Tunnel Vision

23

During the next four days, Zack tried to sort out what had happened that night and settled on a rational explanation. His brain had suffered considerable trauma and rewiring over the last four months. As a result, he had deluded himself into thinking he had mind-glimpsed the guy’s cards. But in hindsight, it was no more than autosuggestion crossed with pure dumb luck. Since then, he had experienced no more weird fugues.

Earlier that day, Damian had called Zack to join him at Uno Chicago Grill at Huntington Avenue and Gainsborough Street, just off the NU campus. Damian said it was his treat. Zack was still a charity case. His Discover bill was now $4,200 and growing by the hour.

“So, what did you do with your winnings?” Damian asked, sipping his Coke.

“Paid off half of next month’s rent.”

“What about the other half?”

“Anthony.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing they banned you.”

“Those days are over, online and off. Gone cold turkey.” He took a bite of pizza. “My postcoma resolution.”

“Hear, hear!” Damian raised his glass. “To cold turkey.”

Zack clinked him. “Except I can’t live on everybody’s dole. Twenty-four friggin’ years old and I’m drowning in debt,” he said. “I’m going to have to get a job.”

“You can’t do that and finish your thesis.”

“Maybe I’ll put in for another extension.”

“Your adviser could die of old age before you’re finished.” Then Damian pulled something out of his shirt pocket. “This is what I called you about. From a notice board in the union.” He handed Zack the flyer. “They’re looking for research volunteers.”

The announcement was written in bold letters. And under it was an 800 number.

IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU CAN MAKE MONEY (!) AS A PARTICIPANT IN A SLEEP STUDY. CALL THE PROTEUS RESEARCH CENTER AND LEAVE YOUR NAME AND PHONE NUMBER TO SCHEDULE A TIME.

“Some kind of sleep study. I called and they pay two fifty a session.”

“Just to go to sleep?”

“I think it’s an insomnia study. Might even be a twofer—figure out your sleep problem and pay you for it.”

“Probably not a university project with the 800 number.”

“They’re looking for volunteers between the ages of twenty-one and fifty. No drug or alcohol dependency, no history of mental disorders. And two hundred and fifty dollars if eligible.”

“Did you say you were interested?”

“Yeah, and I asked if they could use another, and they said yes. They’re interviewing tonight down the street at the Colonnade. What do you think?”

“Can’t hurt.”

Damian paid the bill, and they walked to the Colonnade. When they asked at the desk about the Proteus interviews, the clerk directed them to a suite of rooms on the third floor. As they approached, a male and female about their age came out the door. Damian asked if this was for the sleep study, and they said it was. They tapped the door, and a man with fuzzy gray hair and a white shirt let them in. He introduced himself as Dr. Morris Stern and asked them to wait a few minutes, then disappeared into another room.

A minute later, he emerged with a tall woman who introduced herself as Dr. Elizabeth Luria. Splashed across her right cheek was a red birthmark. She thanked them for coming, then checked her watch. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to begin immediately.”

They agreed, and Stern led Damian into one room while Zack followed Luria into another that had a desk with a laptop and printer. Luria directed Zack to take a seat across from her. She looked to be about sixty and had quick, dark eyes behind perfectly round glasses. The birthmark began an inch or so under her right eye and ran down her cheek, making her look as if tears of blood had dried on her face. “So, what exactly have you heard about us?” She spoke in a sharp, clear voice that went with her quick, dark eyes.

“Just that you’re doing sleep studies.” He unfolded the flyer from his pocket.

“Yes, we do a variety of sleep-related projects, including assessment of disorders. You and your friend are students, so I needn’t explain how loss of sleep can impact the way you function both physically and mentally.”

“I thought sleep studies were done in hospitals.”

“They are. And some are in universities or private research centers. Let me say right off that we cannot take volunteers with a history of drug or alcohol dependency.”

“I’m fine there.”

“Good, and no history of seizures, epilepsy, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, psychosis, or other mental problems, including hallucinations.”

Zack shook his head, trying to keep his expression neutral. “None of the above.”

“Fine, but we still will require full medical records before we begin.”

Zack felt his insides slump. If they learned about his head injury, they’d probably dump him. His school medical records predated that, and hopefully she didn’t read the newspapers. “I can provide those.”

“Good.” She adjusted her glasses. “We’d like you to fill out a questionnaire. It’s rather lengthy, so to expedite matters, the form is in a Word file.” She nodded to the laptop and printer. “Shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Any questions?”

“Well, actually, if you don’t mind…”

She read his expression and smiled. “Compensation. This is merely the application stage. Should things work out, we’ll give you a call for the study, for which you will be paid.”

“I heard two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Correct.” She moved to the laptop and called up the application. “When you’re finished, just tap the door.” Then she left the room.

Zack paged through the application, which had several sections. The first asked for standard demographic data—age, gender, education, marital status. The next, “Family Relations”—parents’ age; if they were alive, separated, divorced; any siblings and their ages. The third asked about any neurological disorders—migraine headaches, epileptic fits, seizures, brain injuries, and so on. He entered “NONE” to each of these.

The next section, “Religious/Spiritual Background,” seemed superfluous—which religion, if any, was he raised in; if he currently practiced religion; the importance of religion or spirituality in his life. Irrelevant as they seemed, he answered each with “NONE.” Then followed two questions: Where do you go to feel most connected with yourself (e.g., home, work, elsewhere)? He entered, “Hiking in woods.” Where do you go to feel most connected with universe/God (e.g., religious center, mountaintop, ocean, etc.)? Zack entered, “Sagamore Beach, Cape Cod”—where they vacationed each summer.

The next section, “Sleep and Dream Patterns”: the average number of hours he slept each night? The quality of sleep (good, fair, poor)? How often did he dream the same dream? How often did he have nightmares? Describe it (them). The final section asked about his most memorable dreams: the people in them; the emotions he felt; his worst nightmare. Did he ever dream of someone who had died? Or of an evil or demonic presence? Or an encounter with a religious being? Did he ever have a mystical experience? He guessed that the application was screening out full-mooner types. He typed in “NONE” and did not mention the casino episode.

When he was done, he printed up the form and tapped the far door. Luria returned and scanned his answers, then thanked him and said they’d get back to him. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’m curious why all the questions about dreams.”

She seemed momentarily absorbed in his answers. “Because some sleep disorders are caused by recurring dreams or nightmares.”

“So why all the questions about religion?”

“We’re interested in emotional or psychological sources of one’s dreams.”

“Sounds like you’re more interested in dreams than sleep disorders.”

“I suppose it does.” But she didn’t elaborate, and her birthmark seemed to flare.

“If I turn out to be eligible, just what will the tests entail?”

“If you don’t mind, we’ll cross that bridge if and when we get to it.” She led him to the door. “And please send us your medical records.” She handed him a card with a Boston post office box. “We’ll contact you should we proceed to the next stage.”

Zack didn’t like the abrupt dismissal, but he said nothing.

Damian was in the lobby waiting for him. “How’d you do?”

“I’m still in debt,” Zack said as they walked outside.

“Yeah, well, maybe that’ll change.”

The air was cool, and Boston glowed against a dark indigo sky. Before they parted, Zack said, “Meanwhile, they’ll check to see if we’re New Age freaks or junkies.”

“At least they won’t do a credit rating.”

“There may be a God after all.”