Krista Vellis

Thursday, September 16th

I didn’t need a Harvard-trained psychologist to tell me I checked every box in the delusion column. I’d heard it all before--several times.

I suppressed the urge to run as my new therapist, Dr. Klein, leaned back in her oversized chair to read my paperwork. The leather couch cushion squeaked as I struggled to find a comfortable position.

An arsenal of psychological approaches lined the mahogany bookshelf to my right: behavioral, cognitive, holistic, and humanistic. In the last ten years, I’d been through them all with New Jersey’s finest shrinks. Nothing helped. Twenty-nine years old and still stuck in therapy.

Dr. Klein met my eyes. “Amaia, what brings you here today?”

I swept my long hair up into a messy bun to cool the line of sweat gathered at the base of my neck. “To be honest, I’m not here by choice. My husband insisted I come. He thinks you can help me with my stress levels and sleep patterns.” After two years of marriage, Matt still enjoyed playing the role of my knight in shining armor. Whether I wanted him to or not.

“Do you believe talking with me might be beneficial?” she asked.

“I’m not really a fan of therapy. In my experience, it’s a waste of time.”

Dr. Klein’s expressionless face made it hard to read if my answer insulted her. “Well, you’re here now, so why don’t we see if we can change your mind about therapy. Would you commit to two sessions? After that, if you don’t see an improvement, we can part ways.”

She sounded like a negotiator dangling an irresistible deal in front of me, but I didn’t know if she could be trusted. After all, her office reflected every stereotype I’d experienced with psychologists. The dark furniture, brown window blinds, and beige walls brought back memories of sessions best forgotten. “If I want to quit after the two sessions, will you tell my husband that I tried?”

“Only if you’re an active participant and you give me permission to divulge that information. Everything you say here is confidential, Amaia. Your needs will be the focus of our sessions--not your husband’s.”

My wide-eyed expression reflected off the lenses of Dr. Klein’s designer glasses as I extended my damp palm to shake on the deal. “Two sessions.”

“Great. Let’s not waste any time. Besides your husband’s concerns, what brings you here today?”

I took a deep breath and exhaled. My life story read more like a dark fantasy novel than nonfiction. No one ever believed me, so I never bothered divulging the whole story. Until now. “I’ll need to take you back to right around my tenth birthday.”

Dr. Klein crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. “What happened?”

“That’s when I had my first deathmare.” I rubbed my sweaty hands along my pants.

“Deathmare?”

“It’s what I call a nightmare that predicts or deals with death.” I bit my lip, waiting for Dr. Klein’s reaction.

“Are your dreams always about death?” The question came out naturally, as if she asked about the weather. She didn’t seem spooked.

“Usually. But not always.”

“How often do you have them?”

“They stopped for about ten years. I used edibles to put me in a deep sleep, so I didn’t dream as much. But six months ago, I stopped taking cannabis and the deathmares came back. Now I have them three to five times a week.”

“That’s a lot of predicted deaths.” She wrote something down on my paperwork.

My joints stiffened like rusted hinges knowing she had already formed an opinion of me.

“Not necessarily. I can have the same dream for several months. And sometimes they’re about relatives that are already dead.”

“Are your dreams the source of your anxiety and stress?”

“Yes.” That and the fact I’ve been keeping them secret from Matt.

“Why did you decide to stop using cannabis if it was working?”

I cradled my belly.

Dr. Klein gave a quick nod. “Can you describe your very first deathmare to me?”

Old childhood insecurities washed over me as the memory of that dreadful night flooded back. “I dreamt I heard a knock at my bedroom window. At first, I thought a storm was causing a branch to hit it. But when I peered outside, I saw my grandpa…floating twenty feet in the air outside my window. With the light from the streetlamps shining behind him, he looked angelic.”

Dr. Klein sat up a little straighter in her leather chair and adjusted her glasses, so they rested evenly on her small, rounded nose. “How did you feel seeing him floating in the air like that?”

“Sad.” She probably expected me to say scared. But the ten-year-old version of me grew up on stories of angels and Jesus rising from the dead.

“Why sad?”

“Because I knew he came to tell me goodbye.” I blinked away my tears. “He put his hand over his heart, smiled, and soared into the night sky.”

Dr. Klein handed me a tissue from the box that sat on the small table next to her chair. “What did you do after he flew away?”

“I woke up and ran into my parents’ room to tell them what had happened. My mom was lying in bed watching The Honeymooners--the one with Norton sleepwalking through Ralph’s apartment. My father was pacing the hallway, whispering to someone on the phone. I crawled under the covers with my mother. She wrapped her arms around me and asked what was wrong. That’s when I told her Grandpa was dead.”

“How did she react?”

“She asked if I had a nightmare about Grandpa.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her how he came to visit me before flying off to Heaven.”

“And then what happened?”

The answer lodged in my throat. The memory signified the end of my normal childhood, a topic I’d never wanted to discuss in therapy…until now. As a parent, I needed to be strong and face my fear head-on. My child deserved a positive role model, so that’s what I would become. “My dad walked in the room and told us he received a phone call that his father died. From a heart attack.” My eyes watered. “I remember him trying to hold back tears.”

“How did you feel when your father told you the news?”

“I felt bad for my dad, but I mostly focused on my mother’s frightened face when my father confirmed Grandpa’s death.”

“Did her reaction affect you?”

“Yes.” My heartbeat quickened. “She looked scared of me. Like I was wrong for sharing such an evil dream.”

“Do you think you did something wrong?”

“Yes, but aren’t kids supposed to tell their parents what happens to them?” I know I frightened my mother, but she raised me to be honest. Before Dr. Klein could answer, I blurted out, “Actually, I don’t think I did anything wrong.”

My head felt like a ball volleyed between two thoughts.

“What led you to change your answer?”

“The truth should be encouraged, not frowned upon.” A rule I no longer followed. At least not with Matt.

“What is your truth?”

Her blue eyes held my gaze, inviting me to jump in the pool of self-realization. I dipped my toe in first, scared of what the waters might hold. The depth of my psyche worried me.

“That I made the right decision to confide in my parents.”

“I want to give you time for that realization to sink in. It’s an important first step in coming to terms with your dreams. And with yourself.”

I sat, speechless…allowing the weight of her words to take residence in my mind. Do I have a problem with the dreams or the choices I have made? I’m not sure anymore.

Dr. Klein talked awhile about the value of reflection and patience in the healing process, then smiled, uncrossed her legs, and put my paperwork down on the coffee table that sat between us. “I think that’s enough for today. Next Thursday we can explore your dreams and feelings further.”

Great. More self-reflection. My muscles went taut as I stressed over next week’s session. I rubbed my gold wedding band with my thumb. One more week. I could do that. I had to-for Matt. “See you Thursday.” My words came out flat, like my enthusiasm. Next week would be my last session.

Outside, the brisk night air felt good against my flushed skin. But then, anything felt better than that stifling office. With most of the traffic heading west out of New York City, the east side of Route 3 remained rather empty, making my commute from Clifton to Rutherford only ten minutes.

My pulse steadied as I turned into town. The three-mile suburb represented all I wanted in life: a tight-knit community, beautiful homes on tree-lined streets, and a top-notch New Jersey school system.

***

I’d just finished eating and begun loading the dishwasher when the phone rang. The caller ID showed Matt’s name.

“Hi, honey. Where are you?” I’d expected him home half an hour ago.

“I’m stuck at the office. The weekly forecasting and budgeting meeting ran late, but I wanted to check in on you. How did it go today?”

“Remember our deal,” I replied, my voice sharper than intended. “I’ll go to therapy as long as you don’t ask me about my sessions. Being cross-examined twice in one day--”

“I’m trying to be supportive.” His low, monotone voice reflected discontent.

Why do I always disappoint him? “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“I’m happy you’re getting the help you need.”

Too tired to argue, I said what I knew he wanted to hear. “I love you, honey.”

“Love you, too.” He took a breath, signaling a change in topic. “I should be home in two hours. What’s for dinner?”

“I left a plate of chicken cutlets for you. Mind if I don’t wait up? I’m exhausted.”

“Leftovers?”

“I can put mozzarella and sauce on it.”

“That sounds more appetizing.” He paused. “Sleep tight.”

“Thanks, honey. I’ll see you in the morning.” I sent a kiss through the phone.

After fixing Matt’s dinner, I traded my blouse and slacks for an oversized cotton t-shirt and slipped into bed. My muscles ached for a good night’s sleep. The pillow-top mattress embraced my body, giving me a false sense of comfort. Please let me have a dreamless night. For my baby’s sake, I thought to myself as I recited my nightly prayer:

“Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael,

Protect us from the evils of Hell.

Help guide us through the night,

And shield us with protective light.

One shall watch, one shall pray,

And one shall keep guard till day.”

Chapter 2

Sunday, September 19th and 24 ½ weeks pregnant

My prayers remained unanswered. Three nights of interrupted sleep left me with swollen eyelids and a slight case of vertigo. Ugh, this wouldn’t do. Not on a Sunday. Not for church. I cut up two slices of cucumber and put them over my eyes to reduce their swelling as I lay on the couch. After fifteen minutes, I hoped the cucumbers had done their job and entered the kitchen to fry up eggs.

Matt walked in, already dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt. “Something smells good.”

“Morning, sweetie. Want eggs?”

Matt looked over my shoulder. “Can you add some broccoli or spinach to it?”

I retrieved a Tupperware of cooked vegetables from the refrigerator and tossed them in the pan. “You need to make everything healthy, don’t you?”

“Proper nourishment is important, especially when you’re eating for two.” He planted a kiss on the back of my head before pouring himself a cup of coffee. “How did you sleep?”

“Okay.”

“Good, I was afraid you were having…nightmares. You kept tossing and turning.” His eyes lingered on me for a moment, like a card player trying to decide if I was bluffing.

My hands inadvertently drew into fists. If he knew my deathmares were back, he’d have me going to confession--like they were a sin that needed repenting.

“No nightmares to report.” I smiled. It wasn’t a lie exactly. It had been four nights since I had a prophetic dream. But then again, how could I dream if I didn’t sleep? Anxiety kept me up most of the night.

Matt was busy putting almond milk in his coffee when my attention shifted to the kitchen window next to him. A sudden gust of wind made the curtains fly towards me. The sky darkened, the way it did before a storm. Through the glass pane, I saw a woman in our backyard tied to a pyre. She wore a torn dress; her face was blackened with dirt and sweat. It reminded me of a deathmare, only it was happening while I was awake. I hadn’t experienced a daytime visual like this since I was a child. A figure that looked like a man with two animal horns protruding from his head set fire to the wood. Seized by panic, I shouted, “What are you doing? Stop it!”

Matt whipped around. “What are you talking about? Stop what?”

But he was unaware of the woman in the backyard. I watched as she was engulfed in flames. The pain in her scream pierced through me, awakening buried memories. Who was she? And why could I experience her pain?

“Amaia! Look at me!” Matt’s voice shook, like he was the one who was seeing the apparitions. “Why were you screaming?”

The scene vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving my mind reeling, heart pounding. I refocused my attention on Matt. I knew he would never accept the truth, so I scrambled to come up with a probable cover story. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought I saw Mr. Johnson cutting our rose bushes.” Luckily, our neighbor was still trimming the tree that hung over our fence when Matt glanced out the window.

“You looked like you were about to faint. All the color drained from your face.”

“I’m just a little dehydrated.” I poured myself a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table.

“You need to take better care of yourself. Try to eat something.” Matt made up a plate of eggs and broccoli, which he placed in front of me.

“I don’t know if I can. The smell is turning my stomach.”

Matt moved to open the window.

I rose and motioned to the chair across from me. “I’ll do it. You sit.” I took my time surveying the backyard. The sun’s rays carried rainbows with them as they passed through the windowpane. Everything else remained undisturbed—no scorch marks. My deathmares were now invading my days.

“Honey, you look pale. Why don’t you lie down for a little while?” Matt stood next to me, stroking my hair.

“That sounds like a good idea.”

He helped me to bed. “Don’t fall asleep, though. We have church in an hour.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” One disturbing image is enough for me today.

***

Thirty-minutes wasn’t enough time to clear my head, but that’s all the time my husband gave me. I descended the stairs in the burgundy A-line dress Matt had laid out. He stood at the foot of the staircase, grinning. One down, four hundred ninety-nine Holy Cross members left to impress. At first, I felt special--like I was auditioning for acceptance into an elite club. But three years later, I still found myself in a weekly cycle of maintaining parishioner approval.

When we arrived, despite being engaged in a conversation with the town mayor, Father Dan greeted us with a smile and a nod as we settled into our seats. The parishioners were a who’s who of Rutherford. The marble floors, tin ceilings, and cushioned pews indicated the scope of their generosity. I glanced over to the flat screen we donated last month after being assured by Matt that we’d be rewarded tenfold spiritually. I prayed he was right. Matt’s faith in God had saved me once before. I hoped it would save me again. If my deathmare was correct, someone I knew was in danger. I needed all the spiritual support I could get if I was going to stop it from happening.