Free The Tragic Age by Stephen Metcalfe Page A

Red.”
    â€œDad,” Gretchen says. Which is a polite way of saying, Please don’t embarrass me any more than you already have. At least Dr. Quinn doesn’t have the radio going. You just know that, like Gordon, he’s the kind of guy who likes classic rock and listening to Boston or Steely Dan or, even worse, Aerosmith, something I can’t handle under the best of circumstances, let alone tonight.
    â€œBoy, I feel like a regular chauffeur here,” Dr. Quinn says now, all cheerful about it.
    Again, it’s one of those things that parents say when they want to let you know that they, too, were once young and went through all the same crap you’re going through, and because they did, they can relate. And it’s the last thing you want to hear because if they were once just like you, that means someday you’re going to be just like them.
    Just another thing to look forward to.
    When they drop me off, Gretchen gets out of the car with me. “Call me, okay?” she says.
    â€œI will.” I even repeat it. “I will.”
    Gretchen gets in the front next to her dad. As they motor off, she opens the window, leans out to look back at me and waves. Before I can catch myself, I wave back. I don’t so much as move until well after they’re gone.

 
    21
    The vial of Ambien CR is on the second shelf of the cupboard to the left of the bathroom sink.
    Ambien, like all sleep medications, is addictive and can cause memory loss and withdrawal symptoms. Prolonged use can also cause changes in behavior such as risk taking and decreased inhibitions.
    I unscrew the safety lid and drop a couple of them into my hand. The pills are 6.25 milligrams and are round and a pinkish orange. I flush them down the toilet so that if she checks, Mom will think I’m using them.
    It’s when I’m in the bedroom undressing that I’m aware of someone coming out of the closet behind me. I look into the bureau mirror and I catch a glimpse of a hospital gown and an enormous syringe.
    â€œThis is going to hurt,” Dorie says. She thrusts the needle into the base of my spine and I scream.
    I jerk up in bed, flailing at the sheets.
    Fact.
    Dreams are neurons firing from the brain stem while the brain is undergoing memory consolidation during sleep. A recurring dream is a dream that is experienced repeatedly over a long period of time.
    You’d think I’d recognize this one by now. You’d think I’d be able to remind myself what it is while I’m in the middle of it. But I’m not. I never have been. And now, like always, the room seems to be inhabited by shadows and barely concealed horrors. A sheet of sandpaper drags across my brain. It hits me that maybe the date with Gretchen was a dream as well.
    I get out of bed and I begin pulling on clothes.
    In the kitchen I drag open the drawer where the keys are. I head for the door. I think I might be crying.
    Outside, I start to run. I don’t know why. I’ve just got to get away from the house where Dorie’s ghost still lives and constantly reminds me that I failed her. With nowhere else to go, I run up and across the street to the Taylors’ empty morgue of a house. As I pass it, I kick the newspaper into the bushes.
    I enter and shut the door behind me. I turn off the security alarm. The outside floods make it just light enough inside for me to see. I stand there, shivering in the air-conditioning. It takes a while but the fear finally begins to fade.
    I make my way through the living room and up the stairs of the Taylors’ house. I’m so tired, I can hardly put one foot in front of the other.
    I enter the Taylors’ bedroom. I look around. I look at the bed. I move to the bed. I touch the bed. It’s soft. The house is quiet. I sit on the bed. And then I lie down on the bed. I can rest here. For some unexplainable reason, there are no nightmares in this house, and if there are, they’re