“Carrie Jo! Can you hear me?”
“Miss Jardine, we’ve called an ambulance. They’ll be here momentarily.” Matthews spoke very close to my ear; his stale breath brushed my skin—too intimately for my taste.
I shook my head. “No, just give me a minute.” My weak protest started a hushed conversation, but I was simply too tired to eavesdrop. Snippets of my dream—the crushed white magnolias on the mantelpiece, the coral earrings that hung from Calpurnia’s slender ears—crowded into my mind. The scent of hot cornbread, the taste of lemonade on my lips and the warm aroma of clean beeswax lingered on and around me like an invisible cloud. As always, I was surprised no one else could taste and see these things. Unwanted tears slid down my cheeks. Muncie’s hopeful face hovered before me. He was dead, long dead. He would never know that I had been there, witnessing a day in his private life.
“Here, put your arms around my neck. You can do that, right? You can’t just lie here on the floor.”
I slid my arms around Ashland’s neck and laid my throbbing head on his shoulder. “But I barely even know you,” I whispered.
He laughed softly and said, “You’re going to be fine,” as if his words would fix everything. He carefully positioned me on an antique settee near the window in the front room, where I had met Matthews earlier. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere,” Ashland said with a smile.
I had to chuckle. Here I am, lying helpless on a fainting couch.
Matthews looked down at me with his piercing, gray eyes. “I’ve called the family’s physician, Dr. Patterson. He’ll be here in just a minute. No arguments on this. You’ll understand that I can’t have you knocking yourself out without some follow-up medical care.”
I nodded and wiped away the unexpected damp streaks on my face. “Of course.”
Ashland reappeared with some bandages. With a quick, “This might hurt,” he pressed them to the screaming spot on my head. I focused on the darkness outside the window, dutifully accepting his attempts at healing. The doorbell rang, and the sleek attorney disappeared down the hallway.
“Looks like it stopped bleeding,” Ashland said. “That’s always a good sign.” He pulled my hand up to hold the bandages in place while he cleaned up the paper wrappings.
“Good evening, Ashland. Miss Jardine, is it? Now let’s take a look.” Matthews was thin, but Dr. Patterson made him look muscular in comparison. The doctor probed my scalp with a bony finger, examining the wound without a lot of fuss. I bit my lip to stop from shouting during his inspection. He sat next to me, flashed a light in my eyes and checked my pulse. “So tell me about this fall. Was it from a great height?” Before I could answer, Matthews spoke. “Actually, she tripped over a bit of old carpet. No great height at all.”
“Can you follow my finger, please?” Obediently, I followed the doctor’s bony finger as he moved it back and forth in front of my face. “Well, Matthews, I think she’ll be just fine. It wouldn’t hurt to get a stitch or two, but you will certainly live.” He stared up at Matthews, who said nothing. He peered at me over the top of his glasses. “Do you feel nauseous? Can you stand, Miss Jardine?”
I was determined to get on my feet. This couldn’t be happening. “I feel fine, truly. Embarrassed, mostly. I’m sure I can stand up.”
“Hold on. Take your time, darling. You don’t want to get ahead of yourself. If you do feel sick or off-balance at all, go to the hospital. It’s possible that a whack like that could cause a concussion, but I expect you’re fine. Ashland, help her up, please.” The friendly doctor watched me amble about for a moment before declaring me healed.
“Do you have a friend who can drive you home? I’d feel better knowing you were tucked in safely for the night. Is there some family close by?” The doctor removed his glasses, polishing them with a shirt sleeve before replacing them, without much improvement. He looked at me inquisitively.
“Uh, no, I’ve no family here. But my place is just a few minutes away. I’m really very embarrassed to have made such a scene.”
“Well, accidents happen, and it’s not surprising in a place as old as this. I’m sure there are all kinds of hazards around here.” He looked at Ashland with a grin and said, “It’s good that someone is going to restore her. Seven Sisters, I mean. She must have been a beauty in her day.” Bag in hand, the doctor glanced around the room for a moment, then handed me his card. “Now you call me if you have any problems at all tonight. If I’m not in, my wife will take a message. If you folks don’t need anything else from me, I’ll be off. I do expect you to call tomorrow, perhaps when you finish here, okay?”
“Thank you, Dr. Patterson. I’ll walk you to the door.” Matthews led the doctor from the room, and I was left with my boss watching over me as I sat on the dusty couch.
Once Ashland and I were alone, my face flushed. I felt like an incompetent ninny falling down in front of the great football hero. What must he think of me? Why did I care? I felt raw emotions building just below the surface and knew I would need some privacy to recall what I had seen and experienced without the added embarrassment of an audience. Like a cornered rabbit, I was ready to run. It was always that way after a dream. It was almost like I had too many feelings; they piled up on one another in a big old heap.
“I think I’ll go back to my apartment now. I’ve had enough fun for one night. I’m sorry I messed up the meeting.”
“Don’t worry about that. You heard the doctor, though. You shouldn’t drive, Carrie Jo. I’ll take you home. You say it’s not far?”
“No, it’s not far, over near Catherine Street, but I don’t want to leave my car here. And I don’t want to be any more trouble.” I tried to think of a good reason to refuse but couldn’t really find one beyond leaving my car behind.
“It’s the least I can do. You did trip on my property. I’ll take you home, and then either Matthews or I can bring your car to you later. Let’s find your things. And I’ll need those keys.”
He sounded so assured and logical that I didn’t put up a fight. I forced Muncie out of my mind and set about looking for my purse and keys. I found them on the desk in the front room with the check I had so happily received earlier.
The ride home was quiet and short, only three turns. On a sunny day, I could make the walk from Seven Sisters to the garage apartment in about ten minutes, I figured. I looked forward to that. The roads were uneven and dark, despite the many streetlights. Most of the downtown streets I had seen were shrouded in live oaks, giving the whole area a sort of otherworldly feel. No wonder I’m dreaming of the old days, I thought wryly. I’m surrounded by history.
I was thankful Ashland hadn’t encroached on my silence. It took a lot of effort to not rewind the dream in his presence, slowly, carefully, reliving each detail. I wanted to remember everything, blurt it all out, but the wisest choice was to capture it all in my digital journal. I shuddered to think of how Ashland would look at me if he knew about my “dream catching.” I didn’t want to find out with this throbbing head. It would be a long night.
We pulled into the gravel driveway, and I fumbled for the apartment key. Without asking, he stepped out of the car, opening the car door without a word. I was relieved to find that climbing the stairs to the apartment went easily. No repeat performances; no falls.
“Thank you for bringing me home.”
“No trouble at all. We’ll bring your car back in a few minutes. I’ll put your keys in the planter here.” He looked at me steadily. “I’m sure you want to clean up a bit. Call Dr. Patterson if you have any problems at all. He’s on call 24/7. Is there anything else you need? Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to bring you some supper?”
“Thanks, but I’m not really hungry. I think I have something to snack on in the fridge. I appreciate you bringing me home. Thank you again.”
Flashing his easy smile, he left me on the porch. I slid the key into the lock, and then I was finally inside, alone, leaning against the door. No brave face needed. Nothing to prove—and after all that, no flow of tears.
I pulled off the offending shoes and decided against tossing them into the trash can near my desk. They weren’t to blame, although I doubted I would have the confidence to wear them again anytime soon. Locking the door and checking the shades, I tossed a scoop of bath salts into warm running water and soaked in the tub for the next twenty minutes. I carefully avoided putting pressure on my head; I leaned back into the water, feeling it soothe away the tension. After a few minutes, the details of the dream came back, slowly at first and then like a flood. From the yapping hounds to the feel of stiff cotton on my neck, I recalled the details with surreal clarity. Unwilling to lose even a snippet, I climbed out of the tub and wrapped myself in a cotton robe, half drying my tired body. I didn’t want to peek at my head. I hated the sight of blood.
I took a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and went over to the laptop on the desk, flipping it on. My fingers flew over the keyboard as I wrote down my dream, scene by scene. Like a supernatural scribe, I obediently recorded all I had witnessed. It was a habit I had developed over the years, first in book journals and then on my computers. It was a weird sort of record, a kind of written proof that I wasn’t crazy. It felt like I was collecting evidence for a case that I hoped one day to present to someone who might actually understand. As usual, I finished with a brief commentary of what I felt during the dream and after.
Hours later, I cried. Too tired to write anymore, I shuffled to the full-size bed. It took up half of the apartment, but I was grateful for the comfort. I slid out of the robe, tossed on a giant sleep shirt and peeled back the sheets. I reached my hand under the cheap bamboo paper lampshade and clicked the light off. Drained and tired, and finally empty of borrowed memories, I slept like the dead.