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alike. I feel cold in the hot room, and I dread hearing my own voice, my own dreams played by the
machine.
All the early dreams are of attempts to leave Somerset. They speak of trying to fly out, to climb out, to
swim out, to drive out, and only one is successful. As the night progresses, the dreams change, some
faster than others. Slowly a pattern of acceptance enters the dreams, and quite often the acceptance is
followed swiftly by a nightmarelike desire to run.
One of the dreamers, Victor, I think it is, has a brief anxiety dream, an incomplete dream, and then
nothing but the wish-fulfillment acceptance dreams, not even changing again when morning has him in a
lighter stage of sleep.
Sid motions for Roger to stop the tape and says, "That was three days ago. Since then Victor has been
visiting people here, talking with them, fishing, hiking. He has been looking over some of the abandoned
houses in town, with the idea of coming here to do a book."
"Has he..." I am amazed at how dry my mouth has become and I have to sip cold coffee before I can
ask the question. "Has he recorded dreams since then?"
"No. Before this, he was having dreams of his parents, caring for them, watching over them." Sid looks
at me and says deliberately, "Just like your dreams."
I shake my head and turn from him to look at Roger. He starts the machine again. There are hours and
hours of the tapes to hear, and after another fifteen minutes of them I am ravenous. It is almost nine. I
signal Roger to stop, and suggest that we all have scrambled eggs here, but Staunton vetoes this,
"I promised Miss Dorothea that we would return to the hotel. I warned her that it might be late. She said
that was all right."
So we go back to Sagamore House and wait for the special of the day. On Sunday night there is no
menu. I find myself shying away from the implications of the dream analysis again and again, and try to
concentrate instead on my schedule for the next several months. I know that I have agreed to work with
Dr. Waldbaum on at least six operations, and probably there are others that I agreed to and have
forgotten. He is a thoracic surgeon and his operations take from four to eight or even ten hours, and for
that long I control death, keep life in abeyance. I pay no attention to the talk that is going on between
Roger and Sid, and I wonder about getting an ambulance driver to bring Father in during the winter. If
only our weather were more predictable; there might be snowdrifts six feet high on the road, or it might
be balmy.
"I said, why do you think you should bring your father home, here to Somerset?" I find that my eyes are
on Staunton, and obviously he thinks I have been listening to him, but the question takes me by surprise.
"He's my father. He needs me."
Sid asks, "Has anyone in town encouraged you in this idea?"
Somehow, although I have tried to withdraw from them, I am again the center of their attention, and I
feel uncomfortable and annoyed. "Of course not. This is my decision alone. Dr. Warren tried to
discourage it, in fact, as Dorothea did, and Mr. Larson."
"Same thing," Sid says to Roger, who nods. Staunton looks at them and turns to me.
"Miss Matthews, do you mean to say that everyone you've talked to about this has really tried to
discourage it? These people are your father's friends. Why would they do that?"
My face feels stiff and I am thinking that this is too much, but I say, "They all seem to think he's better off
in the nursing home."
"And isn't he?"
"In certain respects, yes. But I am qualified to handle him, you know. No one here seems to realize just
how well qualified I really am. They think of me as the girl they used to know playing jump rope in the
back yard."
Dorothea brings icy cucumber soup and we are silent until she leaves again. The grandfather clock
chimes ten, and I am amazed at how swiftly the day has gone. By now most of the townspeople are
either in bed, or getting ready. Sunday is a hard day, with the trip to church, visits, activities that they
don't have often enough to become accustomed to. They will sleep well tonight, I think. I look at Sid and
think that he should sleep well too tonight. His eyes are sunken-looking, and I suppose he has lost
weight; he looks older, more mature than he did the first time I met him.
"Are you going to set up your equipment tonight?" I ask. "Any of the other boys volunteer?"
"No," Roger says shortly. He looks at Sid and says, "As a matter of fact, we decided today not to put
any of them in it again here."
"You're leaving then?"
"Sending all the kids back, but Sid and I'll be staying for a while. And Dr. Staunton."
I put down my spoon and lean back, waiting for something that is implicit in the way Roger stops and
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