Free The Life Intended by Kristin Harmel

perfectly normal, save for the sliced finger.
    “Sleepwalking isn’t that uncommon,” the doctor adds with a shrug. “I’m certain that’s what happened.”
    “But how could everything be so vivid?” I ask. “How do I know things that I couldn’t possibly know in reality?”
    He shrugs again. “The subconscious works in strange ways, Ms. Waithman. Trying to figure it out will only make it feel more confusing. My suggestion would be to get some rest and forget about this. Dreams can be very powerful, but it’s important to remember that none of it is real.”
    Still, over the next few days, I can’t stop thinking about Hannah. My inability to sign back to her was what yanked me out of the second dream, and I find myself obsessing about how I’ll communicate with her if I wake up in the alternate life again. Would knowing sign language myself help me to stay longer next time, to fit into the dream’s landscape a little better? The thing is, the cut on my finger, still throbbing, doesn’t feel like my subconscious speaking at all.
    O n Monday morning, after a weekend of going to bed early and trying in vain to dream, I arrive at the office twenty minutes before my first appointment and spend a few minutes googling American Sign Language. I quickly learn how to say mom, dad, love, daughter, and here. Then, before I have a chance to question what I’m doing, I click on a pop-up ad for an eighteen-week GothamLearn sign language class being offered within walking distance of my office.
    The class began last week, but when I e-mail to ask about enrolling, I get a quick return message from GothamLearn’s online director telling me that it’s not too late to join if I’d like; I should just arrive a few minutes before seven on Wednesday night with a check for my tuition to hand to the instructor, a man named Andrew Henson.
    I’ll be there, I reply before I can talk myself out of it, and as I hit Send, I’m buoyant. I also feel idiotic for doing this; I know intellectually that Hannah can’t be real. But at least taking a class will be more constructive than day drinking and trying to force myself to sleep.
    Dina buzzes to tell me my first client of the day has arrived, and I shut my laptop quickly, as if I’m looking at porn rather than hand signs.
    Leo Goldstein strides in a moment later, the circles under his eyes dark and his jaw set belligerently. “Okay, I’m here,” he announces, throwing himself onto the couch opposite my desk. “What do you want me to do?”
    Leo looks paler today, I think as I move to sit beside him in an armchair, and when I look closely, I see the shadow of a bruise on his right forearm, where he has pushed his sleeve up. The skin around the purpling stain is a soft yellowish green.
    “Leo, what happened to your arm?” I ask.
    He looks down and frowns, tugging his sleeve over the mark. “Nothing,” he says, quickly amending, “Tripped on the basketball court.”
    Leo’s mom started bringing him to me about four months ago, when he began having behavior issues at Tompkins Square Middle School, where he’s currently in seventh grade. He made it clear from the beginning that he hated being here—and hated me as a result—but older kids often resist therapy at the beginning. I knew if I waited him out, chances were he’d come around. And he did.
    Little by little, even though he always complained that singing was for babies and banging drumsticks against bongos was pointless, he had come out of his shell. Now, we’re in a routine that seems to work: he huffs into my office, sulks for a few minutes, tells me nothing is wrong, and then brightens when I pull out my double xylophone.
    Most weeks, we play Beatles songs, which Leo calls “retro-cool.” The Beatles theme to our sessions was his idea; I like to let my clients lead whenever possible, because the more comfortable they are with the music we’re playing, the easier it is for them to open up.
    Getting Leo hooked on