As mysteriously as it all started, the screaming went away and the next morning I married Oliver Jones - the Oliver Jones - and we just about lived happily ever after. To this day, I don't know why that happened to me. There was no foreseeable problem that I could articulate. I had a job waiting for me when I returned from my honeymoon. I was marrying the man of my dreams in a prototypical white clapboard New England church, and the reception - a lavish one with white-gloved waiters and Beluga caviar - was going to be held in my parents' backyard. I was barely nineteen, a straight-A student fresh out of Wellesley College and in 1976 that was still an accomplishment. I watched the lights come on in different houses - blue and yellow, blinking like Christmas - and wondered what was happening to me. We lived in a button-down suburb of Boston, and we were waking up the neighbors one by one. Even with my mouth closed, I continued - the high, shrill note of a nocturnal animal. My parents came into the room and put their arms around me they patted my head and smoothed my hair, fine, and I still couldn't stop screaming. The night before I got married I woke up, screaming, from my sleep.
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