Sleepwalking

by Meg Wolitzer

  I mean it when I say we need you. I need you, at any rate. I’m getting a little worried about Laura. She’s as depressed as always, but something’s different. On Friday I found her sitting out in the snow very late at night. We were supposed to meet to see Psycho, and she never showed up. I looked around for a long time, but I couldn’t find her. Later that night I went out to get a Tab, and she was just sitting there, in a small bank of snow in front of my dorm, waiting for me. She swore that she’d been sitting there for over an hour, but I’m pretty sure she was exaggerating. Wouldn’t she have turned blue and started to get frostbite if she’d been there that long? I think she just wanted attention, which I immediately gave her. She came inside and we talked for a few hours. She seemed really spaced-out, and I’m not sure what’s going on. I wish you had been here; you would have known what to do.

  I saw Julian Gould the other day. I was on my way to the library and was carrying a huge stack of books on the Enlightenment, and he came sprinting up to me from all the way across the campus. I think he must wear a Geiger counter around his neck; he always seems to conveniently show up whenever I come outside. He was Mr. Congeniality, and he practically grabbed the books from my hands. He asked the same questions about you all over again, like when were you planning on coming back to school, and did you mention him at all in your letter to me and Laura. When I refused to tell him anything, he asked if we could play Twenty Questions about you, and then he would leave me alone. It was odd—I felt sorry for him. He seems very lonely. As I stood there refusing to give away any information, I suddenly lost sight of what this is all about anyway. It seemed so bizarre that I have to cover for you. I mean, I’m glad that you took this step—I don’t think I would have the courage to do the same thing—but I wish you would finish up soon.

  I wanted to know a couple of things that you neglected to mention in your letter. The obvious one is this: Do the Aschers know why you’re there yet, and if so, how do they feel about it? I saw a photograph of them in that fat biography of Lucy that’s in the bookstore, and I thought they looked really formidable. Are they? Your letter was full of gaps.

  I’m awed that all of this has happened so easily. I was positive you would be back at school a day or so after you left. I know that Laura and I encouraged you to do this, but frankly, I had no idea that it would turn out to be an extended thing. I’m sure that if I had approached Aurelia Plath the day I sat and watched her from across the street, she would have been able to tell right away what I was doing there, and she would have turned and walked away from me. My face always gives me away. Yours does too, you know. Are you absolutely sure the Aschers don’t know what you’re doing there? Maybe they really do, but are just being silent about it. Even so, I can’t imagine why they would just let you stay like that, with no references, no experience, no anything, except charm. You never cease to amaze me, Claire.

  I have to end this letter soon, Laura’s about to come over for a meeting. There’s something lifeless about the sessions when you’re not at them. That time before Christmas, when you were with Julian all the time, our sessions just dragged without you. Laura resented the fact that you didn’t think it was important to show up, but I felt more sad than angry. However different Laura and I feel, I think we both agree that something basic is missing when you’re not here. At our meeting last night, neither one of us wanted to start things off. It was like the beginning of Marty: “What do you want to do?” . . . “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” It was very late, and for some reason the heat in the building was fucked up, and the room was freezing cold. We sat on the floor, like always, and the candle was flickering and sputtering very low. I think it has only about an hour of burning time left in it. So we sat there, and I kept thinking about my Intellectual History class I’d have to wake up at ten for the next morning, and I started wishing the whole meeting was over and done with and that I could just go to sleep, like a normal person. There was no spark at all to the session. Finally Laura started reading from Sexton’s Transformations. It was really fine, but I didn’t have it in me to listen, and I think Laura could tell. We ended very early. When I woke up this morning I actually felt rested—something I haven’t felt in a long time. It was wonderful; I didn’t even have to take a nap this afternoon.

  Don’t worry about anyone finding out where you are, I’m not telling. And yes, I do think you should inform the registrar. If you don’t, they’ll think something happened to you and will call Security to open your door with a master key, and everyone will crowd around in the hall, expecting to see you dangling from the rafters . . .

  Seriously, though, please take care of yourself out there. I know you explained the situation very plainly in your letter, and it all sounded kosher, but I think that something eventually has to give. Write me immediately.

  Love,

  Naomi

  Dear Dear Claire,

  Oh, tell me already! The three of you are getting a great big kick out of this whole thing, aren’t you? In order to get this letter to you, I have to go through complicated channels. I’ve been instructed to meet Naomi and Laura in front of the library at noon on Wednesday. They’ll put the address on the envelope after I walk away—I only have to put on a stamp. I’m suspicious of them steaming the letter open and giggling over it—it all makes me sick. So in order not to make a fool of myself I’m keeping this letter short and sane. Only know that underneath these words is my concern for you and, despite myself, my love. Please, Claire.

  Julian

  Dearest Claire,

  Your father and I had a long talk the other day after we got your letter. In fact, as you can probably guess, we have not stopped talking about the whole matter. I wasn’t going to write to you, but I changed my mind. After all, I am your mother, and I should let you know my feelings. You are a young woman now and are getting too old for this kind of rebellion. When you were in high school we just ignored you, because things were difficult around the house and your guidance counselor said you would grow out of it soon enough. I’m finding it hard to just keep ignoring it now. No, I’m not going to force you to come home or anything like that. You are an adult in many ways. I just think you should be aware of the other factors involved. That college of yours is not cheap, even with the financial-aid package you are getting. But the money is going to be taken away from you in a jiffy as soon as the financial-aid office gets wind of what you are doing. They will give your money to someone who deserves it more, someone who knows enough to stay in school for the semester. If you were having personal problems you should have gone to see the school psychologist. Your father and I would not have objected to that. I don’t really understand what you are getting out of living in these people’s home. You always carried things too far, even when you were little. All three of you kids were like that. I have never understood your fascination for this poetess, and I guess I never will. I’m trying to keep an open mind about this, but I have to say that I think something has gone wrong. When the Kahns’ son Bobby overdosed on heroin a few years ago and had to go to Phoenix House, I knew it had to do with the parents, who were always fighting and throwing things and the neighbors complained all the time. He was a troubled boy and yes his parents made him that way. I know life has not been easy since Seth passed away, but I think we have tried our hardest to remain a family. Incidentally, your sister Joan called to tell us that she is getting married. The wedding is planned for the spring, and her fiancé is someone named Steven Blackwing who is an Indian as you can guess from his name. Your father and I cannot decide whether or not we will go to the wedding. Airfare is so expensive, and we know nothing about this man, except that he makes turquoise jewelry for a living and that he and Joan plan on staying on the reservation after they get married. Your sister’s chore is to bring fresh water to the Indians in buckets each day. How’s that for a job. Needless to say, we are not thrilled, and right now I feel under a lot of stress. It’s not that I sta
y up nights worrying about you. I trust that you are being well fed and that these are decent people, since that’s what you told me. But I think you should take a good, hard look at your life and try to figure out what is really best. I am getting too old to check up on my children all the time. The time has come for me to start enjoying my life. Tonight your father and I are going to see Dionne Warwick at the Westbury Music Fair, and I am looking forward to it. It’s theater-in-the-round, so all of the seats are good. I’m going to end this letter now and start to make dinner. I have nothing more to add, except that I hope you will think about what I have said.

  Love,

  Mother

  Dear Claire,

  What do you mean by “I feel as though the ghost of Lucy Ascher is wandering through the rooms of the house”? Do you seriously mean that, or are you just being your usual metaphorical self? Don’t tell me you’ve started to believe in the supernatural. I don’t think I could take it. One of the things I’ve always liked best about you is your straightforward, no-shit view of the world, and I couldn’t stand it if you came back to school brandishing a deck of tarot cards and sounding like that woman Sybil Leek, who claims she’s a witch.

  From the way you described it, I do think your mother’s response was totally weird and uncalled for, but I have to tell you, if we’re going to keep things honest and open, that I’m getting a little worried about you being out there, and I think that maybe you should consider coming home one of these days. I hope you won’t hate me forever for saying that. Your mother sounds as though she’s really angry with you for letting her down or something, but I think she’s worried, too. I wish you would hurry and purge yourself at the Aschers’ and then come back to school. I’ll take you out for a big reunion dinner—lobster tails and Baskin-Robbins, your favorites.

  You know me, always worrying about everyone else. Remember last year I typed up Laura’s entire English paper—seventeen pages, with two pages worth of footnotes—because she was really overworked and I thought she would collapse if she had to stay up and type, and then I ended up getting a mediocre grade on my French final because I didn’t get a chance to study for it. So there you are. I’m worried about Laura once again, and I wanted to ask your advice, if you have any to give. I think I wrote you about her in my last letter—about how she spent the evening out in the snow (or said she did) and then acted really weird and depressed when we went inside. Anyway, things have only gotten worse since then. I don’t understand it; I can’t see that anything has happened in her life recently to affect her this way. The other day when I asked her what was up, she just closed her eyes and said in this sarcastic voice, “The human condition.” She hasn’t been going to her classes lately. She has this really intensive seminar with Miller—you know the one—and last week she seemed to be really excited about it. They’re reading The Magic Mountain now, which has always been one of her favorite books. You know, all that heavy Germanic lust and angst. The other day I walked by her classroom and saw that she wasn’t there, so I went back to her dorm and she was lying in bed with her clothes on, the same ones she had worn the day before, and she seemed really out of it. I asked her if she’d forgotten about her class, and she didn’t even know what I was talking about. It took her about five minutes to orient herself. I asked her what was wrong, and she wouldn’t tell me. She said she didn’t think she could trust me anymore, and I have to admit I was pretty hurt by that. You know how close we’ve been. At any rate, I asked her how she felt about talking to the school shrink, and she shrugged and said it didn’t matter to her, so I called up and made an appointment for Friday. I just hope she’ll go. If she keeps acting this way do you think I should press the issue, or just leave her alone until she feels like confiding in me?

  It is now almost nine o’clock at night and I haven’t done a damn thing work-wise this evening. I have to finish up this letter and then get over to the library, where tons of glorious reserve reading are just waiting to be devoured. Please come home when you’re ready to, which I hope is soon. I know that part of this feeling is selfishness (I’m lonely!) but most of it is worry. God, what do you do all day other than clean out their toilet bowl and change their sheets? Do they know your real reason for being there yet?

  Listen, it only took me a single afternoon to get my entire Plath fill, so why should it take you so long to get your fill of Lucy Ascher? Don’t be greedy. Just think of all the other “death girls,” to coin a Swarthmore phrase, absolutely dying to sneak their way into the Aschers’ house and poke around. Come back to school and give someone else a chance. I miss you, Laura misses you, and Julian misses you. He looks like a lost dog without you, Claire. I told him for about the millionth time you were fine, which I hope is the truth. You know, I’m actually starting to find him a little appealing. So get out of that house as soon as you can, before that ghost goes to your head. And in the meantime, take care of yourself.

  Love,

  Naomi

  Oh Claire,

  Why haven’t I heard from you? Please write to me now. I rush to my mailbox each morning, hoping to see the darkness of a letter waiting inside. I can just picture it—on that really thin, delicate stationery scented with that whale-sperm perfume you use. You know just what gets me, don’t you?

  I have to let you know that I miss you more than you can ever imagine. I never thought I could feel this way about anyone. When I was seeing that girl Cathy back in my Dalton days, I was positive I really loved her and that that was the extent of what love could be. As I’m writing this, I realize how stupid it sounds, but I guess I must be a stupid person. The thing about Cathy that attracted me to her was how delicate she was. We used to walk through the halls in school (we were like this famous couple, and all the teachers would smile at us), and I would always have my arm around her. One day I realized I was doing this not so much because I wanted to touch her, but because I wanted to protect her. Sometimes if we went outside and it started to drizzle, I would put my hand over her head without even thinking about it. She was like this little bud or something that I wanted to take care of. I figured out that that was the only reason why I liked being with her so much, and it really upset me. We broke up a couple of weeks later. What’s different about you is that I know you don’t need anyone to protect you from the world. I think you need someone to protect you from yourself.

  This letter, which I wanted to be meaningful, is turning out to be loaded with clichés. I can’t help it; I have a tendency to take the easy way out, to say, “Oh, you know how I feel,” instead of actually saying how it is I feel. I don’t know why this whole thing happened between us—I mean our relationship to begin with—and the more I think about it, the more I realize it probably shouldn’t have happened at all. I love you to an extent that is making me feel really awful. You haven’t exactly been generous with yourself. I almost never know what you’re thinking—not just about me, but about everything. There was one time that you made me feel great, I don’t know if you remember it. We were lying in bed at night, and you turned to me and said, “Julian, you’re a good person.” And then you went to sleep.

  That was one of the rare moments we’ve had. I usually have to guess what you’re thinking, and I end up feeling dumb. I must have no pride whatsoever that I put up with your coldness, with your hanging up on me that night. I keep thinking about our conversation, trying to understand what it was I said to make you angry or upset, or whatever it was you were feeling. Was it my joke about how you taste good? I can’t believe it was. I’ve made so many hokey jokes in the past, and you haven’t seemed to mind. Maybe your anger has been building up and that joke was the last straw. Or did it only have to do with Lucy Ascher? You got so resistant when I brought up that book. It’s as if she’s private property that only you’re allowed to touch. I think if I understand her, then I can begin to understand you. Does that scare you? Are you afraid that if I take away the mysterious part of you, I won’t like you a
nymore?

  It’s exhausting not to understand you, to have to spend my nights trying to figure you out. Yes, you have ruined my college life, in case you were wondering. I’ve started to spend all my time with Lenny Garibaldi, etc.—“the boys,” as you say. We get very stoned and we listen to old Dylan, and then I go off into a little dream world about you. I can’t sleep well anymore.

  My parents are concerned about me. They call up twice a week and tell me to take things easy. They want me to spend a weekend with them somewhere in the country. I keep telling them no, because I’m afraid I’ll start getting teary in the car, and they’ll think I’m having some kind of trauma, which I am.

  The other day Naomi came up to me when I was sitting in the Student Union and she said, “Cheer up, Julian.” I couldn’t believe it was her. She’s always been so nasty to me in the past. I guess I must look out of it, which is the way I feel. I had no idea it showed so much. As I write this letter, I realize it’s going to end up being the longest one I’ve ever written. So instead of doing my real work, I’m doing this. I hope it’s worth something.