Brian (VI)
Cold air, heavy with rain, rattled around in his lungs. Little clouds of breath puffed out of his open mouth as he panted. His heart was pounding, as fast and as hard as his feet upon the wet pavement. Dead leaves squished beneath them as he ran through the darkness. The icy wind whipped through his hair and the fallen leaves, pelting his face with stinging raindrops as he looked over his shoulder.
Suddenly, in the midst of the darkness, there was light. At first, it was just a pinprick in the distance, like the glimmer of sunlight at the end of a tunnel. But it grew nearer and seemed to split itself in two, twin halos of light that expanded outward, filling his vision. They were bright, almost blinding.
He stopped, frozen, but the light kept coming, so close it threatened to swallow him up. He couldn’t see anything, and as the light surrounded him, his fatigue turned to fear.
He was going to die.
The thought crossed his mind a split second before he felt a crushing blow, and the light faded to impenetrable dark.
When Brian opened his eyes, he was not lying cold and wet in the middle of a dark street, but warm and dry in his own bed. The gray light of dawn was peeking through the window blinds, and Becci was leaning over him, saying his name. “Brian… are you awake?”
“Yeah,” he exhaled, although it was getting harder for him to be sure. The dreams he’d been having were becoming more frequent – and also more vivid. He could still smell the rain in this latest dream and feel its chill on the back of his neck. He could hear the wind whistling through his ears as he ran into it, his head ducked so that he could see his shoes pounding against the pavement. Even his heart was starting to race, as it had in his dream, making him feel like he really had been running, even though he knew he must have been asleep in bed the whole time. Wanting to be sure, he looked up at his wife. “I didn’t sleepwalk again last night, did I?”
“Not that I know of,” said Becci. “You were sure restless, though. I let you sleep in a little longer than usual. You should get up. It’s after seven, and you need to be in town for your appointment at nine.”
Brian nodded, slowly sitting up. It was easier to feel alert with his heart pumping adrenaline through his body.
“I’ve gotta go, or I’m gonna be late for work. I love you.” Becci bent and kissed his cheek. “Talk to the social worker about these dreams,” she whispered into his ear, and then she was gone. He heard her talking to Cal in the kitchen, their voices fading as they went out the back door, and the garage door opening and closing as her car rumbled out of the driveway.
Brian sighed, supposing she was right on both accounts: he should get up, and he should talk to the social worker. He’d scheduled the appointment to meet with her after his last visit to Dr. Robert, but now that the day had arrived, he felt oddly uneasy. There was no reason to be nervous, he told himself, no painful procedures to endure, only harmless conversation. What was so bad about that? Brian supposed it was just that the dreams themselves made him uncomfortable, so talking about them wouldn’t be easy. But he got up anyway, ate breakfast and took his pills, showered and got dressed, and drove into Lexington.
The transplant social worker, Joan, had an office in the heart institute, so he met her there. Once the usual formalities were out of the way, Joan plucked her eyeglasses from her tangle of salt and pepper hair, perched them on the bridge of her nose, and peered down through them at a file in front of her. “So Brian, Dr. Robert tells me that ever since your transplant, you’ve been troubled by bad dreams.” She looked up again, raising her eyebrows.
Her voice was kind, and there was no judgment in its tone, but Brian still felt embarrassed. Troubled by bad dreams… It sounded like the sort of problem a child would have, not a grown man. But Joan was still looking at him quizzically, waiting for him to elaborate, so he cleared his throat and said, “Yeah… I have these recurring nightmares, and one time, my wife even found me sleepwalking in the middle of one. I’ve never done that before.”
“Could you describe the dreams?”
Brian nodded. “There are two different ones.” He started with the dream about the crying baby, repeating what he’d told Dr. Robert about the similar nightmares Becci had experienced after giving birth and his belief that they were stress-related. “I really haven’t had any anxiety, though,” he added, “other than in the dreams, I mean. Health-wise, I’m feeling better than I have in over a year.”
“That could be the reason you started having the dreams after the transplant and not before,” said Joan. When he looked at her in confusion, she explained, “You know what it’s like to have lost your health. When you found out you needed a heart transplant, I imagine you felt some anger… sadness… maybe even a degree of denial at first. In other words, you went through a grieving process, just as you would over losing a person who was precious to you.”
As he thought back to those dark days following his diagnosis, the brave faces he and Becci had put on over the holidays to mask the uncertainty they were facing in the new year, Brian’s throat felt dry. He swallowed hard, wishing Joan would offer him a glass of water.
She was still talking. “You were on the transplant list for ten months, during which you lived each day with the fear of dying before a heart became available. You may have even have come to accept the possibility of your death. But you didn’t die. You got a new heart, and your health was restored. And now the fear has changed. You know how much you have to lose because you’ve faced losing it all before. Even though you’re doing well, it’s normal to worry that something will go wrong – that your new heart will fail, too, or that your body will reject it. The baby in your dreams may be your son, but it also might represent something else: your new life. You said that in some versions of the dream, the baby’s crying in the crib, and in others, the crib is empty, but you can still hear the crying. This could be a subconscious reminder that you only have so much control over your own fate – a hard pill for any of us to swallow, no doubt.”
The social worker sat back in her chair, seeming satisfied with her own psychoanalysis. Brian was not. Frowning, he said sarcastically, “So I suppose it’s death I’m running from in the other dream?”
Joan was not vexed. She folded her hands and prompted, “Tell me about the other dream.”
So he told her about the nightmare from which he’d awoken that very morning. “The details change – like in the dream last night, it was raining. I don’t remember it raining before, but then again, I couldn’t tell you what the weather was like in the other versions. I’m always outside, though, and I’m always running… running away from something, I think, though it’s never clear what exactly. It’s always dark, and all I see is a light. I guess the light could represent death – you know, ‘don’t go into the light!’ and all that – but in this last one, it looked more like… headlights.” He paused there and pressed his lips together, wondering if he should tell her what he really thought the dream meant.
Joan blinked behind her glasses. “Headlights?”
“Yeah… I mean, I was running down the street, and I turned and saw these bright lights coming for me, and then… I think I got hit, but that’s when I woke up.” He looked at the social worker, still debating, and finally decided to say what was on his mind. She was there to help him, after all, and she couldn’t do that if he wasn’t completely honest with her. “My donor died in a car accident,” he said. “I don’t know any other details, but I can’t help but wonder… What if I’m dreaming of her death?”
“You mean imagining what her death might have been like?”
Brian considered the question, then shook his head. “No… these dreams, they don’t feel like my imagination. They feel more like… memories.”
“Memories of your donor?”
“Yeah.” Brian knew she must think he was crazy. It sure sounded crazy, but he tried to explain anyway. “They’re so much more vivid than normal dreams, and every time I dream them, I remember more details when I wake up, like the memories are getting clearer. I’m dreaming of places I’ve never been, things I’ve never done. Like running – I’ve never been a runner. I used to play sports, before I got sick, but jogging was never my thing. And the nursery in the baby dream – it’s not Cal’s room. It’s nothing like Cal’s room or any room I’ve seen, but I can picture it so clearly.”
“You may have seen a room like it before, maybe just in a picture or a movie, and not remember it. They say we never invent faces in our dreams, only dream of faces we’ve seen in the real world. In fact, most of our dreams are based on real life experiences.”
“But maybe they’re not my real life experiences,” said Brian.
Joan raised her eyebrows. “So you think you’re experiencing parts of your donor’s life in your dreams?”
He shrugged. “I know it sounds impossible, but… yeah. That’s what it feels like.”
“But you said yourself that you don’t know any other details, besides her cause of death. How do you know you’re dreaming about the life of a person you know nothing about?”
“How do I know I’m not?” Brian countered. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have. I’m not dreaming about my own life, so it must be hers.”
Joan studied him for a few seconds, then smiled. “Brian, have you ever heard of cellular memory?” she asked. When he shook his head, she elaborated, “It’s the theory that other organs besides the brain can store memories or personality traits. It stems from a phenomenon that’s said to occur in some transplant recipients, in which the recipient takes on characteristics of his or her donor, such as tastes in food or music. For example, there’s a well-known case of a middle-aged woman who reported craving beer and peppers after receiving a new heart and lungs. She had never liked those foods before, but found out later that her donor, a young man, did. There have been several other cases documented that defy medical or psychological explanation, but personally, I’ve never known any myself.”
Brian stared at her through wide eyes. Her words had sent a surge of adrenaline shooting through his body, and soon, his heart – his donor’s heart – would start hammering. “But… that’s just like me!” he blurted. “It’s not just the dreams. I’ve had weird food cravings, too. My favorite food has always been homemade macaroni and cheese, the way my mom always made it, but it doesn’t taste right anymore unless I put lemon juice on top. What if that was something my donor did?”
Joan offered the shrug of a skeptic. “A lot of things can alter your sense of taste. Medications, for one.”
“What about music? You can’t tell me my medications have changed my taste in music. I’m a music teacher. I used to listen to gospel music, R&B, Motown. Now my radio is always tuned to the classic rock station. I’ve been listening to the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd… groups I’ve always respected for their place in music history, but never went out of my way to listen to before. So why now? It’s like there’s a part of her inside me.” He pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the pulse of her heart against his palm. “Not just her heart, but a part of her soul.”
The social worker shook her head. “Brian, forgive me for bringing it up. You may indeed be one of the rare few who experiences this phenomenon, but there’s no scientific proof that cellular memory exists. Remember, the heart is just an organ, a muscle made of tissue, like any other. It doesn’t hold memories or house the soul, and the idea that either could be transferred in a transplant is-”
“Then why bring it up?” Brian interrupted. “Why bring it up, if you don’t believe in it?”
“Forgive me,” Joan apologized again. “I shouldn’t have. It’s not healthy for you to dwell on your donor. This is exactly why we limit the amount of information we give out about donors. The heart you feel beating in your chest belongs to you now. You shouldn’t feel as if you’re sharing it with someone else.”
Brian frowned, feeling a sense of betrayal towards the social worker who was supposed to be on his side. How dare this woman plant such a seed in his head and then try to squash it? How dare she tell him how he should and shouldn’t feel?
Seconds before he stood up and walked out of her office, he looked the social worker in the eye and said, “…But I do.”
***
“Brian, come to bed.”
Brian looked up from his laptop to see Becci standing in the doorway, dressed in a nightgown and slippers.
“It’s late,” she said. “You’ve been on the computer all night. Can’t you just let this thing go for tonight?”
“Let it go?” he repeated. He had been researching the concept of cellular memory on the internet all day, ever since getting home from the heart institute. He had pored over articles on the phenomenon, played videos about the theory, and posted on forums for fellow transplant recipients to share their experiences.
The general consensus in the medical community was that cellular memory was the stuff of science fiction, with no clinical evidence to support the theory, but Brian had read several strange stories that said otherwise. How else could one explain the case of a man who had emerged from his transplant with a newfound love of classical music, after receiving the heart of a musician who had died clutching his violin case to his chest?
Brian stared at his wife for a few seconds and then shook his head. “Becci, I feel like I have a piece of someone else’s soul inside me. How am I supposed to just ‘let this thing go’ and sleep when I’m worried that as soon as I close my eyes, I’ll start dreaming of her death again?”
Becci sighed. “I take back what I told you this morning. I wish you’d never talked to the social worker about the dreams.” She shuffled off, calling a vague “goodnight” over her shoulder.
Brian felt annoyed, but he and Becci had once vowed they’d never go to bed angry, and he was determined not to let it happen that night. He reluctantly bookmarked the website he’d been reading, shut down his laptop, and followed her back to their bedroom.
“Thank you,” she whispered, when he climbed into bed beside her.
“Sorry for snapping at you,” he said, leaning over to kiss her goodnight. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she replied and rolled over onto her side, her usual sleeping position. Brian lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling, his hand resting on his chest as his mind raced, too full of thoughts to relax. It took a long time for him to settle down, but finally, he drifted off to sleep. And when he did, he dreamed.
The dream started the same as before. He was running through the rain, his shoes slapping against the wet pavement. The icy wind whipped through his hair and the fallen leaves, pelting his face with stinging raindrops.
He tried to keep his head down, but he kept looking back over his shoulder. The street was dark and deserted, but suddenly, in the midst of the darkness, there was light. At first, it was just a pinprick in the distance, like the glimmer of sunlight at the end of a tunnel. But it grew nearer and seemed to split itself in two, twin halos of light that expanded outward, filling his vision. The headlights were bright, almost blinding.
He forced himself to look away, but he could still hear the growl of an engine gaining on him, the roar of tires splashing through puddles. When he chanced another glance over his shoulder, the truck was coming right for him. Startled, he spun around and tried to jump out of the way, but his foot sunk into a pothole he hadn’t seen. He tripped, turning his ankle as he stumbled out into the street. As he straightened up, he was bathed in brilliant light. He stopped, frozen, but the headlights kept coming, so close they threatened to swallow him up. He couldn’t see anything, and as the light surrounded him, his pain turned to fear.
He was going to die.
The thought crossed his mind a split second before he felt a crushing blow, and the light faded to impenetrable dark.
Brian awoke and found himself lying in the dark on the floor beside his bed. Somewhere overhead, a light switched on, and Becci’s face appeared, hanging over the side of the bed. “Brian? Are you okay??” Her voice trembled, and her eyes were wide with fright.
He assessed his condition. His chest didn’t hurt, and his heart wasn’t pounding hard – yet. He rotated the ankle he’d twisted in his dream; it felt fine. His body didn’t seem to be broken. The only thing that hurt was his back, probably from falling out of bed. “I’m fine,” he grunted, sitting up slowly. “Just had another nightmare.”
“The same one?” Becci folded her arms beneath her chin and looked down at him in concern.
“The running one.” He drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, stretching out his spine as he thought back to the dream. He found he could remember more details than ever before. “It was a truck that hit me – her, I mean,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“I could just tell. The headlights were higher off the ground than a car’s.”
“Okay… so you think your donor died getting hit by a truck.” So what? She didn’t say as much, but he could hear the unspoken words in his wife’s tone of voice.
He buried his face in his knees, picturing the dark street of his dreams, the bright lights speeding toward him, surrounding him. All of a sudden, it hit him. He sat up straight, letting his arms fall to his sides. “It didn’t even try to stop,” he said. “It didn’t slow down, didn’t slam on its brakes, didn’t swerve out of the way. I would have heard the tires squeal if it did. I was running right in the path of its headlights, and the truck did nothing to avoid hitting me – her. It’s like it was…” He trailed off, shaking his head, as the horrible realization sank in.
“What?”
Brian stared at his wife with tears welling in his eyes, his whole body shaking as his heart – her heart – hammered against his ribcage. “It wasn’t an accident,” he whispered. “My donor was murdered.”
***
