In Dreams (12 page)

He stands up from behind his desk and comes over and sits down on the coffee table, so our knees practically touch. He looks me in the eyes. “I can’t help you if you don’t trust me.”

So I start at the beginning. Not the vines on my leg, but the
very
beginning, with my mother and Morpheus and my strange parentage, and then with my dreams, going as far back as I can remember. I tell him about the voice, the voice of my protector in that world. My dream guardian, according to my mom. I tell him about how—under hypnosis—I finally got to see him. I tell him about the club—leaving out the kiss. That’s private. I take him all the way through to today.

“Very interesting,” he says, tapping his index fingers together.

“Well,” Annie asks, “can you help her?” She exhales. “
Please?
” Her eyes are filled with best-friend worry.

He nods.

“Well, first, when you are in the Underworld—your dream world—you’re still in charge. That is what lucid dreaming is.”

“But I don’t feel in charge.”

“You are. It’s
your
dream world. You must try to pay attention to the voice.”

“I do.”

“No, not
his
voice. Your subconscious voice. Your
own
voice.”

“I don’t have any idea what you mean,” I whine.

“Have you ever had a nightmare during which you were incredibly upset, but while you were in the
middle
of the nightmare, you heard your own voice, perhaps advising you to
stop
the nightmare? That little voice going ‘Wake up, wake up’? Maybe you even felt in a world between the nightmare and waking—you were aware you were thrashing, you knew it was a nightmare. But you were still in its grips.”

I think about it. “Ye-ah,” I finally say.

“That is lucid dreaming. The dreamer controls the dream, not vice versa.”

“I still don’t understand. Even if I know I’m dreaming, I’m still in the dream world.”

“People who lucid dream can change the ending.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Let me give you an example. Chase dreams are extremely common. They usually symbolize stresses chasing the dreamer, phobias, or times when life gets overwhelming. Have you ever had one?”

I nod and look at Annie.

“Sure,” she says. “Like, I’m pretty sure everyone does.”

“Have you had one that was terrifying? Truly terrifying, heart pounding?”

Again, we both nod.

He smiles. “The lucid dreamer will stop that dream. She’ll turn around and say, ‘Why are you chasing me?’ And that simple act usually stops the dream, stops the pattern.”

“Okay. So I know I lucid dream,” I say. “Maybe that comes with being Morpheus’s daughter, too. But
controlling
it? I don’t think I could do that.”

“Yes, you can.”

“How?”

“It’s training. That’s where I come in. I’ll be here with you. I’ll teach you how. You just need to be aware.”

Easy for him to say. “Have you met Epiales?” I ask him.

He coughs slightly. “Ahem . . . um . . . well . . .”

“I’ll take that as a firm yes.”

“Fine. Epiales is . . . rather . . . difficult. Do you know the history of the Underworld?”

“No,” I admit. “I’m still trying to get up to speed with who’s who.” So many gods, and they’re all related in odd ways. It’s impossible to keep them
straight unless you’re part of their family. Even if you are part of their family.

“Hades is the brother of Zeus. At one time there was a great war. It lasted a decade. At the end of which, Hades, Zeus, and another brother, Poseidon, drew lots to divide up the world—all of the world both seen and unseen. Zeus got to rule the skies from Mount Olympus, Poseidon drew all of the seas, and Hades is king of the Underworld. He’s got a bad marriage, among other things. And the Underworld is a complicated and strange and murky place. On the fringes of the Underworld is the land of dreams, the land of Night. Morpheus, Hypnos, Nyx, and Epiales, and their kind all exist between Zeus’s kingdom and the Underworld. An in-between place—one where they are beholden to both Zeus and Hades. Morpheus is closer to Zeus, and Epiales to Hades. Death and nightmares are closely entwined, after all. However, all of the realms are in delicate balance. Death must exist. Hades is not evil—he exists to maintain balance with Zeus and Poseidon. Just as Epiales is the balance to Morpheus. But . . . he is extremely difficult to control. And becoming less so by the century. He is a fearsome enemy.”

“Wonderful,” I groan.

“That does not mean you cannot fight him, Iris.
But to do so, you’ll need to dream lucidly.”

“Can I ask you something?” I hesitate.

“No secrets in here. Not anymore. Ask.”

“You and Aphrodite exist here. And Epiales, he’s shown up in the real world. Can Sebastian come into this world? Could I bring him back?” I think of what Aphrodite said, about crossing the realms.

“He can. By crossing the River of Sorrows. And, of course, in doing that, he gives up his immortality.”

Annie and I exchange glances.

“What?” Annie asks.

“Aphrodite didn’t mention that,” I add.

“Well, I guess she thought it was obvious.”

I look at him. “Let me get this straight . . . Aphrodite gave it all up to be a matchmaker? You gave up immortality to be a Jersey hypnotherapist?”

“Yeah, I love to work with Snooki.”

“Get out!” Annie shrieks and slaps his knee.

He rolls his eyes. “Of course not. But yes. I age slower than most humans, but I am mortal. One day I will die. But here I think I make a difference. My existence has great purpose.”

“And you’re sure you can teach me to beat Epiales?” I ask.

“I can teach you to lucid dream. You control your destiny in the dream world, Iris. Are you ready?”

I look at Annie. She nods and reaches over to give my hand a squeeze.

“I think so.”

“All right. Just like before, I’m going to lead you into deep relaxation. But this time, I’m going to lead you down the hallway of many doors intentionally. And you are in control.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Listen for my voice. When I see you’re in trouble, like last time, when you were thrashing around, I will lead you out. You
must
listen to me. Okay? That’s part of the deal.”

I nod.

“All right then. Come over to the chair and get comfortable. Annie can stay here on the couch.”

“She’s making sure you don’t hypnotize me naked.” I wink.

Dr. Koios rolls his eyes, and a smile dances across his lips. “You girls are ridiculous. And delightful. Now, come sit and close your eyes.”

I move to the comfortable armchair with the ottoman and sink down into it. I shift until I am really comfy. I shut my eyes. Then I pop them open.

“So Sebastian said to meet him in our special place behind our door or . . .” I try to remember. “He said . . . something about knowing where it is.
Trusting myself. But I don’t have any idea where it is or what it could be.”

Dr. Koios kneels down so he’s looking me directly in the eyes. “In the Underworld, the dream world, you need to trust your instincts. Before when you dreamed, it felt as if things happened
to
you. Now when you go, you must remember that you are the dreamer. You can control what happens. You have the power, Iris. You are Morpheus’s daughter. In the history of mankind, there has never been another.”

That word again.
Power
. I hear what he’s saying, but I have no idea what to do or how to do it. I also can’t help but think, wow, in all eternity, Morpheus has never loved another woman. Just my mom. That’s better than a sperm donor from Mensa.

“Okay,” I whisper. I look at Annie. She winks and gives me a thumbs-up.

I shut my eyes.

I hear Dr. Koios’s voice.

“With each inhale, relax into the chair. With each exhale, you will relax, deeper and deeper. Inhale into deep relaxation. Feel all the tension and stress leave your body and float away. Exhale into deep relaxation as your cares leave you. Your muscles are no longer tense. You are melting into the chair.”

His voice is calming, soothing, and I feel myself relaxing and drifting away, like floating on a raft in a pool.

Only this time, as I start to float away, to feel sleepy and deeply relaxed, I hear Dr. Koios’s voice.

“You now will enter the hallway of many doors.”

In my mind, I turn around.

I am in the long, dark hallway of many doors. The key ring and keys are in my right hand. They jingle, and the brass ring feels chilly in my palm.

I walk past a door painted blacker than the darkest night. I shudder. Who would enter a black door? But carved on it is a pair of swans. I linger for a moment, captivated by the swans. But the door seems to breathe, to vibrate as if it were alive. The blackness is so dark it threatens to suck me in. It is liquidlike, endless somehow.

I walk on. The hallway has hundreds of doors on my left and on my right. They seem to stretch into infinity. I pass one that is painted a deep shade of red, lacquered to a sheen so polished I can see my faint reflection in it. But this door does not call to me.

I keep thinking of the black door, even as I pass a tall door inlaid with gold. And then one that looks like it’s from some baroque palace.

From far away, I hear a voice. I know this voice.

“Trust your instincts, Iris. Annie and I are here for you.”

I am back in the hallway. I am safe. For now. But it’s dark. I shut my eyes, exhale, then open them and look behind me, and for the first time, there are sconces on the walls, illuminating my way. I just walked there. How can there now be flames offering a comforting light? Did I just make them materialize? But I smile and am grateful for the light, flickering and dancing on the walls; I’m not going to ask questions. For the first time, I notice the walls are made of stone, weathered and ancient. I reach out my left hand and touch the stone. The wall is smooth, like polished rock, and cool.

I look ahead of me. The sconces stretch as far as my eye can see, even as the tunnel feels like an endless maw. But for some reason, I don’t think our special place is in front of me. Instead, I turn around and head back where I came from to find the black door again. I don’t know why this one door, of all the others, draws me to it. Trust your instincts. Is this the special place?

The two swans are intricately carved. Their necks are entwined. The male swan is slightly larger, and the female swan rests her head against him. They are mated for life. I know this deep down, even though I have never seen this door before.

I feel a throbbing in my belly. The way I feel when I hear Sebastian’s voice. I put my hand on the door. It vibrates like a pulse.

But what about the key?

I look down at my key ring. Hundreds of keys. How will I know which one will open this particular door?

I lift up the ring to the light of a sconce. I touch them, running my fingers over all the keys until one feels hot. I single it out and hold it closer to the flame. This is the key. I know it. There is a feather carved on it.

I insert the key into the lock, and it slides in perfectly. I turn it and hear the click
.

Holding my breath, I open the door and enter.

I smile.

I am in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This is our special place?

I love museums. And all my life I have wanted to stroll through one, hand in hand with someone I love, like I have seen so many others do. Sophisticated and very Manhattan-like. It’s always seemed like the most romantic thing in the world to me, to wander aimlessly among the masterpieces.

I walk up to a bronze cast of Rodin’s
The Thinker.
I stare at it. No one else is in the museum. No security guards. No other people. The room is cavernous and completely silent, except for the sounds of my own breathing. I reach out and caress the surface of the sculpture, which is smooth, the muscles of the biceps well defined, elbow resting on knee. No alarm goes off. No security guard comes. I smile. This is very cool.

I walk around the thinking man made of bronze, and there he is. As if he’s been waiting for me.

Sebastian.

“What took you so long?”

I grin. “I needed to find the right door.”

“Come with me.” He extends his hand.

When I take it, my insides quiver. He is dressed in jeans and a white oxford-cloth shirt, the top two buttons undone so I see the curve of his collarbone. He smells like the sea, somehow.

We walk, hand in hand, through the museum, wandering quietly. We don’t really talk. It’s almost like we’re in a church. To speak would ruin it. From time to time, we stop in front of a painting, and he moves to stand behind me, wrapping both his arms around my waist, my head leaning back against his chest. He kisses my neck, or smells my hair. It seems we like the same paintings. We never say to each other at which ones we should stop, and yet it always seems as if we pause at the same moment, captivated by the same things. We stand in front of Vincent van Gogh’s painting of sunflowers, their golden color against a blue background. It has always been my favorite, and I have a print of it hanging on the wall of my bedroom.

“Your favorite,” he murmurs. He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses the inside of my wrist, his tongue flicking it for just a fraction of a second.