Lullaby

by Elizabeth Ott Barton

Editor’s Note: With heavy hearts, we must report that Elizabeth passed away last week of an unexpectedly aggressive metastatic breast cancer shortly after this story was accepted. In honor of Elizabeth, The Arcanist is duplicating her story payment and donating it to Girls Love Mail, a nonprofit that gifts handwritten letters to women newly-diagnosed with breast cancer. This charity combines Elizabeth’s love for writing while supporting breast cancer patients. We encourage you to donate as well. We are also honored to welcome Elizabeth into The Arcanist family and share her story with the world.

She’s too damn happy. That’s my first clue. It’s not that she’s giddy or gushing — more that she has a newfound serenity, an amiability. Then, several days in a row, she wakes up with this low-key sly smile. That clinches it: she’s cheating.

“Pleasant dreams?” I ask.

“Mm-hmm.” She just keeps on smiling as if she doesn’t notice the tinge of accusation in my voice or my smoldering glare.

I search her phone and computer. Nothing. I can’t prove what she’s up to — not yet. Her careful cunning makes the betrayal even worse.

I explain my predicament to Gus at I-Spy.

“I’ve got just the thing.” He brandishes a device no bigger than a grain of rice. “This is some cutting-edge shit.”

I’m impressed by its minuteness. “What is it?”

“A DreamCam. You put it behind someone’s ear, and it senses the electrical impulses, the brain waves. Essentially, it records dreams. It sends the data to a computer, and you can watch someone’s dreams like you’re watching a movie.”

It seems impossible — something out of science fiction. But Gus has always been straight with me, and if it works, it’s exactly what I need. “How much?”

Gus strokes his beard in performative contemplation. “You’re a loyal customer. I could probably knock a little off the price.”

Even with the discount, it’s more than I can reasonably afford, but it comes with a money-back guarantee. I take out my credit card.

I test it on myself first. Per the instructions, I pair the device to my computer, dab some adhesive onto the tiny rectangle, and press it behind my ear. If I hadn’t put it there myself, I’d probably never notice it.

I lay awake that night, glowering at her in the dark, galled by her serene slumber. Even in sleep, she’s smug. She’s so damn sure of herself, so confident that I’m oblivious to her deception — she had no problem drifting off to dreamland, where, no doubt, she’s enjoying another tryst.

Eventually, I fall into a fitful sleep.

When I first wake, I don’t remember any specifics of my dreams, just faint impressions of old times, idyllic early days.

She leaves to go grocery shopping (so she says). I cue up the DreamCam footage. Initially, everything’s hazy, disjointed the way dreams usually are. But then it’s amazing, as if I’ve been transported back in time.

“I love you so much,” I hear myself tell her. “I want to spend every minute with you.”

She smiles. I feel the love radiating from her gaze. “You say the sweetest things. It just makes me melt.” She rests her head on my chest and sighs. I can almost smell her shampoo and feel her warm, soft body nestled against mine.

This thing is worth every penny.

That night, I wait until she’s asleep. To be sure, I nudge her and listen. Her breath remains slow and steady. She’s out. She’ll soon be dreaming of him — whoever the bastard is.

It’s dark, but I can see well enough as I gently brush aside locks of her chestnut hair and put the DreamCam in place.

I slide back to my side of the bed and watch her for most of the night. Every languid shift of her body, each contented breath bayonets my heart as I picture what the camera must be recording.

At some point not long before dawn, I fall asleep.

It’s late when I wake. The aroma of coffee mingling with something savory and faintly smoky draws me to the kitchen.

“I thought this might lure you out of bed,” she says. She’s standing at the stove, arranging a plate, adding finishing touches. A glass of orange juice waits at my usual seat at our breakfast nook. A vase with purple flowers sits off to the side. “Three-cheese and horseradish omelet with a side of bacon.” She smiles and puts the plate down with a flourish.

Does she really expect me to fall for all this?

I pick up the plate and the utensils bundled in the napkin beside it. “I need to check something for work,” I say. I turn to leave the kitchen.

“Don’t forget coffee.” She holds out a mug for me. Wisps of steam dance as they rise from the dark liquid inside.

I take the coffee and trudge down the hall.

In the office, I shut the door behind me and call up the DreamCam footage. For several minutes, there’s not much. I dig into my omelet as I watch a screen of gray static occasionally interrupted by flashes of images — random, mundane stuff: the calendar on the fridge, the vintage birdcage in the living room window, the wrought-iron fence encircling our yard, our garden in bloom.

Breakfast tastes a little off — not surprising considering how rarely she cooks — but it’s passable, and I’m hungry. I’m almost done eating by the time something coherent begins to coalesce on screen.

Sunlight bathes our kitchen. She hums a dulcet melody — something familiar, although I can’t immediately place it. Moving with a slow and easy grace, she picks up a brown bottle emblazoned with a comically large skull and crossbones and pours its inky contents into a crystal juice glass. “Da dee da da da da-do do-dum da,” she sings as she hands me the glass. Her voice is soft and saccharine.

I smile stupidly and drink.

“Da da da dum da-da-da do da dum.”

I finally recognize the song, an old classic, redone time and again. My face contorts. I start to sputter.

“Dream a little dream of me,” she sings, just above a whisper.

Through her eyes, I watch myself writhing in a badly acted death scene.

The image on the monitor fades. I shiver, although I’m sweating. My pulse quickens as the aftertaste of breakfast is replaced by a tingling numbness that spreads outward from my mouth. A burning nausea grips my gut.

Fuck.

I was right to be suspicious of her waking smiles.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elizabeth Ott Barton was born in Wisconsin, visited amazing places around the globe, and built a life in Chicago with her husband and various cats. She began making up stories as a child and was later able to move words around for both fun and profit, always seeking to find more and better ways for storytellers to use their gifts to shape the world.