But I have to emphasize that not all the dreams are like this. For every dream that seems to sing out with symbolism and revelation, there are ten others that are nothing more than ordinary. The week before the funeral dream, for example, she writes, “I’m in the supermarket, and I’m buying a lot of pineapples.” And the very night after she dreamed that I felt relief at her death, she had a dream that “Paul and Lorelei and I are taking a long car ride. Lorelei has her head out the window, and Paul and I are laughing.”
After our trip to New Orleans, there’s a period of a month or so with no dreams at all. I don’t know what to make of this; did Lexy really not dream at all during this period, or was she just not writing them down? The first dream listed after this fallow time sheds little light: “I’m swimming in a pool, but it turns out it’s actually the ocean. When I open my eyes underwater, I can see that there are colorful fish swimming all around me.”
I feel some trepidation as I near the end, as the dates move inexorably toward the day of Lexy’s death. I don’t know when exactly she learned that she was pregnant, when she first suspected it, and when she took the test, but I feel sure it will be reflected in her dreams. But again I’m wrong. This isn’t a diary, after all; it’s a record of random synaptic movements that defy my attempts to imbue them with meaning. There are no dreams of babies in her last days. There is one dream a week before her death—“My body is covered with scars from head to toe”—that might perhaps reflect a preoccupation with bodily changes. But then again, it might not. Four days before her death, she dreamed she went to the dry cleaner’s; a night later, she dreamed that she was cooking a wonderful meal. The last dream of her life, or at least the last one she wrote down, is this one, dated the day before her death: “I dreamed they cut me open and found I had two hearts. The second one was small, and it was a different color. It was hidden underneath the main heart, so they didn’t see it at first. I was very surprised when they told me about it, but the doctor said it was completely normal. He said that most people have two hearts, we just never know it.”
I’m intrigued by this one, and not only because it’s the last. It’s true, isn’t it, that each of us has two hearts? The secret heart, curled behind like a fist, living gnarled and shrunken beneath the plain, open one we use every day. I remember a night about a year or so ago, when I was lying awake next to Lexy, unable to sleep. For some reason, I began thinking about a woman I had known in college, a woman I had dated for only six or seven weeks. It was not a serious relationship, at least it wasn’t to her, but I had fallen in love with her, and it shamed me to realize that, all these years later, I still felt pain that she had not loved me back. How can it be, I wondered, that we can be lying in bed next to a person we love wholly and helplessly, a person we love more than our own breath, and still ache to think of the one who caused us pain all those years ago? It’s the betrayal of this second heart of ours, its flesh tied off like a fingertip twined tightly round with a single hair, blue-tinged from lack of blood. The shameful squeeze of it. Lying there that night, with Lexy beside me, I was surprised to find myself where I was. I was surprised to find I had lived a whole life in the meantime. And sitting here now, with all of Lexy’s dreams in my lap, I realize there are things about her I will never know. It’s not the content of our dreams that gives our second heart its dark color; it’s the thoughts that go through our heads in those wakeful moments when sleep won’t come. And those are the things we never tell anyone at all.
THIRTY-NINE
Icontinued to call Detective Stack every day, hoping for news of Lorelei, but so far I haven’t had any luck. But today, he’s the one who calls me.
“Dr. Iverson,” he says. “I wanted to let you know that we arrested Remo Platt and Lucas Harrow last night. We got a tip as to their whereabouts, and we now have them in custody.”
“Oh, thank God,” I say. “What about Lorelei? Did you find her?”
“Well, I’m not sure,” he says. “There were several dogs recovered from the location where they’d been staying, but I don’t know if your dog was among them. The arresting officers handed them over to Animal Control. They’re at the pound now, if you want to go take a look.”
“Thank you so much, Detective,” I say. “I’m so grateful.”
“No problem,” he says. “I hope you find your dog.”
“Were the dogs… were they okay?” I ask.
He pauses. “Some of them were not in good shape,” he says. “I’m not going to lie to you. And we found some evidence at the scene of some dogs that had been… that were deceased.”
“I see,” I say. “Well, thank you.”
I drive to the pound, imagining all the possibilities: Lorelei’s not there after all, or she’s there, but she’s badly injured. Or she’s there, but she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. This last is a stretch, I know, but who could blame her? Even dogs can feel betrayal. She knows that she trusted me and I brought her back to the place where they hurt her once. She knows that a man she was afraid of came to get her, and I wasn’t there to help.
I try to prepare myself for the fact that she might be dead, but I can’t bear to think about it. When I imagine those men hurting her, perhaps killing her, I start shaking so much that I have to pull the car over to compose myself.
Finally, I reach the pound. I park my car and go inside. There’s a young woman sitting at the front desk. She looks like a kind person. She’s wearing a name tag that says Grace.
“Hello,” she says when I approach the desk. She smiles at me. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” I say. “I heard from the police that they brought some dogs in last night. I think my dog might be one of them.”
“Oh,” she says, her face falling a little. “You mean the dogs from the animal abuse case?”
“Yes.”
“That’s such a terrible story. I’m glad they’ve arrested those guys. If you could see what they’ve done to some of these…” She trails off. “I’m sorry. What kind of dog is your dog?”
“A Rhodesian Ridgeback. A female. Her name is Lorelei.”
“That’s pretty. We do have a female Ridgeback. I don’t know if it’s the right one—there weren’t any tags or collars on any of the dogs. But she’s a real sweetheart. I was sitting with her most of the morning. We’ve become pals.”
“Is she okay?” I ask.
Grace looks down. “Well, she’s… she’s okay, don’t worry, she’s going to be fine. But they did some surgery on her. We had our vet examine her this morning, and it appears that…” She looks up into my eyes. “They removed her larynx.”
“Oh, God,” I say. “Oh, God.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “But it’s not so bad. She’s recovering fine. The vet said the surgery was done really well, if that’s any comfort. She’s going to be fine. She just won’t be able to bark or anything.”
My eyes are filling with tears. “She won’t be able to talk,” I say. And suddenly I laugh at how ridiculous it sounds.
Grace smiles uncertainly, but when she speaks, her voice is gentle. “No,” she says. “She won’t be able to talk.”