Eye of Flame (20 page)

She sat up. The room was as it had been; the little girl was gone.

Christine pressed her hands to her face. She had never had delusions; even during the worst days of her illness, she had never seen things that weren’t there. Depression had been her affliction, and despair, and guilt.

She rushed from the room and was halfway down the stairs before she had time to think. Her mother would only evade a confrontation, and there was no one else to help her.

Christine climbed the front steps, reached into her purse, and removed the key she had taken from the kitchen wall that morning; she had parked her car in front of a house farther down the street. Her mother would not be expecting her; Christine had said that she was going to the mall to see Toni.

Opening the storm door, she propped it against her back while inserting the key, turning it slowly so that the lock would not snap, then pushed the door open. After closing both doors, she took off her coat and put it on the entry-way’s wooden bench with her purse, then slipped off her shoes.

The living room was a beige desert, its modular furniture unstained, its only oases of color two potted plants and a Picasso print over the fireplace. Her stockinged toes curled against the thick, pale rug. She could hear nothing; she knew where her mother was.

She moved stealthily through the dining room and toward the back of the house, stopping when she reached the staircase. Her face was flushed; she pressed icy fingers to her cheeks. She had often sneaked up the stairs when she came home late from dates, always able to avoid the steps that creaked. She set her foot down on the first, skipping the second, holding on to the banister.

When she reached the next floor, she could hear the voices; the door to her room was ajar. She moved toward the crack of light, the wood under her feet was hard and cold. The child said, “I’m going to be the best, Mommy. I’m going to be the best at everything.”

Christine thrust the door open violently; it bounced against the door stop. The little girl, still dressed in overalls, looked up; she was kneeling on the floor, her arms around Mrs. Matthews’s legs. The older woman sat in a rocker; she gazed past Christine, her gray eyes empty.

“Mother,” Christine said. The woman’s face seemed even paler now, her hair more silvery. “Mother.”

The child stood up slowly. “Leave her alone,” the little girl said. “You can’t have her. She’s mine. She’ll always be mine.”

“Mother, listen to me.” Mrs. Matthews stirred slightly at Christine’s words. “You have to come away from here.”

“She gave you everything,” the child said. “She did everything for you, and you failed. But I won’t.”

“Mother, come out of this room.”

“It’s too late,” the little girl said. “It’s too late. You can’t change anything now. You can’t say you’re sorry—it won’t help.” She grabbed the older woman’s hand. “She’s mine.”

Christine looked around the room, the monument to her past. She strode to the wall, pulled off a framed photograph, and smashed it on the floor. “This isn’t me now. You should have thrown all this out years ago.” She pulled down another photo, then hurled the National Merit certificate against the wall.

“Chrissie.” Her mother was standing now. Christine took a step toward her, then noticed that Mrs. Matthews was gazing down at the child. “May I go with you now?”

The little girl smiled. “Yes. We’ll never come back, never.”

“No,” Christine cried.

“I need her now,” the child said. “You don’t.” She tugged at Mrs. Matthews’s hand, leading her toward the corner next to the closet door.

Christine darted after them, stepped off the floor, and was surrounded by fog. “Come back!” The gray formlessness swallowed her words; the thick masses pinned her arms to her side. She could feel nothing under her feet. “Mother, don’t go.” The mists parted for a moment, revealing a distant room, a tiny canopied bed, the small figures of a little girl and a woman in a blue housecoat. “I need you, too.” The fog closed around her again, imprisoning her.

Hands gripped her shoulders; she was being pulled back. She flailed about, stumbled, and found herself leaning against the closet door, clinging to someone’s arm.

“Chrissie. Chrissie, are you all right?”

Christine raised her head. A woman was with her. She wore a long housedress; her face was Mrs. Matthews’s. But her blond hair was only lightly sprinkled with silver and her gray eyes were warm.

“I’m fine,” she said, letting go of the woman’s arms.

“I hope so. You look a little pale. I thought I’d find you here.” The woman waved a hand at the wall. “Maybe I can help you decide what to take with you—I’ll just store these old things in the attic otherwise.” She poked at the broken glass on the floor with one toe, then tilted her head to one side. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Christine managed to nod her head.

“Good. I’d better get dressed so we can get started. I wish you could stay longer—I do so enjoy having you home.”

Before she left the room, Christine leaned for a moment against her new mother, the one who, through some slip in possibility, would understand and forgive, the one she had always wanted.

The Leash

Carla was half-awake when she heard the mournful moan, the sound of a man in torment. The mattress shifted under her as the moan became a shriek. Clutching at the blanket, she struggled to sit up.

Ted was having a nightmare. She reached toward him; he let out another cry, sat up suddenly, then bolted from their bed. He landed on his feet and leaped toward the door, covering the floor in two bounds. “Who’s there?” he muttered. “Whazit—who’s there?”

Carla squinted, barely able to see him in the dim blue light of their digital clock. “No one’s there,” she said wearily. “It’s all right, you’re only dreaming. Come back to bed, it’s all right, you’re safe.”

“Can’t you hear it? Someone’s out there.” He yanked the door open with such force that she was afraid he might pull it from its hinges.

“No one’s there,” she said more firmly. “Everything’s fine.” He swayed uncertainly, then stumbled toward the bed, mumbling under his breath as he collapsed next to her. She stretched out again and waited until his even breathing told her he was sleeping soundly.

Carla folded her arms, embracing her resentment. Ted not only talked in his sleep, but he also walked, alerted her to imagined dangers, debated with her, and made broad jumps across the bedroom that might have won him medals in track and field events had he been able to make them while conscious. He never remembered anything about his nocturnal activities, however much they disturbed her. He had slept quietly enough for several months with only an occasional indistinct murmur. She had believed he had overcome his somnambulism at last, but during the past week, his problem had worsened.

What annoyed her most now was her conviction that he would begin to toss and turn just as she was dozing off; she was afraid to go to sleep. She bit her lip; he tensed next to her, as though sensing her anger. She did not have to worry that he might injure himself inadvertently; somehow his usual caution protected him even in his dreams. He might fling open the front door, but never ran outside in his pajamas; he could navigate through their one-story house without bumping into the furniture. It was as though he was deliberately trying only to interfere with her sleep.

She
knew
he would start to act up again as soon as she was falling asleep; he seemed to pick up her thoughts and fears. She could almost imagine that she was, however unwillingly, controlling his actions. He would tug at the sheets, perhaps, or pick up the bedroom telephone to bark a greeting at a non-existent caller. She pulled the sheet over her head, trying to relax.

She had just found a comfortable position when Ted let out a shriek; the telephone receiver clattered against the night table. “Hello?” he shouted. “Hello?”

Carla moaned, wanting to be grateful he hadn’t turned on the overhead light.

As usual, Carla had to get up early in order to rouse her apparently comatose husband. Their routine rarely varied. She prodded him when she rose, poked at him again after taking her shower, set his orange juice next to the clock before she got dressed. The juice was almost always untouched by the time the coffee was ready, and she often had to nag him into eating the breakfast she brought to him on a tray.

This morning, Ted drank the juice and coffee without protesting, but she had to pull him to his feet and aim him toward the bathroom. His grogginess was hardly surprising; Ted was more active when asleep than many people were while awake. At least he hadn’t unplugged the digital clock to protect it from an imaginary power surge, as he had a few nights ago; the alarm had never gone off and they had awakened only when his car pool arrived.

She stared at her face in the bedroom mirror, noting the dark smudges under her eyes. Ted’s blow-dryer hummed beyond the bathroom door. Carla assumed that he was fully conscious now, but with Ted, it was sometimes hard to tell. He was capable of hollering questions at her while still asleep, questions that almost made sense until he followed his coherent inquiries with a stream of gibberish. She swatted at her face with a makeup brush; the blusher on her cheeks only made her eyes seem redder.

She turned as he left the bathroom and began to rummage in the closet. “I can’t take much more,” she said. “Are you trying to drive me nuts? Why can’t you sleep like a normal person?”

He closed the closet door. “How am I supposed to control myself when I’m asleep?”

“You could do something about it. It’s got to be a symptom. Why don’t you see a doctor and—”

“I don’t have time for this. Doug’ll be here any minute.” He adjusted his briefs, then pulled on his slacks.

“Why don’t you sleep during the day? I’ll bet no one at work would notice the difference—if anything, they’d find you more lively. You ruin my sleep, and then I have to struggle out of bed early to make sure you get up on time. I can’t stand it.”

Ted opened his mouth to reply; a horn beeped outside. He stepped into his shoes, grabbed his jacket, and hurried from the room.

Even before they finished supper, Carla was dreading the night ahead, wondering how many times Ted would wake her. She recalled reading a piece about how totalitarian regimes treated people they wanted to break; one technique was to keep waking a prisoner, refusing to let him sleep. Ted would break her; he might do worse. She had read about a man who had strangled his wife in his sleep, then claimed to have no memory of his deed. She shuddered, afraid even to let such a thought cross her mind.

By the time she had put the dishes away, Ted was sprawled on the sofa, leafing through a technical journal while glancing at the television set. He could sit there, barely moving, for hours. Carla had learned to distrust this apparent calm, which was now only the prelude to a tumultuous night. No wonder he was so active while sleeping; it was practically the only exercise he got. Where was the Ted she had known and loved and decided to marry? He had become a man who seemed asleep while awake and awake when sleeping.

He looked up at the television screen. “Joan Collins still looks pretty good,” he mumbled.

“Joan Collins probably gets her sleep.”

He let the journal slide to the floor. “Was I that bad?”

“Not really. You only screamed a couple of times and you didn’t interrogate me. You didn’t turn on the lights or pull off all the sheets. I’m exhausted—this is the second time I’ve been late to work this week.”

“That reminds me. I may be home late for a few days or so. Wannisky’s pressuring all the engineers in my department to—”

“Good,” she interrupted. “Maybe I can get in a nap before you come home. Maybe you can even get them to put a bed in your office so I can get some sleep.”

“Look, it’s not my fault. I’ve had sleep disturbances all my life. My mother had them. It’s a family trait.”

“They’re supposed to go away,” she insisted. “You’re supposed to outgrow them. You’re almost thirty years old. How much older do you have to get?”

“Maybe it’s temporary,” he said. “It wasn’t that bad until recently, was it?”

“It might be a sign of some problem. Go to a doctor.”

“I had a checkup just a few weeks ago.”

“You weren’t sleepwalking then. Now it’s almost every night. I’m afraid to go to bed, and then I can barely get up. I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep when I’m driving to work.”

“You can’t blame a guy for what he does when he’s asleep.”

“You could
do
something about it,” she shouted. “There has to be a cause.”

He was eyeing the journal, as if wanting to pick it up. He hated arguments, she knew; he went out of his way to avoid scenes. “Maybe it’s your fault,” he said softly.

Carla was too angry to speak for a moment, then recalled how she had felt the night before, when it had almost seemed that Ted was acting on her expectations. That idea was absurd. “My fault?” she said at last. “How can it be my fault?”

“I’ve been under pressure at work, and then you expect me to fix the plumbing or take you out instead of relaxing on the weekend. Or you give me that hurt look when I invite the guys over to watch a game. You don’t think of me at all. I didn’t have that much of a problem when we were living together.”