What Dreams May Come

  What Dreams May Come is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  2016 Loveswept Ebook Edition

  Copyright © 1989 by Kay Hooper

  Excerpt from Through the Looking Glass by Kay Hooper copyright © 1989 by Kay Hooper

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  The poetry in chapter 2 is from “And Death Shall Have No Dominion” by Dylan Thomas from Poems of Dylan Thomas (New York: New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1943).

  Originally published in paperback in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, in 1989.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101969243

  Cover design: Diane Luger

  Cover photograph: IVASHstudio/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  By Kay Hooper

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Through the Looking Glass

  Author’s Note

  For both Sleeping Beauty and Rip Van Winkle, sleep was an escape. The princess slept to avoid the fatal consequences of a wicked fairy’s curse, and Rip slept to avoid a nagging wife—among other things. She woke to find her world little changed, with a handsome prince and the promise of happily ever after; he woke to changes, but after some understandable confusion found his life a happier one.

  But, what if sleep weren’t an escape? What if a man woke to find that years had been stolen from him, that the world had gone on without him, and that his sole tie to the life that had been his was the woman he loved?

  What if…

  To sleep: perchance to dream:

  ay, there’s the rub;

  For in that sleep of death

  what dreams may come…

  —Shakespeare, Hamlet

  Some come to take their ease

  And sleep an act or two.

  —Shakespeare, Henry VIII

  The moon has set…it is midnight,

  and time passes, and I sleep alone.

  —Sappho

  Prologue

  FEBRUARY 14, 1980

  “I can’t accept that.”

  “You have to. It’s been nearly two months; his condition hasn’t changed in any way. We’ve called in every specialist available, and they all agree.”

  She stared out the window of the hospital waiting room, oblivious to the bleak, gray midwinter scene but feeling as cold as the rain trickling down the panes of glass. Unwilling to look at the familiar compassion in his tired eyes, she didn’t turn to face the doctor.

  Not again. She had gazed with desperate hope into those eyes day after day for weeks, praying for a different response from him. But day after day the doctor’s weary eyes had remained pitying, offering no hope, and, with a tiny shake of his head, he always indicated there was no change.

  The tearing pain and dreadful fear had turned into cold numbness, and she was grateful for it. It had been too much to bear, the pain and fear—and grief. Losing her brother so suddenly, and at the same time facing the possibility of losing Mitch as well. The first week had been the worst because nothing had been able to blunt the shock, and there had been so many things she’d had to take care of, arrangements to be made. Her parents had been devastated, and it had fallen on her to do what had to be done.

  She had gotten through the funeral somehow, just as she had packed up Keith’s things and put them in storage. She had dropped out of college for a semester, dividing her time between home and the hospital. The weeks had passed with agonizing slowness, and yet it seemed that only yesterday she had been eyeing gaily wrapped packages underneath a Christmas tree and waiting impatiently for Mitch to arrive at her house; Keith had gone to pick him up because Mitch’s car had broken down the day before.

  They never made it home that night. And now she was here, listening to a compassionate doctor’s gentle voice telling her that the date she had made with Mitch on Christmas Eve would in all probability never be kept.

  “He’s alive,” she said huskily without turning, clinging to that slim hope. “He’s breathing on his own. And you said—you told me he wasn’t brain dead.”

  The doctor sighed. “His brain is functioning, but we can’t be sure there’s been no damage. A coma of this duration almost inevitably means damage—”

  “Almost,” she murmured.

  “Miss Russell, I can’t be positive about anything. There’s still so much we don’t know about the brain. And, yes, people have survived comas of extended duration with little or no lasting damage. But those cases are so rare, they’re only footnotes in the medical journals. The probability is that John Mitchell will never regain consciousness.”

  She was silent.

  “I’ve spoken to his father,” the doctor said tiredly. “He wants to move his son to a private constant-care facility.”

  “Why should he make that decision?” Her voice was tight now. “He never gave a damn about Mitch; he hasn’t even been here since the accident.”

  “He has the right to make the decisions for his son because the court granted him legal guardianship; you know that. I understand they were estranged, but he has assumed responsibility for his son’s welfare. The facility he’s chosen is the best—but it’s also five hundred miles away. There’s no objection to your continuing to visit Mr. Mitchell.”

  “How kind,” she said bitterly, knowing that visits would be nearly impossible once Mitch was moved so far away. She had to return to college, and to her part-time job; her family had little money.

  The doctor drew a breath and made a final attempt. “Miss Russell, if you were my daughter, I’d give you the same advice I’m about to give you now: Get on with your life.”

  After a long moment she said, “Thank you, Dr. Ryan.” Her voice was quiet, toneless.

  He left the room, knowing that the attempt had failed. Kelly Russell wasn’t prepared to bury John Mitchell.

  Feeling very old, she stood at the window, her eighteenth birthday just months behind her. She pressed her fingers lightly against the cold glass and watched the rain trickle down. On the third finger of her slim hand a diamond solitaire caught the faint light and glittered.

  They were too young, her parents had said worriedly. Especially she. But they had known Mitch since he and Keith had met in high school, and since he had told them quite firmly on Kelly’s fifteenth birthday that he’d marry her as soon as she was old enough, they couldn’t say they hadn’t had time to get used to the idea. In love with her brother’s best friend for as long as she could remember, Kelly had never wavered in her feelings—and neither had Mitch.

  He had gone to college, working just as Keith had to put himself through school. Only after he graduated and found a good job had he announced—with Kelly’s entire family present—his intention of marrying her. Reassuring her somewhat dazed parents, he had promised they’d wait until after Kelly graduated from high school. He had even been willi
ng to wait while she went to college, but Kelly had protested that she could continue her schooling after they were married.

  And so the date had been set. They had, she thought now dully, done everything right. Mitch had a good job with a healthy income and a promising future; he had been living in the apartment they’d chosen together while she continued to live with her family. They had seen each other on weekends and occasional evenings, spending the time planning their life together. They had done everything right. But they hadn’t counted on fate.

  She stared at the bright diamond on her finger, and for the first time in weeks felt the wetness of tears on her cheeks.

  Today should have been her wedding day.

  “Mitch,” she whispered.

  —

  He blinked drowsily at the pattern of morning sunlight on the ceiling. The light was so bright it made his eyes hurt; he thought it must have snowed during the night, because the reflected glare was fierce.

  He muttered a curse, and the cracked, hoarse sound of his own voice so startled him that the words broke off abruptly. His voice? That didn’t sound like his voice. And there was something wrong with his eyes. No, one eye. Only his right eye seemed to be open. He felt coldness spread slowly inside him, and a nameless uneasiness stirred in his mind like something fearful rustling in the darkness. He wanted to sit up and fling back the covers, but was suddenly conscious of the heavy weight of his own body.

  “Oh, my God…”

  The voice was feminine and unfamiliar. With a tremendous effort he managed to turn his head until he saw her. Through one eye, still only one eye, what was wrong with his left one? She was standing in the open doorway, dressed in the white uniform of a nurse. Her eyes were wide with shock, her pretty face pale, and she was gripping the doorjamb tightly.

  “Who’re you?” he muttered in that hoarse, rasping, foreign voice. Before she could answer, he realized that he was in a hospital bed, and the nameless fear stirred again in his mind. “Where the hell am I?” he demanded.

  “I—I’ll be right back, Mr. Mitchell,” she whispered, and fled almost, it seemed, in a panic.

  He nearly called her back, because he didn’t want to be alone. He tried to sit up, and a cold sweat broke out on his brow when he realized it was impossible; he could feel muscles twitching, but there was no strength in them. Dear Lord, what had happened? Had he been injured somehow? Try as he would, he couldn’t remember. With all his will he concentrated on lifting his right hand toward his face. The nurse had looked so shocked; had his face been damaged? Was that why he couldn’t see out of his left eye? Did he look like some kind of monster?

  He was lying flat on his back, and it was endless moments before he saw his hand wavering unsteadily, as if it weren’t connected to the rest of him. He couldn’t move his upper arm at all, but managed to move his head a little until his fingers touched his chin. With that accomplished, he was able to shakily explore the right side of his face. No bandages, no injuries that he could feel. Afraid of what he was going to find, he turned his head a bit more so that his fingers could reach the left side.

  His teeth clamped together hard as he felt the sutures neatly closing his left eyelid. Fighting the queasiness rising in his throat, he forced himself to probe gently. Gone. His left eye was gone. But at least he was no monster; he couldn’t find any other evidence of injury. There was definitely something more wrong, though. The bones of his face were too prominent, as if he’d lost a great deal of weight.

  Sweating and panting from the effort, he allowed his hand to fall weakly back to his side. All right, then. He’d lost an eye. What about the rest of him? Why did his body feel so heavy, almost as if it didn’t belong to him? Nearly groaning with the strain, he managed to lift his head a few inches so he could see himself. The reassuring presence of his feet under the blankets was obvious, and his left arm was there all right.

  Dear God, was he paralyzed too?

  He glared at his toes and willed them to move, rewarded finally with a twitch from each foot. He couldn’t lift his left arm, but the fingers moved slightly. Exhausted, he let his head fall back as he tried to catch his breath, closing his eye and very conscious of his pounding heart.

  He heard quick footsteps and opened his eye again to look up at the man bending over his bed. The white coat identified him as a doctor, and, unlike the nurse, his eyes gleamed with excitement rather than panic.

  “Do you know your name?” he said slowly and clearly.

  “Of course I know my name. I’m John Mitchell.” He was so annoyed by the question that his voice came out as little more than a growl. “Where the hell am I? A hospital? What happened?”

  “Wait. Let me raise the head of the bed a little.” The doctor pressed a button and the bed hummed.

  Mitch could feel his body protesting the movement, and bit back a groan. His head swam dizzily, and he had to close his eye for a few moments until the nausea passed. When he was able to look again, the doctor was sitting in a chair by the bed and watching him intently.

  “I’m Dr. Brady. Have you tried to move?”

  “Yes. And I can. But just barely.”

  “Good. We were sure there was no spinal damage, but the muscles have weakened.”

  “Why can I barely move?” Mitch asked hoarsely. “What happened to me?”

  “You were in an accident. A car accident, on Christmas Eve. Do you remember?”

  Frowning, Mitch searched his mind. “No. I don’t remember anything about that.”

  “Don’t worry, it isn’t unusual. You may never remember the hours just before the crash.”

  “How badly was I hurt?”

  “A number of broken bones and some internal injuries. But all that has healed. Your left eye is gone, but there isn’t much scarring and the socket’s intact if you decide to use a glass eye.” The doctor’s voice was calm and impersonal. “You’ll need physical therapy to get your muscles and nerves back in working order, and it’ll take time, but you should be as good as new.”

  Mitch felt the dark stirrings in his mind again, the rustle of panic. He looked down at his body, looked at the arms that were too thin, remembered touching a face with little flesh. Holding his voice as steady as possible, he said, “Broken bones and internal injuries take time to heal. Lots of time. Why can’t I remember that, Doc? What else happened to me?”

  Softly, the doctor said, “You’ve been in a coma, Mr. Mitchell.”

  He understood what that meant, but only vaguely. A coma was like a sleep, a long sleep. His mind told him he had slept only a night, but his body—a new thought entered his mind, replacing the nameless fears with one that was very real.

  “Was I alone?” he asked hoarsely. “In the car?”

  The doctor frowned, studying him, then said slowly, “I was told a friend of yours was driving. The accident wasn’t his fault; a drunk driver crossed the median and crashed into you.”

  Mitch felt cold. “Keith? How is he?”

  “I’m sorry. He didn’t make it.”

  The coldness spread through him. Keith…his best friend since the first year of high school, like a brother. Lord, what Kelly must be going through! Pain and grief ached inside him, but even that could no longer hold back the icy certainty that the accident had stolen more than his best friend and his eye.

  “How long?” he demanded, bracing himself for a reply he somehow knew would be devastating. “How long have I been in a coma?”

  Dr. Brady hesitated. “Mr. Mitchell, I want to remind you that you are extremely lucky to be alive. No one expected you to come out of the coma. With therapy, your physical condition should be optimum within a few months, a year at most. Judging by your coherency, I’d venture to say there’s been no brain damage, though you may discover more gaps in your memory; that’s always a possibility.”

  “How long?” Mitch repeated harshly.

  The doctor drew a breath. “It’s really remarkable in many ways, Mr. Mitchell. Today is the anniversary of your accid
ent. Christmas Eve. December 24—1988.”

  It was worse than a shock, and no amount of bracing could protect against it. He couldn’t breathe for a moment, and some wild, primitive cry of protest tangled violently in the back of his throat. Lost. Nine years lost forever. Nine years stolen while he slept. The whole world had gone on without him, seasons changing and lives lived and…

  “Kelly,” he whispered.

  Chapter 1

  It was just a few days into February when Kelly opened her mail and found the clipping. There was no note, and no return address on the envelope; the postmark was smeared and unreadable. The clipping was from a major East Coast newspaper, but the article was a small one. The author of the piece seemed to feel that his information was newsworthy only because the situation was a bizarre one, and he clearly relished the odd coincidence of dates.

  On Christmas Eve, 1979, John Mitchell had been involved in a car accident that had left him in a coma. On Christmas Eve, 1988, he had awakened, as if from a night’s sleep.

  There was more, a few bare facts. A battery of tests on Mitchell had found no brain damage. Intense physical therapy over months had repaired the ravages of the long coma, and doctors were astonished by his progress. There had been no setbacks, and the medical staff at the hospital was confident enough to anticipate no future ones.

  For a long moment, as she stared at the clipping, Kelly felt nothing except distant shock. Then, as if a dam had burst inside her, a complex tangle of emotions washed through her. Happiness, relief, guilt, bitterness, anger. And last of all hurt, because Mitch had come out of the coma more than a year before.

  He hadn’t contacted her in any way.

  She tried to be fair, reminding herself that he could have looked for her and simply not been able to find her. After all, she had learned to cover her tracks with all the caution of a hunted animal. The past ten years had taken her far from home, and no one who had known her then would even think to look for her in Tucson.