenth row dove into his pocket to respond.

In the back, Tamsyn put her face in her hands.

Let me out of this nightmare, Isabel thought. But she knew there was no escape. She couldn’t even tell herself that she would eventually wake up and discover it was all just a dream. She was trapped.

ellis slipped the twenty-dollar bill across the counter. The plump, good-natured café owner made it disappear into the pocket of her apron. She had told him that he could call her Daisy.

“All I know is that the doc was real regular in his habits.” Daisy leaned forward a little, providing a view of her generous cle**age. “He ate his dinner here, same as usual on that night. Had the special. On Thursday nights he always ordered the special. Turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy. It was his favorite.”

“He didn’t look ill?”

“Looked fine to me.” Daisy shrugged well-upholstered shoulders. “But that’s the way it is with a heart attack, ain’t it? One minute you’re fine. The next, you’re a goner.”

“Not always,” Ellis said softly. “In a lot of cases there are prior symptoms. Nausea. Shortness of breath. Chest pain.”

“If he was having any of those things, he didn’t let on. Ate every bite. Doc had a good appetite. One of my best customers.”

“Do you know where he went after he left here that evening?” Ellis asked, dutifully making a note on a pad of paper.

“Sure. Said he was headed straight back to his office at the center. That’s where they found him, wasn’t it? Dead at his desk?”

“Yes,” Ellis said.

“Doc hardly ever went home. Had a real problem with insomnia, you know.” Daisy tut-tutted. “Told me once he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in forty years, poor man.”

“I see.” Ellis finished the bad coffee and got to his feet. He should have brought along some bags of green tea, he thought. Evidently he had become addicted to the stuff at some point during the past few months. “Thanks for the information.”

Daisy squinted a little. “Mind if I ask why you wanted to know what Doc had to eat that night?”

“I’m retracing his movements on the day of his death.”

“Yeah? How come?”

“Insurance investigation,” Ellis said. “My boss wants me to be sure it wasn’t suicide. Company doesn’t pay out on suicides.”