by Lara Hayes
I sit in bed replaying the dream until the panic wears off, and of all the nightmares that have plagued my recent weeks this one stands alone for lack of ambiguity. Dreaming of James was no great shock. It’s perfectly normal to be attracted to someone because they are attracted to you, or make you feel desirable. The key is not to act on it. But the silence, the stillness, her tepid body—neither hot nor cold—and the floral scent of her hair are all so easily recalled, that I watch the skin of my wrist for the blossom of bruise that isn’t coming.
Dreams are not fact. Sex is a spectrum. I believe this and a hundred other things any evolved, well-educated, scientifically-minded woman of today does. I just don’t find either fact very comforting right now. Not because I dreamed of a woman in my bed, and not for the first time, but because something about this woman feels inescapable, and appropriate.
Are these the sort of things Dr. Richmond expects me to discuss with a psychiatrist? Could there be anything more humiliating?
“And how do you feel about that?”
“Why do you think you feel that way?”
Next, having to defend my artfully manicured response to a stranger’s cameo in my dreams to ensure it sounds miles away from internalized homophobia which I do not have. To be told what? To be made to admit what? That there’s nothing wrong with an erotic dream, no matter the sexual identity expressed therein? I know that much already.
Was it erotic? I suppose it was. She was naked, I was naked, and I pressed myself against her. I put my lips to hers.
Why did I do that?
Yes, it was erotic. But without sounding crazy, how would I convey that what felt wrong about the dream was how right she felt?
Sunrise finds me as beleaguered by my own musings as I am by this unwavering fatigue. I shuffle to the window just in time to watch the streetlights flicker off, one by one down the block. Each dying light solidifies my decision. I will not talk to some stranger about these nightmares. I’m not a child. The waking dreams, the fleeting shadows are a result of my complete exhaustion. Arthur said as much. I will heed his prescription to the best of my ability and sleep, lay off the caffeine—perhaps—for a few weeks and do something for myself. Time away from my troubles might lead to a good night’s rest, and from there, hopefully, a rebound. As he said, my mother can weather a night without my company.
Helen…
I’d nearly forgotten about Helen’s hasty termination. I draw my discarded robe over my shoulders and tie it shut. A pot of coffee will smooth the edges, and lubricate this tricky conversation with Mother. Caffeine abstinence will have to commence tomorrow.
I stop in front of the mirror. The violet bags beneath my eyes remain alarmingly bright, my features sunken and dull. But the bruise on my cheek is no larger than my thumbnail, and it seems I didn’t squeeze my throat as roughly as I’d thought. My violin case slumbers innocently under the mirror, perched on the top of my dresser. I run my fingers over the closed case and my wrist twinges, as though someone is still holding me in place.
* * *
“You’re up early.” Mother lumbers briskly through the kitchen, still clad in her silk nightgown with matching mules, thudding softly against the tile. Her eyes are downcast, in anger or shame, it’s hard to say. She stands beside me with a full mug, leaning heavily against the island, quietly refusing to sit. Every inch of her is poised for an argument I haven’t the strength to revisit.
“I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Yes, I heard you playing.” Mother raises her brows, taking a delicate sip from her cup. “It wasn’t awful.”
Itzhak Perlman would be pleased to know that Mother finds his undeniable talent adequate. It seems a shame to waste such an underhanded compliment. “It felt good to play.”
She snatches up the Arts and Entertainment section of my morning paper and settles across from me on her stool. She pretends to read for a while, the paper rustling delicately in her quivering hands. “You should play more often,” she suggests with as much disinterest as she can muster. “Talent is a gift. Skill is a muscle. It must be exercised before it atrophies.”
I discard the science section and retrieve my coffee mug eagerly. She isn’t going to ice me out after all. She’s going to pretend it never happened, thank god. “I was surprised by how crisp you sounded.” She takes another sip and folds the paper in half. “It’s good to know your ability hasn’t completely withered.”
I know what it meant to her, raising a prodigy. I know what my success would have meant to my grandfather. She was never more proud than I when I played a solo, or won a competition. “Thank you, Mother.” I can barely shape the words. A genuine compliment from her is rare enough, but before seven in the morning? That is unprecedented.
The corner of her mouth quirks into a quick, fleeting smile, and she is visibly pleased that her olive branch was readily accepted. She quits her charade of the morning paper and tosses the Arts section lightly on the pile between us.
“I’m thinking of redecorating my bedroom,” she announces. The triumphant, if not abrupt change of topic is welcome, and I turn slightly in my seat.
“What were you thinking?”
“Something bright, but not obnoxious.” She flutters a wonderfully steady hand between us, her movements stronger, and more controlled today than they were last night. “Something tasteful, understated, without the dreadful use of pastels. You know I hate them.”
“They remind you of Easter.”
“And must it be springtime year-round for a room to be considered inviting or cheerful? I hardly think so.” I agree with a grin, and offer to take her shopping.
“Don’t trouble yourself.” She waves the offer away. “There must be some distraction if I’m to whittle away the hours with Helen.”
She states it so benignly, I wonder if she heard us last night and the whole morning is her long game—devised to ensnare the truth. But she couldn’t possibly know. She was already locked in her bedroom by then. I consider a lie, but what would I say? I can’t leave her waiting by the door, purse in hand, for Helen to arrive. I take another fortifying drink, and gather my resolve.
“Helen won’t be coming back.”
Mother tilts her head as though I’ve slipped into an unfamiliar language. She doesn’t ask me to repeat myself. Instead, she fixes me in a narrow-eyed glare and waits.
“We had a disagreement. I don’t believe she’s a good fit for us anymore.”
“For me,” she corrects.
A blush threatens my cheeks. I will not get angry. I will not. “For you. I don’t believe she’s a good fit for you.”
“And I have absolutely no say in the matter of my care?”
I stifle a groan, and gnaw anxiously at the corner of my mouth. “Mother, I was under the distinct impression you didn’t like Helen very much.”
“Well, that’s hardly the point, now is it? I don’t like anyone very much. Most days I barely like you.”
My hands clench around my empty mug, and stare out past her into the empty hall. She’s baiting me, but for the life of me I can’t understand where the sudden loyalty to a woman she tormented daily is coming from. “There was an argument. Helen and I fell on opposing sides, and I asked her to leave.”
“An argument about my care?”
“Yes, Mother. As in all things, it was about you.” The bite in my tone does not go unnoticed.
“Oh no, dear,” she checks me swiftly with staggering assuredness, and one stern finger raised in defiance. “This argument, this decision made entirely without my consent and on my behalf, was all about you.”
I stand abruptly, using the excuse of my empty cup to put some distance between us. The mug pounds sharply against the sink. “Is that what bothers you? That your Power of Attorney made a decision without your input?”
Mother isn’t derailed. “Anything decided for me without my input bothers me a great deal.”
Scrubbing my face with my hands, I stand in front of her, all my
hostility painted in place, forever playing directly into her hand. She keeps her aggravation in check, rolling it around on her tongue to savor the taste. “A lady never shouts in an argument,” she told me once. “Raised voices show weakness.” I thrust an accusing finger in her face before I can think twice about it. “You hated Helen. You hated the idea of a nurse. You threatened her job on a weekly basis. I gave you exactly what you wanted.”
“What I want is not to need a nurse, or care, or you. That is what I want. I want to be able to come and go as I please, without stumbling, without tremors, without lapses in my memory. That is what I want. I want to live my life on my terms. I resented Helen, but I was grateful to her for her service. For the illusion of independence. Which you would know, had you ever bothered to ask. What am I to do now, Elizabeth? Sit at home and knit?” she nearly spits the words through her clenched teeth.
I don’t know what infuriates me more, the absolute sense she’s making, or the kick her logic delivers to my own wounded ego. “Don’t I sit and wait for you, Mother? Haven’t I sacrificed everything to be here with you?” The second the words leave my mouth, self-preservation tries in vain to blame the outburst on my profound lack of sleep. Regardless, it’s the one thing you never say to a dependent, no matter how impossible they are.
Mother smiles and stares down at her long elegant hands. I can practically hear her counting to calm herself. A storm rages in us both.
“Who asked you to be here? Will you never tire of blaming me for your life?”
“You didn’t have to ask. You called and I came home from college, like you knew I would. I packed up everything to brave this with you. I shelved my ambition, my goals, my plans to care for you. And you can barely manage a kind word.”
Mother stands and washes her mug carefully, setting it gently on the counter to dry. Her every action is an unspoken criticism. She gazes out the window overlooking the backyard which is still in dusky shadows. Knowing I’m wrong isn’t the same as admitting she’s right, but she would take a victory lap either way.
“And then there was Dominic.”
I haven’t spoken his name, or even thought of him since it ended, so I don’t know why it feels like playing a winning card. It’s a low blow, even for me, and I’m vaguely sickened by my own implication that my carelessly mishandled ex-fiancé is somehow her fault. He was the kindest man I’ve ever known, and he loved me beyond reason. She never even met him, and that’s on me. I didn’t think she’d be won over by a communications major with a white smile and perfectly black hair who laughed too hard, and too often.
“Please,” she dismisses. “That wasn’t love. It was escapism.” She doesn’t know how right she is. Or maybe she does. Dom and I were all too eager to build a new life. It was the heady rush of orphans who’ve never been of much use or consequence to anyone. “If you were serious about that boy you wouldn’t have left him. You’ve always been stubborn. You get that from me. It’s easily my least favorite thing about you.”
“And with a blessing like that, who wouldn’t marry him?”
Her stiff shoulders slump, but it isn’t an admission of defeat. She faces me again and doesn’t seek to hide her unmitigated disappointment. It’s the same expression she wore when I told her I didn’t want to pursue music any longer. The same expression as when I told her I was engaged. Dom was simple and I adored that about him, as well as the uncomplicated way he adored me back. When I returned his ring, he sat in my dorm room, on the edge of my narrow twin mattress and wept openly for three hours, begging me to let him come to Chicago and help. To stay with him, or to let him stay with me.
“Elizabeth,” she begins, hands clasped firmly in front of her. “By your own account, I have failed as a wife, a mother, and am now too feeble of mind and body to look after myself. Yet still you persist in blaming me for your own shortcomings.” She takes a purposeful step forward. “I won’t have it. The hardest thing in this world, for any woman, is to be your own person. Facing your failures and refusing to accept them? That’s step one.”
She reaches behind herself and dries her hands with a clean rag, as though wiping my weakness away.
“So, you want another nurse?”
Mother crows at my rebuttal, stopping in front me with the pitying stare.
“Have a good day at work, dear.” She pats my cheek, and wanders down the hall.
* * *
I should have called in sick again, but honestly, I have no idea what came over me yesterday, and I can’t justify another evening at home when there is work to be done. Not to mention, it’s anyone’s guess how much longer I’ll be able to keep this job, and after this morning I’d much rather deal with the comatose and infirm. I’ve been running on autopilot in a distracted daze for most of my shift checking charts, vitals, and drips.
The altercation with Mother plays on a loop in my head. I absolutely blamed her for my failed engagement, but if I’d loved Dom I wouldn’t have let her opinion of him matter. And I did make the decision to terminate Helen without consulting her first, despite the fact that it directly affects her. I have put the weight of my unfulfilled dreams on her illness, which is probably the most selfish thing a child can do.
I could have found a way to keep studying, and Dom would have married me no matter where we lived. But I’d hit a wall months before that fateful phone call led me back to Mother’s doorstep. It’s a terrible thing to realize that the life you’ve been building doesn’t interest you. Not the science—that has always moved me—and academia was hardly a struggle. I was gifted in that respect, but something about the life I envisioned had soured by senior year.
The title of Doctor still thrills me, if only for the respect it demands. I let my cynicism get the best of me. After all, my father was treated by the finest doctors in the state, the very practitioners he dutifully protected from the occasional malpractice suit. Consequently, my mother has countless medical contacts who can treat her symptoms, but they can’t save her life.
I spend half my shift pulling myself back to the present and focusing on what I can control, while reassuring my more observant coworkers than I’m no longer ill. Stomach bug, a twenty-four-hour virus. I’m sure they know a lie when they hear one, but I have a spotless track record. I’m a model employee. I was a model student once too.
There’s a new face in room four-twelve. Mr. Greer. Several patients have come and gone through that door over the last few weeks, and thankfully Mr. Greer is none of my concern tonight. That small forgotten corner of our wing frightens me beyond reason. Every time I pass the room, the stench of dried blood plagues me.
Last week, I was certain that I felt a presence lingering in the door, but when I turned around I was alone—exactly as expected considering the hour. I turned just in time for a rush of air to sweep across my cheek, and watched in silent apprehension as the emergency exit drifted closed. Remembering it now makes my blood run cold, and I find myself absently stroking the skin of my wrist. The place her fingers fit around so perfectly, before she pinned me down. I haven’t been able to shake the memory of her touch all day.
Frustrated by my own paranoia, I busy myself. Whatever I can put my hands on I rearrange to keep occupied. I refuse to continue with this ridiculous notion that a woman I met once, and briefly at that, has made it her mission in life to lurk behind my closed shower curtain, just around the corner, directly behind me, in the hall, on the subway platform, or is inexplicably planting violins to garner my attention.
The absurdity causes me to break out with hysterical laughter. James asks in his dry prodding way, what I find so hilarious about Post-it notes. I manage to get a hold of myself. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Or worse, you’d think there was something seriously wrong with me.”
“Now you have to tell me.” He folds his arms resolutely across his chest, his feet crossed at the ankle, content to linger in my space until I’m forced to confess.
“Do you ever catch yourself daydreaming about s
omething so absurd, you just can’t help but laugh?”
He cocks his head like a confused puppy, but the sly smile on his lips tells me that the taunt is forthcoming. “Yes…” he manages thoughtfully. “That is a common thing we human beings do. Laugh at ourselves.”
I swat his thigh with an empty folder, and turn my attention back to the pens I’ve begun sorting by color and size.
“Lighten up,” he urges. “I was just messing with you. Tell me what you were thinking about that had you laughing like that.”
“Not happening.”
He whips the chair out from behind his legs and drops backward in the seat with his arms draped over the headrest. “Three guesses, and if I’m right you are bound by decency to tell me.”
Irritated, but mildly amused by the simple fact that he could not possibly guess, I indulge him. For once. “Only three. And if you’re wrong, you leave me to my OCD.”
“Scouts’ honor.” He raises the three-finger salute.
“You were a Boy Scout?”
“Eagle Scout,” he corrects, scratching the stubble on his chin and squinting his eyes in thought. “You were thinking about my ass.”
“No.”
James rubs his hands together and closes his eyes, like a carnival fortune teller. He strokes his temples in slow circles, and a begrudging smile threatens my scowl.
“You were picturing me naked.”
“James,” I admonish. “How devastated would you be if I, or any woman, were picturing you naked and laughing hysterically?”
He raises two defensive hands. “You’re right. That would be tragic. Let me think…” He drops his hands to his knees and meditates for a moment.
“One guess left,” I warn.
“Silence, please. I need to concentrate.”
He does have a certain charm. I can see why so many of my colleagues have fallen victim to his smile. James knows the childish flirting works, because it’s worked his whole life. And I have pictured him naked—he’s not wrong about that.