Free The Anatomy of Dreams by Chloe Benjamin Page A

untrue, exactly—our studiesstarted by measuring consciousness this way—but it was only a small slice of what we did. Gabe was in favor of saying we studied sleep medication, but lying so blatantly made me uneasy. And more than that, I wanted to be known, wanted desperately, even then, to be found out.
    We cleared the table with Thomas and Janna’s help. When Thomas excused himself to use the bathroom, Gabe began to do dishes, and Janna offered to dry them. By the time they had almost finished, Thomas still hadn’t returned.
    I went upstairs to look for him. The bathroom was empty, its door creaking open. But the light in our bedroom was on, and when I ducked my head inside the door frame, I found him sitting on our bed.
    He was perched on the edge, holding up to the light a locket my mother gave me. Usually I left it on my bedside table, but Thomas had hooked the chain around his index finger. The locket had been opened to reveal two photos: one of my mother, and one of me. He tapped the edge with his other index finger, so that it turned around and around, tangling on the chain.
    When he saw me, he smiled, bright and sheepish.
    â€œSo sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to go out of bounds. I used the bathroom, and then I wandered in here. I sat down to have a look at the trains. Well, the place where trains would be. The empty trainless place.”
    The locket was still on his finger. I held out my palm, and he gave it back to me.
    â€œI tend to fidget,” he said. “I just picked it up to have something to do with my hands.”
    â€œThat’s all right,” I said, though I was spooked. I wanted to get him back downstairs, but he spoke before I could suggest it.
    â€œYou’re welcome to call me Thom.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œIf you like.”
    â€œI’ll try.”
    â€œAll right,” he said—my words—and smiled.
    The window by the bed was open; outside, a group of flies—the last survivors of the summer hatch—whined softly. Thom turned, swinging his legs around to face me instead of the train tracks.
    â€œWhat do you really study?” he asked. “What within sleep?”
    â€œConsciousness and REM cycles, like Gabe said. We make physiological recordings—”
    â€œI remember what Gabe said.” He picked at the threading on my comforter for a moment, then dropped it down. “It just seemed a bit simplistic. First of all, there’s a word for what you’re studying. It’s lucidity, or lucid dreaming—when a person’s aware that they’re dreaming. Am I right?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œWhich is why I find it hard to believe that’s all you’re measuring,” said Thomas. “It’s been done. I learned about dreaming and lucidity in a couple of intro psych classes—long before you became involved in this kind of research, I presume. Some of the Romantics even knew about it: Thomas De Quincey, Coleridge, Keats.”
    â€œYou’re right—we’re not the first to study lucid dreaming. But we’re doing something different.”
    I paused, and Thomas looked at me with expectation. I’m not sure when I made the decision to tell him more than I had ever told anyone else, but I know it was before that moment. Maybe it was when I followed him upstairs, leaving Gabe and Janna in the kitchen, or maybe it was even earlier—the first time I saw them, returning home in the storm.
    â€œAccounts of lucid dreaming have been around since the fifth century,” I said. “Saint Augustine wrote about it first, and Tibetan Buddhists recorded their experiences in a funerary text . Back then, it was used to access a higher spiritual plane, even to relieve stress and problem-solve. It was treated like an escape. But we think of it as a return.”
    â€œTo?”
    â€œTo the self,” I said. “We dream in metaphors. If you’re