In Dreams by Erica Orloff Page A

the water and splash my face. I’m trying to act nonchalant . . . but inside? I know I was lucky this time. And that I have to learn how to control my dreams soon. Before something from the Underworld kills me.

11
The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious activities of the mind.
SIGMUND FREUD
    A nnie and I wait in the reception area of Dr. Koios’s office. It’s Christmas break. I have survived my last exam today. But my dreams? I’m not so sure.
    Suddenly, now that my eyes have been opened to gods and goddesses among us, I see the clues. On the shelves of the waiting room are pieces of pottery that I’m sure are ancient shards—authentic pieces from the Byzantine era or something. My mom would go crazy for this stuff. A single black-and-white photograph is framed on the wall opposite the couch where Annie and I are sitting. Most doctors would have their degrees matted and behind glass. Instead, his photograph is of the Greek isles, a bleached whitehouse overlooking a clear sea. A potted palm sits in the corner, and a white-noise machine drones.
    The door opens, and he escorts out a patient and then smiles when he sees Annie and me.
    “So long, Carol . . .” He waves her off. The woman departs.
    “Come on in, girls.”
    We walk in, and both of us sit down on his leather couch.
    We stare at him.
    “Yes, now, ready for your next hypnosis session, Iris?”
    “Not so fast,” I say. I unravel my scarf and shake out my black peacoat.
    “Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “You have more questions?”
    “You could say that,” Annie offers. Her coat is already draped across her lap.
    “We went to see Aphrodite.” I say it aloud and let the words hang in the air between us.
    He doesn’t so much answer, more like he exhales an “Oh,” his lips forming a perfect circle.
    “So when were you going to tell me?” I ask accusingly.
    He sits down behind his desk and spreads his palmsout flat on the wooden surface. He has a bust of a Greek god—I’m guessing Zeus—on the shelf directly behind him. How had I missed the clues?
    “So many people end up worshipping their therapist. They view them as superhuman. How does one go about telling a patient that he is, in fact, superhuman?”
    His eyes are moist and kindly. I smile because I sense I can trust him in the same way I felt in an instant that I could trust Aphrodite. “Point taken. But now that I know who you really are, can you help me?”
    “Why don’t we start with your telling me what’s really going on? I could sense you were holding back from me— withholding in therapy lingo.”
    “How does one go about telling her therapist that things from her dreams are following her back to real life? If I had told you—before I knew you were a god and all—you would have had me committed.”
    “Touché! Can we speak frankly now?”
    I nod.
    “All right, Iris. From now on no secrets between us. Spill it.”
    Annie glances at me. She’s still upset about the Keres—I had told her about them once I returned tothe lunchroom. I look at Dr. Koios. I bite the inside of my cheek. It all feels so huge.
    He stands up from behind his desk and comes over and sits down on the coffee table, so our knees practically touch. He looks me in the eyes. “I can’t help you if you don’t trust me.”
    So I start at the beginning. Not the vines on my leg, but the very beginning, with my mother and Morpheus and my strange parentage, and then with my dreams, going as far back as I can remember. I tell him about the voice, the voice of my protector in that world. My dream guardian, according to my mom. I tell him about how—under hypnosis—I finally got to see him. I tell him about the club—leaving out the kiss. That’s private. I take him all the way through to today.
    “Very interesting,” he says, tapping his index fingers together.
    “Well,” Annie asks, “can you help her?” She exhales. “ Please? ” Her eyes are filled