Once In A Dream

by

Dede
(kbbddhuy@email.msn.com)

Max opened his eyes and looked slowly around. Once again, he had fallen asleep in his office chair and now his back ached. As he sat up, Max could feel every bone and muscle movement. Max rubbed his eyes and checked his watch; it was 6:38 AM. 'Well, at least no one is up now,' he thought. He could get something to drink before going up to bed and more than likely no one would notice. It was Saturday and the children would sleep until around 8 o'clock. Then they would slowly wander down for breakfast.

Max stood up and stretched, then he looked out at the trellis; something seemed different about this day. His eyes had searched that yard a million times and he knew every inch, simply by chance, but today was slightly off and yet nothing was wrong. Max decided to pay it no mind and considered the feeling fatigue.

He walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. Max found it was green, not orange. Had he been so preoccupied with his play that he had lost track of his wife's decorating?

"I need to start taking longer breaks, before she changes the locks too," Max told himself. He took a glass out of the cupboard and opened the refrigerator. Max was looking for the orange juice when two female hands slid around his waist. Max smiled and rubbed her hands.

"You fell asleep in your office again, darling. You really worry me when you do that," she said. Max stopped breathing and hesitantly turned around.

"What's wrong, Max? If you're looking for the orange juice, it's in the door," she said, taking the container out of the refrigerator and pouring him some. Max vacantly shut the door and walked over to her. She was about to hand him the glass when she saw the mistiness in his eyes. Max took the glass from her hand, set it on the counter, and wrapped his arms around her.

"Did you have another nightmare, honey?" Max nodded, which was all the answer he could muster with his head buried into her shoulder, "Oh, I'm sorry. You probably really needed me there when you woke up," she soothed him. She rubbed her hands up and down his back. Max couldn't say anything, he just held her.

"Do you want to stay in today? We can just spend the whole day relaxing. You don't need any more pressure from Broadway on those sore shoulders of yours." Max finally pulled away and gazed into her eyes, her beautiful eyes. He loved to stare at them for hours; he had never seen such a perfect blue shade of color in his life.

"Max, you're acting so odd. Is something really wrong?" She wondered what could be going on with him lately. Max smiled, almost laughing as a mad man laughs at the imaginary kangaroo at his side, and supported himself with his hands seeming to dig into the wooden counter top searching for reality. He shook his head.

"No, I just.... I dreamt you were dead," he admitted.

"Oh, you poor thing; how terrifying for you," she put her hand on his shoulder.

Max looked up and brushed his fingers through her hair. After the longest moment, he spoke, almost choking on the words as they involuntarily formed in his throat, "Sarah, I love you."

She smiled contentedly. "I love you, too, Max. You seem to have had a rough night. Why don't I make us some breakfast and we can eat a quiet meal before the children get up? Now, you go into the living room and read your play reviews; it will make you feel better." She spoke as if nothing was different from the day before. Max couldn't figure it out; was he hallucinating? or maybe she was a ghost... but that didn't make any sense; nothing did. Suddenly, he felt sick and dazed. Half-conscious, Max said, "I'll help you. I don't want you out of my sight."

"Okay, I'll let you play bodyguard," Sarah joked.

"Hey, your body is worth guarding," Max teased, as he pulled her tight to him.

"Fair enough..." Sarah said, kissing him on the lips. "Honey, remember: it was just a dream; none of it was real."

Max nodded and kissed her again; then he felt a chill of fear streak down his spine. "Sarah, what's the date, today?"

Sarah saw the terror hiding in his face and looked surprised. "Darling, its October 24, 1998. Are you sure you're all right?"

Max relaxed and sighed with the worry falling away from his face. "Yes...yes; it's just in my dream you died in 1989."

Sarah laughed a little. "When you have a nightmare, Maxwell Sheffield, you certainly don't spare the details, do you? I know why you picked year, though. Remember: that was the year our limo nearly was hit by that drunk driver. Listen to me, okay? I'm right here and I am not going anywhere."

Max couldn't believe it. It had all been a dream, just a horrible dream. He suddenly wanted to check everything. He wanted to see his children asleep in their beds, he wanted to know about those reviews of his play, and how Niles was. Max just wanted to know everything was right and good and safe.

He searched his mind for clarity as he got the eggs from the refrigerator for his wife. Then he whipped around and spoke.

"Sarah, what color is my hair?"

She looked up from the pan, where she had started boiling some water. "It's thick and black as a raven, Max." Sarah walked over and slid her hand through his hair. Then she smiled, "Don't tell me, in your dream, it had turned completely gray?"

"Well, not so severe, but close," Max chuckled and kissed her on the cheek.

Sarah returned to the pan with the eggs. Max got some bread out and put it into the toaster. All the time, he watched her, studied her every movement. He even listened to her exhale. Sarah made some two minute eggs and wondered about whether she and Max shouldn't get away... maybe to one of those quaint little Caribbean islands. He had been under so much pressure from those executives, who wanted to make his new play into a movie. She almost thought he should just scrap the whole deal so he could relax. After all, this was the seventh time in the last month Max had slept in his office, and he kept having these horrible nightmares.

Max opened the cabinet and got two plates out while Sarah retrieved the silverware. It was then that Gracie wandered down the stairs.

"Hello, sweetheart. Why are you up so early?" Sarah greeted her daughter.

"I couldn't sleep. I'm too excited about Laura's party this afternoon," Grace told her parents.

"Honey, her party isn't until one o'clock. Now go back to bed," Sarah calmly told Grace. "And stop being nervous. You will have the best dress; I'm sure of it."

Grace sighed and kissed her mother. "Okay, I'll go to bed..." Gracie looked up at her mother defiantly. "But only until eight."

"Deal," Sarah answered and turned back to her cooking.

"Love you both." Gracie called as she started up the stairs.

"I love you, too, darling," Max called to his little angel. He was relieved, because Grace had always gone to therapy on Saturdays at one, but Sarah was alive, so she wasn't in therapy. In fact, she had never been to a psychologist, because that had been in his dream. It had been a dream, but it had all been so real. Max was shaken from his thoughts by his wife's words.

"I thought 'darling' was my nickname." Sarah smirked as she spoke. Max walked over and slid his arms around her waist.

"No, yours is unbelievably gorgeous," he joked. Sarah set her stirring spoon down and turned around in his arms.

"Ummm, I suppose that will do." She kissed him and then they finished making breakfast. They set it up in the living room and talked about the day, while eating on the couch.

"I want you to relax more, honey. Since "Closing the Door" was optioned as a TV movie, you have been working around the clock," Sarah told Max in concern.

"What... what are you talking about?" Max remembered producing that earlier in the year. It had been a romantic play written by an undiscovered New York local. The audiences had loved it, but the critics had eaten it alive.

"Don't you remember? They called you two weeks ago after it opened." Sarah was really worried now. Max couldn't understand it; no television network would touch a script that critics hated, not even USA Studios.

"No, I don't seem to recall..." Max trailed off.

"You must still be suffering from that stress-induced amnesia," Sarah said rubbing his arm. Maxwell looked at her for help.

"Remember, the doctor said when things get really intense, some people literally forget all of their most recent activities." Sarah put her hand on his shoulder and slid it onto the back of his neck. 'How about forgetting the last eight years?' Max thought.

"I really worry about you lately. I want you to stay in today... ALL day. I don't want you to think about anything but relaxing, okay?" Sarah stared into his eyes, determined to make him listen. Max sensed his wife's troubled mind and put his arm around her.

"It'll be all right, I promise. I just need to get that dream out of my head," Max assured her. Sarah relaxed into her husband's comforting arms.

In walked Niles from under the stairs and smiled at the happy couple as they greeted him.

"I see you have already had breakfast. Shall I get you two anything before I take care of these dishes?" Niles asked picking up the empty plates.

"No, that's quite all right, old man," Max answered. Max kissed Sarah on the cheek and stood up. He picked up the glasses and followed Niles into the kitchen. Sarah leaned back into the couch and wondered if she was going to have another moment alone with her sweet Max all day.

Max and Niles set the dishes on the counter and Niles started washing them. "You don't have to help me, sir. I know you've been tired."

Max leaned against the counter top across from his best friend. "I need to ask you something, Niles. Did you ever have a problem with your heart?" Max spoke to him with a serious tone.

Niles looked very surprised. "Sir, I'm more concerned about your health these days, but no; I have a perfect bill of health. At least, as of my last doctor's appointment."

Max felt great; everything was right with the world. All that he had been tortured with had been a dream, a long, horrible dream, a fictional creation of his mind.

Just then the doorbell rang and Niles went to answer it. Max walked to the door a moment later as he heard C.C. say, "Hello, hello." Max smiled as his favorite business partner entered the house.

"May I take your coat, Mrs. Clark?" Niles said politely to C.C.

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Niles," she replied sweetly as he slipped off her coat and hung it in the closet.

"How is your husband?" Niles asked her. Max had an instant headache. 'When did C.C. get married?' he wondered.

"He is quite well," she told Niles courteously.

"You two are not arguing?" Max said out loud even though he hadn't meant to.

"Arguing? Why would I spend enough time with the help to argue?" C.C. looked at Maxwell as if he were out of his mind.

"And why would I engage in a conversation so trivial with Mrs. Clark?" Niles asked his boss. 'Boy, he is acting strange, lately,' Niles thought.

Max realized they were both completely unaware of what he was talking about. 'Sarah isn't dead. C.C. never got serious about coming after me. Niles couldn't make fun of her efforts. C.C. got married, therefore she isn't desperate, so there is no premise for his sarcasm.'

"Never mind," Max said flatly. He was surprised to see C.C. was very, very thin.... and married? Clark... Clark... why did that ring a bell? Then Max remembered the man had been a speaker at a benefit for cancer six or seven years ago. C.C. had liked him quite a bit, but she had been so preoccupied with Max; it being so soon after Sarah's death, that C.C. never saw him again. What was he talking about? Sarah was standing less than ten feet from him. Suddenly, Maxwell's headache turned into a migraine.

"Good morning, C.C." Sarah stood up and greeted her.

"What are you doing here so early? It's barely after seven."

C.C. walked toward the couch and addressed Max and Sarah. "Well, they called me at 5:30 this morning to see if Mr. Sheffield had read their most recent contract, because now they apparently want him to direct and produce the movie. I told them no, he hadn't and he wouldn't be able to contact them until tomorrow. So they give me this command to run over here and see if I could get you to agree to lunch today." C.C.'s tone was more than angry.

"I can not believe they said that to you. Didn't this guy know who he was talking to?" Max leapt to the defense of his partner.

"Really. I told him: 'You go back and tell your bosses that Maxwell Sheffield's secretary told you that his time is not only valuable but expensive and they could call me here during regular hours'," C.C. said and then leaned against the back of the couch, looking like her caffeine high from the coffee she drank had just ran out. Max was confused now. Since when was she just his secretary? and when did she call him Mr. Sheffield? Then it hit him: after Sarah died in his dream, she had started assuming a higher position in the company when he had fallen into depression... so that meant he had kept her as a secretary because he hadn't needed her to be anything else.

"Thank you, C.C. I suppose I should review that contract before they call. Do you know where it is?" Max realized he must be suffering from that amnesia, because he really couldn't recall anything about this deal; however, he did notice Sarah give C.C. a look of 'Yes, he really doesn't know.'

"They faxed it over to you yesterday, Mr. Sheffield. I'll go see if I can find it," C.C. said hesitantly and than started to the office.

"Don't bother. Maxwell fell asleep in his office while reading it last night," Sarah said and then sighed. "It should be right on his desk." Sarah was getting even more worried by the minute. 'If he can't even remember what he was doing last night...?'

"Perhaps I have been working too hard. C.C., I'll take a look at that contact, but after that I'm taking the day off. And I suggest you do the same. If they call back, tell them I have been called away on a personal matter and won't be able to reach them until tomorrow. Then hang up," Max instructed her. C.C. smiled; she rather liked the idea of hanging up on an important executive's secretary.

"What are you going to do today, sir?" Niles inquired. He hadn't seen such a fire in Max in a long time. Max walked over to his wife and pulled her into him. She laughed with this bold grip he had on her waist.

"I am going to spend the day with my family. Doing as little as possible," Max remarked while carefully staring into his wife's eyes. Max thought it best to relax before he got himself a trip to a mental hospital. And it seemed to work. He went over the contract, made some changes he hoped they would agree to, and had lunch with his children.

Unfortunately, they were different then Maxwell remembered them. Margaret was quite popular, but she was on the phone through half the meal with three people and didn't seem to care about what was happening in anyone's life except her own. Brighton was very intellectual and talked a great deal with Max, wanting to know all about this new contract and what he thought of it; however, he wasn't interested in girls or socializing at his age level, it appeared. And Gracie: she had friends and was a happy young girl, but she didn't think about anything very deep; just dresses, parties, and how her parents were the best people in the world. Frankly, she reminded him of a press agent more than a daughter. Just the same, to have a family meal with Sarah and the children all together put a smile on Max's face.

The rest of the day consisted of: seeing Gracie off to her party, helping Brighton with his piano lesson, eating dinner in a wonderful little French restaurant with Sarah, and ending the evening by enjoying the relaxation that can be experienced by watching a good old movie on AMC.

It was 8:56 PM and Max was lounging on the living room couch watching the news, when Niles walked in carrying some freshly cleaned linens. Sarah and the children had gone to bed, except for Margaret who was out to a late concert.

"How are you, sir?" Niles asked seeing how relaxed Max seemed despite the morning. Max looked up at his old friend and swirled his Brandy in its glass.

"Oh, I'm much better, old man. It's just I can't shake the feeling something is askew; just slightly off kilter." Niles examined his boss's expression and then smiled.

"Don't worry, sir," Niles replied heading up the stairs with the laundry basket, "Everything will be fine."

Max felt a chill shoot up his spine and suddenly he couldn't move. 'fine... Fine...FINE!!!' MISS FINE!!!!!!!!!!' His mind exploded with thoughts of Fran. Max dropped the wine glass to the floor, for suddenly he couldn't feel his hand. 'Oh, my Lord, Fran. FRAN! That's what's missing: Fran.' Max realized that having found his life in such wonderful order, he had tried to block out his dream. When every bad part had proven false, he had forgotten the good. Even as his mind forgot Fran, his heart hadn't; it had tugged at him all day and it had taken one word to remind him. 'Fran. Oh, Fran. The woman he was in love with, the voice that had driven him crazy for six years, the only person who could break down all his repression and all the walls he built.... was a dream? A fabrication of his mind? A mythical fantasy brought on by stress???' Max felt ill. He couldn't accept that eight years of life that he remembered so vividly had been a dream.

Max wanted Fran; he wanted to see her, hear her, touch her. He wanted to know where she was, what she was, did she remember him... but if she never existed to him, why would she even know who he was? Was she real... but she seemed soooo real. Max wanted to know what this was: had he just gone crazy, or was none of this real? What was real? He started to panic inside; his stomach twisted, his heart quickened, his mind hurt... it just ached with confusion and pain. It was too much. How could this happen? He leaned forward and supported his head with his hands. Max rubbed his forehead, but it felt like it was going to split into two.

"It doesn't make any sense!" he found himself yelling to no one. Someone heard him, though.

Sarah sat in bed watching CNN while waiting for Maxwell to come up stairs. It was a few minutes after nine when the faint sound of her husband's voice came creeping in the room from the slight opening between the door and the casing. Sarah stood and slid on her robe. She wandered down the front stairs to find Max gripping his head in pain. She rushed to him and knelt by her husband on one knee.

"Max, what's wrong?" Sarah asked as she rubbed his arm and noticing the wine glass on the floor, picked it up and set it on the table. Max looked at her in disbelief; he couldn't contemplate how real she seemed, because his mind told him she wasn't.

"I, uh, can't seem to get this nightmare out of my mind," Max said to the relief of his wife. She had assumed the worst, what with his stress problems lately.

"Come to bed, Max. You need a good night's sleep on something softer than your office chair," Sarah told him and then stood up. Max smiled weakly at her. 'Well, I'm not going to find out what's going on, if I can't keep my eyes open. Maybe it will make more sense in the morning.'

"All right, darling," Max replied. His back cracked with wear as he stood. Sarah took his arm and helped him up stairs. Max took a shower and came to bed, but he couldn't sleep. Things kept spinning around in his head. A little after eleven, Sarah fell asleep and Max watched her breathe. She seemed so at peace with her life, but Max couldn't remember the life she did. It was like being thrown into a life that mirrored his, yet was not quite HIS life. Max stayed there in his bed, trying to remember the events of the past eight years, the years Sarah, Niles and everyone else remembered, but it wouldn't come to him. Everything was the funeral, his children's problems, and Fran.

Max finally did fall asleep, but he was not to rest for a nightmare awaited him. Max fluttered his eyes, but he couldn't open them. All he could see was light: bright white light, coming from all directions it seemed. He couldn't move and found it difficult to breathe. Max was in pain; it was a horrible stabbing pain from what seemed like a point behind his eyeballs. It ached and he felt stiff and tired. All that he could hear was mumbling, but he couldn't see anyone, or even tell what they might have been saying. Then there was that beeping; it was loud and rapid. It echoed in his ears, threatening to deafen him. Soon, however, he became aware of someone shouting his name. "Max.... Max!" It called to him and seemed to pull on his hand slightly, but he couldn't see anything; just the light. Then the voice became louder and he could hear Fran clearly. Yes, it was Fran and she was begging him to answer her, but before he could, he was shaken from that place.

"Max, Max wake up!" Sarah said as she shook him.

"What? What happened?" Max blinked as he looked up at his wife and ran his hand over his face.

"Darling, you were moaning like you were in pain. Were you dreaming again?" Sarah asked, rubbing his arm gently. 'Yes,' Max thought, 'Yes, it must just have been a dream.' Yet a small part of himself wasn't convinced.

"I can't seem to sleep the night through, anymore," Max said as Sarah stroked his hair.

"All right, calm down... just close your eyes. I'm right here, okay?" Sarah soothed her husband.

Max felt safe with his wife at his side, but this place didn't make any sense. As much as he tried to convince himself it was reality, there was a air of illusion to every moment. Max finally closed his eyes and Sarah fell back to sleep.

Soon, however, Maxwell's eyes opened and he stared at the ceiling. He could not seem to find peace anywhere; asleep, thoughts of Fran seemed to poison his mind and slither into his dreams, and awake, his wife resting in his arms felt like slow torture due to the fact that this was not real to him. No matter what he did, no matter how softly familiar her touch, how gently honest her breath, or how sweetly true her perfume, this woman was not Sarah. Sarah had died eight years ago, and having her back and Fran gone just didn't sound right, let alone sane.

The clock changed numbers slowly and Max watched it. He had to tilt his head up slightly to see the clock on the night stand, but he didn't mind. After all, this was constant; this was natural. Time. Time was real. Time was impartial; it was honest. He found comfort in its tranquil order and simple uniformity of the numbers. It was a digital clock, of rectangle shape that bent into an 'L'; it was white with gold trim and gold buttons. It was pretty, but nothing you couldn't buy almost anywhere. Max didn't really notice the form though, he was concentrating on the numbers as they changed from four to five to six and so on. He noticed that 2, 3, and 5 had two pieces missing if one wanted to turn them into 8's; 4 had three missing, 7 had four missing, and 6, 9, and 0 had one missing. The patterns compelled him enough so that he watched minute after minute go by. His mind trying to stay active by playing this number game. Max focused on the clock as reality for to let his mind drift felt terrifying, almost like falling off a roof top into traffic below. Alas, soon his eyes grew weary and his mind unstable. Sometime after that sleep overtook him, but when was not clear, for he awoke the next morning exhausted and feverish.

Max was in his office now, quite frazzled because he wanted to figure out what was happening, but he didn't want Sarah or anyone else to worry. C.C. was pacing in the office on the phone with a backer.

"Yes... I understand, but Mr. Sheffield is not interested in having a partner..... No, no... thank you," C.C. told the man and hung up the phone. She then handed Max some messages.

"Two people wanted to get in on the company. The writer called to say she wants to be involved but wouldn't push for creative control. Oh, and your mother called to thank you for the tickets you sent her last week..." After those words, Max heard nothing more of what C.C. said. A moment later he picked up the phone and interrupted her.

"C.C. I need to make an important call could you take a break. Get yourself some coffee, perhaps," Max asked her sweetly, but urgently.

"Sure," she said and was out the door.

Max dialed the number without thought. He wanted to know, he needed to know.

"Hello?" Sylvia's familiar voice greeted him.

"Sylvia Fine?" Max decided to be apprehensive at first.

"Yes, who is this?" Sylvia asked between bites of a sandwich.

"I am an old friend of your daughter, Fran, and was wondering if I could speak with her. But you see, I don't know what she has been up to the last ten years," Max said. Ten was safe, he figured; it was even and casual. He knew he might have to lie to Fran, but he just needed to know she was happy; happy and in love with someone worthy of her. Then maybe his heartache would go away, maybe he wouldn't have those dreams, maybe it would all be okay.

"I'm sorry, I guess you were never told," Sylvia said solemnly.

"Told what?" Max didn't like her tone, it reminded him of his own voice just after Sarah had died. Max shook himself violently. 'Sarah is not dead. It wasn't real; you never had that tone, because she never died. You were never a widower.'

"My daughter, Fran, died nine years ago in a car accident," Sylvia said, wondering who this could be. Max collapsed into his chair. He couldn't feel anything. His heart was in his throat, he felt faint and couldn't breathe.

"I, I'm sorry... for your loss. Do, do you think you could tell me where she was buried? I would like to.. to pay my respects." Max's voice was breaking down to a whisper and he was not seeing clearly.

"Of course. She is at the old Jewish cemetery on the south end of Queens. Listen, if you ever want to come over, Morty and I would be happy to talk to you," Sylvia spoke gently. She was very concerned for this young man; after all he sounded so sweet.

"No, thank you. I just needed to know of her. We were quite close once." Max pictured her in his mind. 'Once in a dream.' "Good-bye, Mrs. Fine," Max said off-handedly.

"Good-bye," Sylvia responded and hung up the phone. Max held the receiver for the longest time and then hung it up. Max felt the pain cutting deep into his heart. He half expected his heart to come apart... into two parts. One for each love of his life.

This didn't make any sense. Why had Fran died? Because Sarah hadn't? But if that were true, why allow him to dream of her? Why put him through this pain, unless this wasn't real... but he could feel and touch here. Nothing was cloudy or intangible. It was like he was in a completely different reality. Max put his head into his folded arms and rested there for the longest time. Then he looked up at the various items on his desk. From his glasses, to his pictures, to his letter opener.

Max began to stare at his letter opener. Its blade was sharp and even and the handle was polished. It had the two faces on it, that of comedy and tragedy; the symbol of his profession. Then it clicked in his head. Maxwell looked at the faces with a revelation in his mind. 'Opposites, opposites or no.... a trade off.' That was it. It was a trade off; everything in this world countered the other. Sarah hadn't died, so Fran... And wait; if that was right, than it should apply to everything. Okay, C.C. was still a secretary; so she didn't have the career she always wanted, but she was happily married, when in his dream she had a career but no relationship. Then Niles: he doesn't have a heart condition, but he also doesn't have his 'hobby' of teasing C.C. The children were the same; they had their mother, but they didn't know anything outside their privileged lifestyle, because Fran had never exposed them to her street sense and Jewish logic. 'Well, at least now I can understand it, but how is it that I can't remember the last eight years here? I won't accept that I'm going crazy; that just isn't possible,' Max thought, but he knew it was entirely possible. At the very least Fran had lived, so he wasn't losing it completely, but why was he dreaming about a dead woman he had never met?

Just as Max was contemplating that, C.C. walked back in and stopped at the doorway. "Mr. Sheffield, Mr. Greenwood is here to see you for your two o'clock meeting. Shall I show him into the library?" C.C. informed him. Max jerked away from his thoughts as if from a trace and stood up.

"No, just bring him in," Max answered casually. A man came walking into the office a few moments later with C.C. fast behind him. He was smart-looking, very business-like, about Maxwell's height, and fairly fit.

"Mr. Sheffield, it is good to see you again. We met at the premiere three weeks ago," Mr. Greenwood told him matter-of-factly. Max shook his hand and then remembered. It was like a flash for somewhere distant, but he did remember the man... and the premiere... Sarah had been wearing a white silk gown with a necklace Max had bought her for an anniversary.... their nineteenth wedding anniversary. And he had been so nervous about the lead actress, but she had done a first rate job.

"Yes, of course I do. How are you?" Max inquired flatly, despite the roller coaster his insides were on.

"I'm quite well, thank you. To the business at hand, though, I want to invest in this venture and any others that you would care to show me," Mr. Greenwood said honestly. He knew a golden opportunity when he saw it. Max glanced at C.C. and smiled.

"Good, because my partner can you show the ins and outs of our current project and a potential new play," Max told him. "Unfortunately, I will be unable to attend. Something urgent just came up."

"Partner? I didn't realize you had a partner," Mr. Greenwood said with a bit of confusion.

"C.C. has been working for me for twenty years and I trust her to do of a great deal around here. Now why don't you two go out for lunch and she will take good care of you?" Max nodded toward C.C., who looked like she might faint.

"All right. I was a bit hungry," Mr. Greenwood agreed. He was pleased that Max was so sure of his business he would trust his secretary to sell it, that meant very profitable and self-selling, he figured. He shook Maxwell's hand again and left to get his coat.

"Mr. Sheffield, I would just like to thank you for..." C.C. started.

"Just go 'wow' him. I know you can close this deal," Max said and shooed her out of the office.

"Right." C.C. nodded on her way out the door. Max was once again alone in the office. He spent the next few hours trying to work, but he kept getting sidetracked.

As the memory of his life began to return, the memory of his dreams that used to be so clear began to become fuzzy. Max felt panicked; even if he couldn't explain the reasons why, he thought something was telling him not to forget. Suddenly, as if from one moment to the next, he couldn't remember where they were going when Sarah had died in the dream, but he could remember where they had gone that day the drunk driver had nearly hit them. Max thought it was the same place, but it refused to come to him. Then he knew what he had been doing yesterday, but he couldn't remember the last day of his dream. As things became more familiar here, his dreams became like fading ghosts in his subconscious.

Early in the evening Sarah came into the office. She looked ravishing as always and he stared at her as she spoke to him. "Max, are you going to stay in here for dinner or can we take the children out tonight?" Sarah asked as she walked around the desk.

"Dining out sounds like a great idea, darling. Why don't we go tell the children? I can finish this later," Max responded and closed up a folder he had been working with.

Sarah kissed him gently and whispered into his ear, "I love you."

Max smiled and stood up to hold her. "I love you, too, Sarah." She kissed him for a moment. Then she let go of him and walked to the doorway. Max started toward the door after her, when his whole body suddenly felt strange. The floor seemed to no longer have matter. Max couldn't tell if there was anything under his feet. Sarah heard him gasp and turned to look at her husband standing perfectly still with a faintness about him.

"Max?" Sarah inquired as she came to his side, but he could barely feel her touch through his dulling nerves. His arm was ablaze with a sparkler-like energy that pierced his muscles. Then, the heart that was growing weak from his lingering thoughts of Fran held itself still. Max dropped to the floor in shock more than pain. His body was frightened by the lack, even for an instant, of life. Sarah followed her husband to hold him as he shook with a tremor surging through the pathways of his circulatory system.

"Maxwell!" his wife shrieked. Max couldn't answer her. His breath was rapid and mind was beginning to cloud; Max managed to open his eyes with some clarity, but he could only see a vague silhouette of his wife before his vision clouded again.

After that, Max could make out precious little. His eyes closed as pain surged behind them and soon the hysterical screaming of his wife for Niles became murmurs. The searing pain in his chest became an ache and not long after he lost consciousness did it seem to go away completely.

His mind was scarcely alive, it seemed. Soon, however, Max began to feel cold. It was like air conditioning and then he could smell the combination of Clorox cleaner, medicine bottles and rubber tubing.

Max opened his eyes and saw darkness. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, he saw dim light pouring in from under a metal door and through a crack between the edge of the door and the casing. He looked around and realized it was a hospital room. There was a dull pain in his arm from where the IV had been attached. Max touched his head and felt a cloth soaked in cold water but it strangely felt luke-warm to his forehead.

The clock on the wall read 5:37AM and the Weather Channel Calendar next to it indicated it was Monday morning. It was then that Maxwell turned his head and saw a mass of brunette hair resting on the side of the bed near his other hand, which was being held by a familiar female hand. He smiled contentedly. It was Fran; it was really Fran. And with this realization, the fear in him fell away. He had his Fran, his lovely, funny Fran Sheffield, and she touched his family in a way that no one else could ever have touched them. An honest pain in his heart tugged at him to remember and Max sighed. 'Life is never fair,' Max thought, 'but at least here it makes sense.'

Max squeezed Fran's hand gently. Fran slowly awoke and raised her head dreamily. She blinked her eyes into conscious sight and was soon looking at Max, who was smiling at her. Fran jerked out of her sleepy state and sat up in her chair, that she had pulled up to the bed.

"Max?" Fran asked in bewilderment. Max didn't answer her; he let go of her hand and brushed his hand along her jaw and then through the side of her hair. Fran put her hand onto his and kissed the palm of his hand. Fran wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face into his shoulder. Max held Fran tight and breathed in her sweet perfume which had haunted him in his delirium. Fran pulled back and smiled as she examined his face, but her smile faded when she saw how truly relieved Max seemed.

"What's wrong, Max? Do you feel all right?" Fran wondered if he still had a bit of a fever. Max almost laughed at the irony.

"I had a bad dream," his voice cracked as Max spoke. Fran didn't have any idea what he meant by that, but her husband was going to get better and that was all that mattered to her. She ran her hand through his ever-growing gray streak and was content to see some color back in his face. Max studied her face, from her brown eyes which had enchanted him in Paris, to her lips, which hid a voice only a man in love could get over. Then a shiver of deja vu shocked his mind from Fran to the last several 'days'.

"What happened, Fran? Why am I here?" Max was now eager for reality. Fran looked down; thinking of that night's events which evoked a panic in her even now.

"You had fallen asleep working on the casting contacts. I waited up until midnight; when you didn't come to bed I got worried. I came into the office and tried to wake you up. I felt you forehead and you were burning up, so I called Niles. We ended up calling an ambulance and the medic said your temperature was 104. You were breathing strangely and your heart was erratic," Fran told him. Max heard everything she said, but couldn't believe it had been his body so near death. Just then a nurse came in and was startled to see Maxwell awake.

"Mr. Sheffield, how are you feeling?" she asked while checking his pulse.

"Well rested." Max smiled.

Grace came out of her therapist's office to see her parents waiting for her. Dr. Balk stood at the door and was surprised to see Maxwell in the office so soon after his release from the hospital. She was just about to walk back in the office when Maxwell greeted her.

"Dr. Balk, I was wondering if you had a moment?" Max asked with an urgent undertone in his voice. Dr. Balk grinned slightly; it was always a pleasure to talk to Maxwell, and not just so one could hear that wonderful accent.

"Come in," she said and closed the door partially behind him. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Well, I have been having trouble sleeping..." Max was trying not to sound like he had lost his mind. "And I wanted to know if you were trained in dream interpretation."

Dr. Balk could tell Maxwell didn't quite know what to do; after all a straight arrow like him having a dream that he couldn't understand but was keeping him up at night as it were. "I could recommend you to some colleagues of mine who specialize in sleeping problems: insomnia, strange dreams, that sort of thing," she offered.

"That would be wonderful, Doctor. Thank you," Max was relieved that he would be able to talk about this to someone. For the last few days, he had been almost afraid to fall asleep. Even with everything as it should be, Max had been compelled to write about it in his journal, and he found he could not look at a picture of Sarah without flashing back to that dream. And sometimes.. sometimes he would close his eyes and almost smell her perfume in his office.

"Then I woke up and I didn't know what had happened. Frankly, I thought I was going crazy until I saw Fran," Max said and rubbed Fran's hand. Fran smiled nervously, because she was in a state of shock. Max had been sitting in this high-rise office for the last four hours, telling a most vivid depiction of the dream he had experienced while in the hospital, deathly ill. The office was comfortable, she supposed; it had large windows that gave a panoramic view of New York and was full of green plants in porcelain pots and mirrors. There was a mirrored coffee table with little stone and wooden figures that reminded her of Native American artwork, along with another plant. The couch they sat on was black with evergreen pillows that matched the walls. Max was not at all comfortable despite the pleasing decor; he felt very uneasy telling his dream to anyone, especially his wife, for fear they would think he had lost it. On the contrary, though, Fran felt more endeared to him with every word, and she became mesmerized by the depth of his mind. Fran found she was gaining an understanding of this man who she loved, who she held every night, for now she could feel the pain he carried with him under her skin.

"Well, Mr. Sheffield, I must say if I were having your dreams I wouldn't ever want to go to bed. Fortunately, I can tell you that my diagnosis boils down to a simple quandary. You see, although my partner and I will review the various details, it seems to me that your subconscious has had one question festering in it for quite some time: What if things were different? The question so many of us ask ourselves every day manifested itself while you were at the mercy of your dreams; and since your wife's death was such an important, albeit, tragic event in your life, your mind chose that to change and then simply played everything else out to an end." Dede smiled to herself as she spoke. This man was by far one of the most interesting and complex characters she had seen in a long time.

"Now that your mind has some idea of what might have happened if your wife was still with us, I don't think you will be having any more dreams like that one. I would also want you to remember that some of your dream could be attributed to your fever and stress level. My best suggestion would be to reduce your hours, keep better track of your health, and try to accept that things are they way they are. If you want my personal opinion, you have been fortunate enough to find happiness twice and no one can say you didn't go through a great deal of pain for it; so if I were you, I would stop feeling so guilty for things that are not your fault." With that Dede stood up as did Mr. and Mrs. Sheffield.

"Thank you, Doctor. I will try," Max said shaking her hand.

"Good. I will report the rest of my results to you in a few days." Dede followed them out of the office and past her partner's office. Her partner stood at the doorway of her office and nodded to them as the loving couple continue toward the outside hallway.

"Good-bye," Max spoke causally as he left with his wife tight to his arm.

"Good-bye," Dede and her partner called to him. They then proceeded to the door to watch after the couple.

"Dede, anything about that seem weird to you?" her partner inquired, evidently she had been listening from her office by intercom.

"What do you mean, Marion?" Dede said answering her question with a question.

"Don't you remember one of the first things we were taught in psych. class?" Marion hinted.

"What?" Dede wished she had a photographic memory like her partner's.

"The right side of the brain controls reading," Marion explained.

"And the left controls the subconscious?" Dede nodded. "So you can't read in your dreams."

"So how did he read casting contracts?" Marion innocently completed her thought.

Dede and Marion stared at each other and then at the handsome millionaire and his beautiful wife as they got onto the elevator.

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