Chapter 8

Brian was rudely awakened by the sound of his alarm clock. He groped for it and switched it off. "Debra," he said, "time to get up." He realized he was alone in bed.

"Debra?" he called. He found her huddled in a chair in his living room, the blanket from his closet covering her to her chin. "Debra -- are you all right?"

"Oh, Brian -- I had another horrible dream -- the most horrible of all. I know it isn't rational. I know it isn't real -- but it has upset me terribly."

"Why didn't you wake me so we could talk it through?"

"I don't know. I was so upset I couldn't sleep so I came in here."

"How long have you been sitting there?"

"Since three."

"Three hours?" He coaxed her from the chair and held her on the sofa, the blanket still wrapped around her. "Tell me about this horrible dream."

"This one had Aunt Gemma in it. I don't remember the details. I remember she was scolding me for masturbating ... telling me it'll be my fault if I had an accident ... Then, the next thing I remember is that you were giving Aunt Gemma..."

"Hold on," Brian replied. "You know this is total bullshit. You have to KNOW it, Debra."

"I know it ... but it upset me."

"This stuff is coming from your subconscious," he said.

"I know ... Maybe it's good that I'll be sleeping in my own bed for a few nights. Maybe some of this will work itself out."

"I hope so. Come on -- we have to have breakfast and then get your stuff packed up so I can drop you off and get to my job."

Brian stopped his car alongside number 325. He leaned and kissed Debra on the lips. "I'll call," he said.

"It's a busy week for me," she replied. "Maybe that's good -- it'll keep my mind of my stupid dreams."

"We'll plan on something for next weekend, then. I'll give you a call to firm up details. Okay?"

"Okay."

He kissed her again. She stepped out of the car and carried her laptop case and bag into the house.

Brian looked at the time on his computer. It was Friday, 4 PM. He picked up his desk phone and punched in Debra's cell number.

Hello?

"Debra -- it's Brian. You must've been busy this week -- I haven't heard from you."

Yeah -- I've been really busy.

"I wanted to firm up plans for this weekend."

Oh, Brian -- I think it would be better if we don't see each other this weekend.

"Is something wrong? This doesn't have to do with your crazy dreams, does it?"

I can't talk about it over the phone.

"I'll swing by after quitting time and we can talk."

Kaycee will be here. I can't talk about it in front of her.

He let out a sigh. "Then I'll take you in the car somewhere and we'll park and talk."

"I don't know..."

He sighed again. "Debra -- we can solve problems if we work on them together. Okay?"

Okay...

"I'll see you between five and five-thirty."

Okay.

Brian drove to the house on Orchard and rang the bell. Kaycee answered. "Oh, Brian -- I am so glad to see you." She lowered her voice. "Something is wrong with Debra. She won't talk to me about it. Maybe you can work it out of her."

"I'll try," he replied. He stepped inside. "Debra," he called.

She stepped from her room. "Hi..."

"Let's take a drive."

Brian led her to the car, started the engine and put it in gear. He drove until he found an empty parking lot halfway between his apartment and her bungalow. "Now," he said as he parked the car. "What's wrong? Have you been having more bad dreams?"

She nodded.

"What about?"

"Aunt Gemma," she replied. "She haunts me in my dreams."

"Is this the same wacko dream you had Sunday night?"

"No ... Different ones ... You're not in it. I've had the same dream every night."

"Can you tell me about it?"

She shook her head. "It's so humiliating."

Brian took her hand. "Debra -- I won't conceal anything from you. If we're to make this work, you can't conceal anything from me. How can I help you if I don't know what's bothering you?"

"I was thinking we should break up ... except the damage already has been done. I still like how I feel when we're together..."

"Damage? What damage?"

"I'm so ashamed..."

"Ashamed of what?"

She struggled in vain to contain tears. "I've started wetting the bed again."

He regarded her, slack-jawed. "When did it start?"

"Monday night ... It's happened every night since then. Oh, Brian -- I had to go out and buy a waterproof mattress cover."

He put his arm around her. "This doesn't bother me, Debra."

"It would bother you if you were in bed with me when it happened."

"Is this why you wanted to call off our weekend?"

"Yes," she blubbered. "It's the real reason I got out of bed Sunday night. I woke up just in time -- a couple more minutes and ... and I would've disgraced myself ... I was afraid to go back to sleep." She sobbed. "And my dreams -- Aunt Gemma taunting me ... telling me she knew it would happen. Saying, I told you so! I told you so!"

"Are you saying the bed-wetting has to do with your orgasms?"

"No ... with masturbation. How else do you explain it? I started masturbating and then I started wetting the bed."

"Are you saying that it's my fault?" he asked.

"Yes ... maybe ... a little ... Oh, Brian -- I don't want to be the sort of person who blames others for my own bad decisions. I did it of my own free will. Aunt Gemma warned me. She warned me over and over." Debra buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

"That is bullshit," he replied. "Utter bullshit."

"It's too much of a coincidence.

"I can't believe it has anything to do with self- pleasuring," he replied.

"Freud believed it. I found the citation online -- his case study of Dora. Dora was a twenty-something bed-wetter who'd been a compulsive masturbator since the age of six."

"Since the age of six?"

"Freud blamed it on her masturbation. I remember the quotation -- 'Bed-wetting of this kind has, to the best of my knowledge, no more likely a cause than masturbation.' Those are his exact words."

"Freud is bullshit," he replied. "His opinions are based on hundred-year-old beliefs and attitudes. Much of his writing has since been repudiated. He believed women craved sex because of penis envy. It's bullshit. If anything, I have clitoris envy. I'd give anything to know what your orgasms feel like."

"But, Aunt Gemma..."

"Aunt Gemma was bullshit, too," he replied. "An orgasm is an orgasm -- whether it's self-inflicted or achieved at the hands of another. Millions of women have orgasms and there isn't an epidemic of bed- wetting."

She sniffled and rubbed her eyes. "How can you love someone like me? Brian -- I am so fucked up. I don't think I'll ever be a whole and sane person. This is driving me crazy."

"Debra ... Debra ... Look at me." She turned her face. "I'm in this with you for the long haul. If this is the biggest problem we'll need to solve together -- we'll be getting off lucky. I think you should see a doctor -- find out what's the root problem of this."

"I can't see a doctor," she wailed. "How can I go to a doctor and tell him I'm a bed-wetter?"

"I'm sure they've dealt with more embarrassing conditions."

"Can't you give me some time? Please? Can't you let me see if this resolves itself on its own? Maybe all I need to do is to assimilate all this. It's all so new to me, Brian. It's all so strange."

"Maybe it is simply a self-fulfilling prophecy," he replied. "Maybe time will resolve it. I want you to know that I'm on your side. I have your back, Debra -- and I will help you. I'm with you for how long it takes. Understand?"

"Understood."

"Good." He leaned to kiss her when he heard a rap on his door. He looked in his rear-view mirror and saw headlights from a car that had parked behind his. A glance through his window revealed a police officer.

He rolled down his window. "What's going on in here, folks?" the cop asked.

"We were having a conversation in private," Brian replied.

The officer examined the interior of the car with his flashlight. "Can I see your driver's license?" he asked. "M'am?"

Brian dug his license from his wallet and handed it over. Debra proffered her student ID. The officer examined them with his flashlight. "Do you have a license?" he asked Debra.

"No -- I'm legally blind. I can't drive."

"You know if you go to the DMV you can get a state-issued ID."

"So I've heard," she replied. The officer returned her student ID.

"I'm going to run this," he said to Brian and held up his license. "It'll take a couple of minutes."

The officer returned to his squad car. Brian looked toward Debra. "It figures," he said. "This is just my luck. He probably thought we were a couple of teens looking for a lover's lane ... or maybe doing or dealing drugs."

"Why is he running your license?" Debra asked. "What does he think you've done? We haven't broken any laws ... have we?"

"It's routine with any stop," Brian replied. "I have a cousin who's a cop in Indiana. He has some stories to tell at family reunions."

The officer returned and handed Brian his license. "You two had better move on. This isn't a good part of town to be parking in after dark."

"Yes, officer," Brian replied. He rolled up his window, started his engine and put the car in gear.

He turned and headed back toward Orchard street. "Debra -- I mean it. I will help you. If you need anything, call."

"I will Brian. I'm so sorry. I'm so fucked up."

"It's all right, Debra ... it's all right. Two steps forward, one step back. I thought things were going too smoothly."

He pulled to the curb at the bungalow. Debra stepped from the car and headed into the house. He was putting the car in gear when he heard his name.

Brian rolled down the window. Kaycee stuck her head inside. "She's not going home with you?"

"Not tonight," Brian replied.

"Did you figure out what's wrong?"

"She has some issues we're working through."

"You two are still engaged ... aren't you?"

"We didn't discuss breaking it, so yes I assume so."

"You assume so?"

"I assume so. Debra needs some space, Kaycee. She needs to work things out in her head. Pressing her would be counterproductive."

Kaycee nodded. "Understood. I'll keep my big butt out of your business."

"Thanks, Kaycee."

Brian sat at his desk on Monday. He felt his Blackberry vibrate and he answered the call. "Hi Debra. Good to hear from you."

Brian -- I need some place to be tomorrow night.

"What -- do Kaycee and Dug have a hot evening planned?"

Exactly.

"You're welcome to crash at my place. You're always welcome. Maybe we can do Chinese takeout. You like that."

Yes -- I'd like that.

"Are you having any luck resolving that little problem we discussed?"

No. Not so far.

Brian let out a sigh. "Maybe it is time to talk to a professional."

I'll come around to that eventually -- if it's necessary. Brian -- I know you're patient. You've been so patient with me so far. I need you to be a little more patient with me, now.

"Okay. I'll swing by tomorrow after work." He cancelled the call.

Brian rang the bell at the bungalow. Debra stepped onto the porch. "Have a good time," she called to Kaycee. She set her overnight bag and a paper sack behind the passenger seat.

"What's in the bag?" Brian asked.

She looked his way. "Depends."

"Depends on what?"

She sighed. "No -- the product Depends." He made a silent Oh. "At least I'll keep your sheets dry. I wish I had thought of it sooner."

"Oh, Debra -- to think of you resorting to that. You've had no luck resolving this?"

"None so far," she said.

"Debra, I've done my own literature search on the topic. Not one of the articles I read --modern articles written in the past ten years -- mention orgasm or masturbation as a cause. Not one."

"I think," she interrupted him, "that it will be for the best if we ignore my little problem and try to carry on as friends."

"As friends and not lovers?" he asked.

"I need a break from love and sex and orgasms."

"I won't stop loving you, Debra. I can't."

She patted his hand. "I know, Brian. I love you, too. I just need a break. I need breathing room. Okay?"

"Okay..." He put his car into gear and drove to a strip mall. "I'll just run in and pick up dinner. I ordered General Tsao chicken for you."

"Thanks."

"And, I have some Molsons Canadian on ice at the apartment." He stepped out of the car and returned with a paper sack. He set it on the floor behind his seat. Then, he started the car and drove to his apartment building.

He scooped from carryout cartons onto plates and set one before Debra. Then he put a fork at her setting and withdrew a pair of black, enameled choptsticks from a drawer for himself. He opened two bottles of Molsons, poured them into glasses and set one before her and one by his place.

Debra sipped some Molsons and picked at her dinner. Brian regarded her. "What's the matter? I thought that was your favorite."