The Stories We Tell by Patti Callahan Henry Page A

Beep.
    â€œI had a terrible dream and Gwen turned it around,” Willa says. “Always making something bad into something funny, just like you do.”
    â€œLike mother like—”
    â€œDon’t say it,” Gwen says. “Don’t.”
    Beep Beep.
    I want to push a button to make that damn pump stop. Or unplug it. Or shatter it. My eyes are raw and dry; my muscles ache with the need for rest.
    Willa speaks in an almost-whisper, her voice not fully awake. “I was telling her about this bad dream I just had where a man was running after me. I tried to hide in an old beat-up car, but he ran on top of the car and started jumping up and down on the roof.”
    I make a groaning sound and swish my hand across the room. “Go, bad dreams, go.”
    â€œGwen said it sounded like one of those old ghost stories girls tell one another at slumber parties. You know, ‘The call is coming from inside the house.’”
    We all laugh, but it is a weak and watered-down sound. “Who knows what crazy stuff our subconscious digs up,” I say, and try to smile.
    Beep. Beep. Beep.
    â€œYou’re right,” Willa says. “That’s probably where it came from.”
    â€œThat or the drugs dripping into your vein,” Gwen says, lifting the plastic tube.
    â€œOr the hit on the head,” Willa says, touching her scalp next to her right ear.
    â€œOr it was just a dream.” I reach for the intercom, needing someone to make the beeping stop.
    â€œIt’s never just a dream,” Willa says.
    That’s what she believes—that dreams are messages, lyrics to a song she needs to write or memorize.
    I push the call button, and when a voice comes over the speaker, I inform the disembodied voice that the machine is beeping.
    Beep. Beep. Beep.
    I want to slam my hands over my ears.
    The nurse comes into the room and enters a complicated sequence of numbers into the machine. She changes the IV fluid bag and pushes gently on Willa’s needle site. “All good,” she says.
    â€œCan I ask something?” I say to the nurse, and she turns to me.
    â€œNot sure I can answer, but I’ll try.”
    â€œI need to get the toxicology reports for both Willa and my husband, Cooper.”
    She smiles and I see her name tag: LULA. Seems like a name for a singer or dancer, not a nurse. “I can’t give you those, ma’am. They are confidential, for the patient only.”
    â€œBut the doctor—”
    â€œYou can ask her, then,” Lula says, and exits the room.
    â€œI’ll get my report,” Willa says, quietly, sinking back onto the pillow. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
    â€œI do believe you; that’s why I want it,” I say.
    She nods, an almost imperceptible movement. She closes her eyes as the medicine drips into her vein and she drifts off again, into dreams and lyrics.

 
    six
    Two people came by to say hello to Willa: Francie and a man whose name I’ve heard but whom I’ve never met—Benson. He works at the Bohemian and arranges Willa’s open-mike nights.
    Their voices are a chorus of overlapping laugher.
    â€œRemember that singer from last month with the dreadlocks?” Bensons asks.
    â€œCarlton or something like that.” Francie looks up in the air, as if the name might be there.
    â€œNo,” Willa says. “Charleston. He was named after the city and he was so proud.”
    â€œI wanted to flirt with him,” Francie says. “But I didn’t have on enough mascara.”
    Willa’s laughter is loud and raucous. “Dumbest excuse ever.”
    â€œYou two are nuts,” Benson says. “His name was Clay and he just got a music deal in Nashville for that song we didn’t even like.”
    â€œThe one about his mama?” Francie asks. “Ugh. It was sappy and ridiculous.”
    â€œWell, some music muckety-muck liked it. I’m only telling you