The Sleep Experiment Read online

  Guru was eager to begin this journey as soon as possible, but he still had a long road ahead of him. It would be another two years before he completed his master’s degree, and four more years after that to become a chartered psychologist and gain his APA accreditation. On top of all this, he would need to spend another year or two in a fellowship program at the university to gain field experience. Only then—seven or eight years down the road—could he become a licensed clinical psychologist.

  Originally Guru’s dream had been to open a practice in California. However, he was now contemplating doing so in India, where he could also campaign for healthcare change at a grassroots level, for as he’d witnessed firsthand growing up, the country’s healthcare was in an abysmal state of affairs. Hospitals and community organizations were understaffed and underfunded. Policies focused on curative measures rather than preventive ones. And in many of the villages and smaller towns, therapy and counseling were virtually unheard of. Yes, he would only be one voice in a population of 1.3 billion, but change always had to start somewhere—

  “You there, doc?”

  Jumping at the unexpected voice, Guru hurried to the touch-panel controller. “Uh, hi. This is Guru speaking.”

  “Elvis!” Chad said. He was standing directly before the two-way glass, grinning.

  “Uh, yes, that is me.” He wasn’t yet comfortable using the intercom system.

  “You wearing your sunnies? I can’t see you in this mirror.”

  “My sunglasses?”

  “Yeah, mate.”

  “No, I do not wear my sunglasses at night.”

  “I wear my sunglasses at night,” Chad sang. “So I can, so I can…”

  Guru recognized the song and realized the joke was on him. He didn’t reply.

  Chad stopped singing and said, “Hey, mate, where you from? India, right?”

  “Yes, that is right. From a city named Dharamshala in the state of Himachal Pradesh. You might be interested to know the Dalai Lama’s residence is located there.”

  “No shit? Didya ever meet him?”

  “When I was a boy, yes. My class visited Tsuglakhang Temple while the Dalai Lama was present so we could listen to his preaching.”

  “Did he do any magic?”

  “Magic?” Guru frowned. “No. The Dalai Lama is but a simple Buddhist monk. He has no magical powers.”

  “I thought he healed people and shit?”

  “No, he could not even heal himself when he became sick and required the removal of his gall bladder.”

  “All right, mate. I hear ya. Hey, I have a question.”

  “About the Dalai Lama.”

  “Nah, nah. Food. Got any good recipes?”

  “I—no.” Guru shook his head, despite the fact the Australian couldn’t see him. “I am not a very good cook.”

  “Come on, mate. You gotta know something? We got all this food in here and neither Shaz or me know shit about cooking.”

  “I make a great brekky!” Sharon said, looking up from the book she was reading on her bed.

  “How hard is it to make bacon and eggs?” Chad remarked.

  “I can do more than that,” she protested.

  “Anyway, Elvis,” Chad said to Guru, “give me a recipe. Something really elaborate that will help pass the fucking time in this box.”

  “The only dishes I prepare at home are curries. If you would like, I could give you one of those recipes. I learned them from my mother.”

  “Curry, awesome! Like a vindaloo or butter chicken or something?”

  “That would depend on whether you prefer it to be spicy or sweet?”

  “Spicy, mate! The hotter the better.”

  “Do you have chili peppers?”

  “We got an entire fucking supermarket in here, mate. But let me check.” He went to the refrigerator. “Yup, got a whole package.”

  “Then check the pantry for these spices…”

  ◆◆◆

  Dr. Roy Wallis lived in the timeworn Clock Tower Building in San Francisco’s South of Market neighborhood. Built in 1907, the brick-and-timber structure covered two city blocks at Second and Bryant Streets. It once housed the operations of the Schmidt Lithograph Company, the largest printer on the West Coast. In 1992 it underwent a facelift when visionary capitalists transformed the cavernous space into over one hundred trendy lofts, all of which featured soaring ceilings, concrete columns, and factory windows.

  Wallis parked his bite-sized Audi TT in his reserved spot out back of the building and, forgoing the elevator to burn some calories, climbed the six flights of steps to the penthouse suite.

  Home sweet home, he thought as he stepped through the front door into the 3,000 square-foot space. The brick walls and cathedral ceilings with their exposed steel beams were remnants of the building’s industrial past, while Dr. Wallis’ extensive renovations—including floor-to-ceiling windows, skylights, polished slate floors, and a black-and-gray color scheme—lifted the apartment’s aesthetics into the twenty-first century.

  Wallis would never have been able to afford the digs on his teaching salary. His parents, however, had been wealthy, and when they died in a yachting accident twenty years earlier, he had inherited their nearly twenty-million-dollar estate. At the time, he had been living in a modest studio apartment in SoMa, which had been a ghost town then, filled with empty warehouses festooned with smokestacks, few restaurants, and not a single grocery store. When he heard the penthouse suite in the nearby Clock Tower Building was hitting the market, he toured it out of curiosity and fell immediately in love. Not only was it airy and spacious, but it included exclusive access to the three-story Clock Tower. Wallis gave Sotheby’s their asking price and moved in the next month. He had called it home ever since, and he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else in the city.

  Dr. Wallis hung his blazer on a wall hook, dumped his keys in a crystal dish on a table next to the door, then went to the bar, where he poured dark rum and ginger beer over ice, adding a slice of lime as garnish. He carried the highball outside to the twelve-hundred-square-foot wraparound deck, breathing the twilight air deeply. In the distance the downtown skyline glittered with lights, while the Bay Bridge appeared to magically hover above the fog-shrouded San Francisco Bay like a bejeweled necklace.

  He was about to light a cigarette when his phone rang.

  He withdrew it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, then answered it. “Are you downstairs stalking me?” he said. “You called as soon as I stepped in the door.”

  “You’re standing on your deck with a Dark ‘n’ Stormy and admiring the night view,” the female voice said.

  “How did you know that?”

  “I’m watching you.”

  Despite himself, Wallis scanned the windows of the buildings stretching away below him. “Am I that predictable?” he asked.

  “As predictable as a grandfather clock.”

  “Is that a shot at my age?”

  Brandy Clarkson laughed. “You look good for forty-one, Roy. Stop obsessing.”

  “I’m not obsessing.”

  “It’s all you talked about on your birthday.”

  His birthday had been a month ago. Brandy had been in San Francisco, and she’d taken him to a dumpling restaurant in Chinatown, where, admittedly, he’d made a fuss about how old he was getting.

  “You in town now?” he asked.

  “Came for a conference tomorrow morning.”

  He glanced at his wristwatch: half past ten. “I can meet you at Yoshi’s in twenty?”

  “I’m not in the mood for jazz. I thought we could have a quiet night for a change?”

  He was up for that. “You want to come over? Where are you staying?”

  “The Fairmont. I’ll grab an Uber and be there in fifteen.”

  Wallis hung up, finished his drink, then took a hot shower. He and Brandy had begun dating seven years ago, when he was thirty-four and she was twenty-one—and a student in one of his senior classes. After about three years
of exclusive dating, their relationship became serious. Too serious for him, and he broke it off, much to Brandy’s dismay. She moved south to Menlo Park and got a job with Facebook as a behavioral data analyst. He didn’t see her again for two years until they randomly bumped into one another during happy hour at the View, a lounge on the thirty-ninth floor of the Marriot, where they had often hung out when they were a couple. They had a few drinks together, reminisced, and ended up sleeping together. Since then they’d been hooking up whenever she was in the area, which was usually once a month or so. Twenty-eight now, Brandy was more of everything—independent, confident, sophisticated—and Wallis enjoyed her infrequent company.

  Nevertheless, he was forty-one. He couldn’t keep up his bachelor lifestyle forever, and he found himself thinking more and more about finding a proper girlfriend, someone he could spend each night with, build a future with.

  He toweled off, shaved, dressed in black, and was pouring a second drink when Brandy knocked. He’d left the door unlocked and called out, “Come in!”

  “Hello, my lovely!” Brandy sang, stepping inside, smiling radiantly. Holding a bottle of champagne in one hand, and a black handbag in the other, she closed the door with her tush.

  “You look great,” Wallis said.

  “Thanks!” she said, crossing the living room, heels clicking on the slate, blonde ringlets bouncing against her shoulders, blue eyes sparkling. Flamenco-red lipstick matched the color of her dress, which clung to her breasts and hips and flaunted her long, tanned legs.

  She planted a kiss on his lips.

  “Mmmm,” she said. “You smell good. I like that aftershave.”

  “You smell good too,” he said. “Didn’t I buy you that perfume?”

  “You did indeed. Miss me?”

  “I always miss you.”

  She pouted. “You do not. Otherwise you never would have dumped me. Here.” She offered him the champagne.

  “What’s the occasion?” he asked, taking it and reading the label.

  “Duh?” She slapped him playfully on the chest. “The first day of your big secret experiment you won’t tell me anything about!”

  “I mentioned it at my birthday…?”

  “You did indeed, Mr. One-Too-Many-At-Dinner. And I do listen to you, Roy, believe it or not. I’m not just in this farce of a relationship for the sex.”

  Wallis led Brandy to the kitchen. He filled two flutes with champagne, then laid out a spread of red grapes, rye crackers, and goat cheese on the granite island.

  “To the Sleep Experiment,” he said, raising his glass.

  Brandy tapped. “May it not be a snoozer.”

  “Touché,” he said, sipping. The bubbly tasted light, fruity, and refreshing.

  “So tell me about it,” she said. “Are you hiding peas beneath a mattress in the hopes of finding your perfect princess-bride?”

  “I’m studying the effects of sleep deprivation,” he said simply.

  She stared at him. “Is that it? That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

  “There’s not that much to it—”

  “Oh, come now, Roy! You were just as cagey on your birthday! What’s the big secret?”

  “There is no big secret,” he said. “I’m observing the behavior of two test subjects as they function without sleep.” He shrugged. “And there’s an experimental gas involved…”

  “Here’s the juicy stuff I wanted! What kind of gas?”

  “A substituted amphetamine, which is to say, a class of compounds based upon the amphetamine structure.”

  “I didn’t know you could inhale amphetamines?”

  “The method is much preferable to taking pills because the subjects never miss a dose, and the gas is administered directly to the lungs, which limits systemic absorption, which limits side effects. In fact, I have so far observed zero negative central nervous system side effects in any of my clinical trials.”

  “Zero side effects? There are always side effects.”

  He shook his head. “Even administered in high doses, the gas has caused no neurotoxic damage to brain cells. I’ve only tested it on animals thus far, of course. But imagine, Brandy, if the human trials are successful—”

  “You’re going to have armies of meth-heads roaming the country!”

  He shook his head again. “Unlike methamphetamines, the gas doesn’t act upon serotonin or dopamine neurotransmitters. It provides no rush or euphoria. No addiction or withdrawal. No anxiety, depression, paranoia, or psychosis. You just…don’t sleep.”

  “Like…for how long are we talking here?”

  “Days.” He shrugged. “Weeks.”

  Brandy appeared incredulous. “Bullshit, Roy.”

  “As long as you’re inhaling the gas, you won’t sleep. It’s as simple as that.”

  “But we need sleep. You, me, everybody! You can’t just not sleep.”

  Dr. Wallis smiled. “That hypothesis, Brandy, is what I intend to challenge over the next twenty-one days.”

  ◆◆◆

  Dr. Roy Wallis fielded several more questions from Brandy before steering her off the conversation and into the bedroom. Their sex was always loud, creative, and a little dangerous.

  Straddling her on the bed now, Wallis peeled the red dress over her head and feathered her naval with kisses. She gripped tufts of his hair and thrust her pelvis into his. He slid his hands beneath her back and unclasped her bra—

  There was a knock at the door.

  Wallis straightened, wondering who it could be.

  “Expecting company?” Brandy asked, smiling mischievously.

  He shook his head. “Wait here.”

  Wallis crossed the penthouse, buttoning his shirt.

  Who the hell would be coming by at this hour?

  He paused at the front door. There was no peephole. He’d been planning on installing a security camera but hadn’t gotten around to it.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Roy? It’s Brook.”

  Shit! he thought. Why was she here—?

  They’d made plans the week before, only he’d completely forgotten about them.

  Knowing he could not leave her standing on his doorstep, he opened the door and greeted her with his best smile. She smiled back.

  “Hi!” she said.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Physically, Brook Foxley was diametrically opposed to Brandy Clarkson. Her black hair was cut in a short, straight bob. Her dark eyes possessed a skittish reticence. Her pale skin looked as though it had never been touched by the sun. She had none of Brandy’s curves, but her svelte figure was somehow equally feminine, and she looked stunning right then in a silk blouse, skinny jeans, and nude heels a shade or two lighter than her beaded clutch.

  Personality-wise, Brook and Brandy were also opposites. Brook was watchful, reserved, playful in a friendly manner. She was not one to immediately catch your eye, but somehow she became more beautiful each time you saw her.

  Brandy, in contrast, was a flirt. She flaunted her sexuality, weaponized it to her advantage. When Dr. Wallis took her out, he practically shared the date with her phone. She insisted all the messages and emails were work-related, but he never really knew for certain. And when she wasn’t on her phone, she was telling him about some celebrity or Silicon Valley so-and-so she had met at a gala dinner or yacht party or glitzy function. Her life was glamorous, narcissistic, exciting…and empty. She was an outsider relentlessly searching for a way into a world to which she didn’t belong and would likely never be accepted, relentlessly positioning herself to be in the right place at the right time for that Big Break to transform her life, relentlessly searching for the quickest way up the social ladder, morals and happiness and empathy for others be damned.

  She was, in fact, Wallis to a tee.

  “I tried calling you,” Brook said, smiling uncertainly, “but your phone was off.”

  “The battery was low all day. It must have finally run out,” he said, remaining squarely in the
doorway as his mind searched madly for a way out of the mousetrap he found himself in.

  Sensing something was up, Brandy’s eyes flicked past him. “I hope I’m not intruding…?”

  “No, not at all…” he said. “Well, actually…”

  The silence that followed spoke volumes.

  “I see, I’m sorry,” Brook said. “I shouldn’t have just stopped by… But last week we made a date for tonight. You wanted to celebrate your new experiment…”

  “I know, and I did—I do—want to celebrate…with you,” he said, fumbling for the right words. “It’s just that I’ve been so busy, and the date slipped my mind—”

  “What’s going on out here?”

  Dr. Wallis’ stomach dropped at the sound of Brandy’s voice. He turned to find her crossing the room wearing nothing but her lacy white lingerie.

  “Oh!” Brook said, her eyes meeting Wallis’ before faltering to the floor. Yet in that brief moment he read in them heartbreak—the same sensation squeezing the inside of his chest. “Goodnight,” she mumbled, and retreated down the staircase.

  “Brook!” he called after her.

  She continued without stopping. He almost called her name again but didn’t. What was the point? She wouldn’t return, and even if she did, what would they talk about with Brandy standing in the living room in her thong and bra?

  Brandy.

  Goddammit.

  Wallis stepped back inside, closed the door, then focused his frustration on his on-and-off-again fling, who now stood at the kitchen island, sipping her flute of champagne.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” he snapped.

  “She didn’t have to leave,” Brandy said. “I haven’t had a threesome in, oh, far too long.” She was acting nonchalant, her tone was conversational, but Wallis could tell she was pissed off, and he realized he wasn’t the only one with a right to be upset.

  He sighed. “Why didn’t you just stay in the bedroom? I would have gotten rid of her.”