| Aftershocks | Commitment | The Memo | One of Us |
The really scary things always happen when she's asleep. When she's out of control - during the rare moment in which she finally relaxes - that's when things happen.
It's surprising that she still longs for sleep above all other drugs. Surprising she isn't an insomniac.
Marilyn Monroe could never sleep. Her troubles, her fears, her anxieties, they kept her up, pacing, talking on the phone. In the early mornings, with burning eyes she'd finally relent and reach for the bottle of pills. She'd sink into the recess, free from the marauding hands of shadowy stepfathers. Blissful sleep.
But that was Marilyn's problem, not hers. No, she can fall asleep almost anywhere. Often in the warm afternoons, at work or sitting in traffic in her car, she begins to think about her soft, flannel sheets, her feathery pillows, and her eyes grow heavy.
If she's at home she lies down, only for few a minutes. She lies opposite to the way she sleeps at night. Her head at the foot of the bed, hanging off, uncomfortable.
I'll read, she says. But soon she's drooling on the comforter. An hour later - for she can never nap longer than an hour - she opens her eyes, relieved that it's still light.
She prefers to awaken in the light. When, by chance she awakens at night, in the dark - if her bladder is full, or a truck rumbles by, or a tidal wave chases her along a nightmarish beach - she is afraid. She lies listening, trying to distinguish the friendliness from the enmity of the apartment's creakings.
Because night is when the scary things always happen.
Her mother had been patient with her bed wetting. Her mother had been
known to change the sheets three times in a night when she couldn't stop
vomiting - for no reason. Sometimes she'd even let her sleep on the grown
up bed with her. But not very often.
Once, after the earthquake, her mother had let her sleep in the double
bed for a week. That night, when the house had begun to rock, and she
had almost been propelled from her bunk onto the floor, before she was
even awake - that night had changed the way she slept forever.
A 6.9. Not the big one, her mother had said, and let her sleep in the
double bed for a week. Afterward, for years afterward, she had lain in
the dark mornings - listening. Listening for the sounds of the pigeons
fluttering in the eaves. Animals always knew, her mother had said. Precognitive
pets. They understood the sensation of impending disaster.
If the cat was curled at her feet and the pigeons were cooing, she was
safe. But often the cat was out hunting the silently hiding pigeons.
She held her breath.
Creak, went the bed as her sister turned around on the bottom bunk. Whoosh
went a car on the street. Crunch went footstep in the leaves outside her
window.
The sun would creep in slowly while she held her chest tight. And then
maybe she'd hear it. Coo, coo. A low moan. The pigeons.
Only then could she breathe in, turn on her side and finally go back to
sleep. Safe once more.
But that had been years ago, when she was still a child. She had learned
to sleep through the night since then. Mostly. Mostly it was okay to trust.
Besides what could you do, she thought? She couldn't lock your door against
nature. Get a good night's sleep. Stop listening for every little creak.
You're too old to leave the light on all night. Marilyn didn't leave the
light on.
Now what? She awakens in the dark. There is no noise. No creaking. Nothing.
She opens her eyes. It's completely dark.
But that's wrong somehow. She opens her eyes again. Black. But next to
her, right next to the bed, is a space somehow darker, denser. An outline.
An outline of a man she thinks as her mouth opens reflexively to scream.
His hand is faster. Scream and you're dead, he says muzzling her. It's
then that she splits in half.
Half of her lies in the bed, pillow over her face, stranger between her
legs. Half of her thinks about work the next day, about how many knives
are in the kitchen drawer, about dying.
When he has disappeared back into the dark, half of her stands trembling,
unable to find the emergency number. Fumbling to turn on every light in
the house. She thinks, where is my cat?
After the hospital, after the police, after the night is over and the
sun begins to rise, half of her comes home.
She methodically surveys the room. She picks up the tampon which he'd
ripped out and thrown against the wall. She sponges away the brownish
smear its left. She bundles the sheets and sleep-walks to the trash can.
Half of her drives to her mother's house and stays for a week. A week
of lying in the dark waiting for sleep that doesn't come.
Marilyn wore a black shade over her eyes to sleep. The slightest bit of
light would inflame her insomnia like saltwater in a cut. But she wasn't
Marilyn.
She keeps the light on in the hallway. She bought a night light for her
bedroom. She has a flashlight next to her bed - the way they always tell
you to, in case of earthquakes.
She naps often. She's tired from her restless, nocturnal vigil. With her
feet at the head of her bed and her head hanging off the bottom, she tells
herself she'll sleep a couple of hours. To make up for the previous night.
But she n-ever could nap longer than an hour. She awakens unrefreshed,
relieved its still light.
If perchance she awakens in the night - suddenly from a dream, or from
her cat curling into another position - she lies with her heart pounding
in her chest. Pounding so hard it feels as if the bed is rocking. Pounding
so hard the blood in her ears is deafening.
Anxiety attack, her doctor says. This is useless information on the nights
when it happens. When she lies straining to listen to the creaking, and
the rustling, and the whoosh. When the blood finally subsides and she
lies exhausted, longing for sleep, knowing for her it won't come until
morning. Not tonight.
Because night is when the scary things always happen.
Aftershocks © Suzanne Rush 2001 - First published in "youtalkingtame?" "Totally Made-Up Stories"
