Sleepwalker

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  That was probably a healthy thing, in retrospect. She’d talk to Winona when there was no one else around—which was most of the time. Winona always listened in silent agreement. Eventually, of course, she disappeared, the way imaginary friends do.

  Oh hell, the way people do.

  “We’re almost ready,” Hudson announces, patting the pile of fuzzy electric blue yarn into place on her sister’s head. “Does this look like blue hair?”

  “Absolutely,” Allison tells her. She’d offered to order wigs, but Hudson declared that cheating.

  “I bet your mom wouldn’t have made you order a wig,” she said, and Allison couldn’t argue.

  She’s never painted a rosy picture of her childhood, but she hasn’t come right out and told her daughters the harsh truth, either. They know that her parents were divorced and that her mother died young, but it hasn’t yet occurred to them to ask for the gory details.

  Just as well. Their own lives are safe and snug and wholesome; they simply have no frame of reference for a world where little girls go cold and hungry, or are abandoned forever by their father, or after years of disappointment and a string of broken promises, find their mother dead on the bathroom floor . . .

  A mother who once told her drug counselor, “Weakness is my weakness.”

  Thank God. Thank God my children will never know that pain, that fear, because their own mother’s motto is “Strength is my strength.”

  And I would never break a promise. Ever.

  Ten minutes later, Allison puts out a big orange ceramic bowl of candy next to the lit jack-o’-lantern on their top step.

  “What’s that for, Mommy?”

  “Just in case some other mom decides to take her kids out trick-or-treating.”

  “Even though it’s against the law,” Hudson specifies.

  “Right.” After making sure she has her house key and phone in the back pocket of her jeans, she locks the door after them.

  “Okay, everyone . . . ready to trick-or-treat?”

  Naturally, the girls are, but J.J. clearly isn’t thrilled, to say the least, about his role in the charade.

  “Mommy, tell him he has to leave the hat on,” Hudson admonishes, swinging her own bag, mail-ordered a few years ago and embroidered with her name. Maddy has a matching one.

  Allison says, “J.J., leave your hat on,” because that’s much easier than pointing out the futility to Hudson.

  “Yeah, if you don’t, J.J.,” his oldest sister adds, “then you’ll just be a plain old cat and it doesn’t make sense. Right, Mom?”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll put it on him before we ring Mrs. Lewis’s doorbell.” Allison tucks the red and white striped stovepipe hat—which Hudson fashioned quite impressively out of felt—into the pouch hanging off J.J.’s stroller.

  The rest of his costume consists of an oval bib of white felt glued to his so-navy-it-looks-black blanket sleeper, and a red bow tie at his neck—also glued. Hudson enjoys glue.

  Of course, she originally wanted to tie the tie around J.J.’s neck for authenticity’s sake. But Allison drew the line there; she couldn’t bear to think of the potential danger a necktie would create for J.J. the acrobat. As it is, she spends her son’s every waking hour in a perpetual state of hypervigilance that leaves her utterly exhausted by the end of the day.

  That’s fine, when all she has to do after the kids are down is crawl into bed herself.

  But when there’s more to come—like this past Friday night—she’s in trouble. They’d hired a sitter again—this time, the teenage niece of Hudson’s kindergarten teacher—for their anniversary dinner at Mardino’s, their favorite Italian restaurant. Allison had looked forward to it all week.

  But of course she didn’t want to leave the house until after J.J. was safely asleep—well after eight o’clock, which was unusual for him. He must have picked up on her extra-nervous energy, or maybe he was just teething.

  In any case, Allison yawned through dinner, and by the time the dessert menu came, she could barely keep her eyes open.

  “Maybe you should order an espresso,” Mack suggested.

  “I can’t drink caffeine now. It’ll keep me up all night.”

  He shrugged. “Take a Dormipram.”

  “No, thanks. That’s your prescription, not mine.”

  He’d actually stopped taking the medication for a few nights after she alerted him to the sleep-eating, but that didn’t last for long. The insomnia came roaring back with a vengeance, and he was miserable.

  Now that he knew what it was like to actually get a good night’s sleep—and that it was possible—Mack decided he’d rather deal with the drug’s side effects than with chronic insomnia.

  “Maybe Dr. Cuthbert can put you on something else,” she suggested, but Mack balked at going back to see him, saying there’s no way he can take time off from work for another weekday appointment.

  He claims he hasn’t had any more issues with sleep-eating, but Allison isn’t so sure. She hasn’t heard him getting up in the middle of the night, not that that means anything, since she sleeps so soundly she never stirred when he was doing it.

  She’s been hiding the sweetened cereal and other food he was gobbling down in the night, just in case—so far, so good—but she can’t stash the cold stuff anywhere but the fridge. The other day, right before the storm, she was almost positive four containers of yogurt had vanished overnight, along with half a gallon of her favorite diet iced tea, yet the empty containers weren’t in the trash.

  Maybe she was mistaken about the contents of the fridge, though she doesn’t want to do a new inventory right now—she’s trying to keep it closed to prevent spoilage until the power comes back.

  Or maybe a sleepwalking Mack is now going to great lengths to hide the evidence of his midnight binges.

  When his sister, Lynn, called to check on them earlier today, Allison mentioned it to her, needing to confide in someone—but not one of her local friends. They all gossip, and Mack would be mortified if it got around town.

  She remembered Lynn mentioning once, when they were all staying at the beach house together on vacation, that her brother used to walk in his sleep as a child. Today, Allison brought it up, asking for more details.

  “It was the creepiest thing,” Lynn said. “He’d walk into the room with his eyes wide open, but he was completely out of it. I’d get freaked out, but I wasn’t allowed to try to wake him up.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dr. Victor—he was our pediatrician—told my mother that you should never wake a sleepwalker.”

  “Why not?” Allison asked again.

  “He said the person might get aggressive and violent. Trust me, I wasn’t about to take any chances with that. My brother used to wrestle me sometimes—just normal kid scuffles—and I knew how strong he was. So I’d just let him do his sleepwalking thing and stay out of his way.”

  “What did he do?”

  “You know—just sort of walk around like a zombie, talking to himself sometimes, or to us. It was complete gibberish. Kind of funny, looking back now. But at the time, it scared the shit out of me.”

  “Did he ever eat in his sleep?”

  “Maybe . . . I don’t remember. Why? Is he at it again?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, don’t worry. He’s harmless—as long as you don’t try to wake him up,” Lynn added with a chuckle. “Listen, I know I can be a real chatterbox, and I don’t want to keep you on the line—you said your battery is going.”

  She was right—it was, and Allison hung up reluctantly. She wants to talk to Mack about it, tonight, and about an idea that got stuck in her mind a while back, when Ben and Randi offered to let the MacKennas borrow not just their au pair, but their nanny cam.

  Those cameras, she recalls, were so tiny and so easily concealed that no one would ever guess that they were there.

  What if Allison were to set up a few around the house to catch Mack sleepwalking and sleep-eating?

/>   She’d tell him, of course . . .

  Or would she?

  I don’t know. It’s probably a bad idea. I wouldn’t want anyone keeping an eye on me, and it doesn’t seem fair to do it to him.

  She just wonders whether it might help if he saw himself.

  As the girls make their way around downed branches toward the reassuringly lit-up house next door, Allison’s cell phone vibrates in her back pocket. She pulls it out, noting that it feels sticky. J.J. got his hands on it earlier, and of course threw a full-blown tantrum when she wrestled it away.

  A glance at the caller ID reveals that the call is from a private number—Mack’s cell phone, most likely. It always comes up that way.

  It’s about time he called.

  She presses the phone up to her ear with one hand while trying to keep the stroller on the sidewalk with the other hand as J.J. wriggles around trying to launch himself out.

  “Where are you guys?” Mack asks, huffing a little, as though he, too, is in motion.

  “We’re about to ring the Lewises’ doorbell. Where are you?”

  “Running for the train. I’m trying to catch the 6:51.”

  “Okay—wait, hang on a second.” Realizing J.J. managed to get his hands on the cat hat and throw it overboard, she backtracks to scoop it up, calling, “Hudson! Maddy! Wait up!”

  “What’s going on? Don’t lose the girls in the dark. It’s dangerous out there tonight.”

  Irked, she shoots back, “Do you really think that’s going to happen? They’re just a few steps ahead of me. They’re excited.”

  And if you were here with us, you could hold their hands while I deal with Mr. Impossible.

  “Just be careful. Did you take pictures for me?”

  “I couldn’t. The camera battery wasn’t charged.”

  “Can you take one on your cell phone?”

  “I told you, the battery is really low.”

  “Al, I really wanted to see their costumes.”

  “Then you should have been here,” she snaps, and instantly regrets it. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted to be. It’s just . . . it’s been a long day.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Okay, maybe he’s not inferring that his long day was somehow much longer—and thus much more difficult—than her long day. But that’s what it feels like to her.

  “I’ve got to go, Mack. See you when you get home.”

  “Have fun,” he says glumly.

  “We will,” she returns, just as glumly.

  Hanging up, she catches up to the girls.

  “What’s that noise?” Maddy asks, hanging back a little as Hudson climbs the steps to the Lewises’ front door.

  Realizing she’s referring to the rumble coming from the attached garage, Allison says, “It’s the generator. It’s making power for the house. See how their lights are on?”

  “Why can’t we get a generator too?”

  “Ask Daddy,” Allison grumbles under her breath, reaching for J.J.

  “Come on, Maddy! Mommy, hurry up and take him out and put his hat on!” Hudson commands, her finger poised to ring the bell.

  “Hudson, do not order me around.”

  “I’m sorry. I just want it to be really good.”

  “I know you do. Don’t worry. It is good.” She unstraps the baby and plops the felt hat on his fuzzy head. He immediately pulls it off and tosses it to the sidewalk.

  Dismayed, Hudson picks it up. “J.J., you have to wear it!”

  “Shh, he will, just ring the bell.” Allison puts the hat back on him and is gratified when it stays that way—but only for a few seconds before J.J. throws it again.

  He laughs with glee as Allison bends with him to pick it up.

  Hudson glares. “He’s ruining everything. He just looks like a baby in pajamas.”

  “As far as he’s concerned, he is just a baby in pajamas,” Allison points out, her patience just about depleted. “And it’s past his bedtime.”

  “No, it isn’t. He doesn’t go to bed until—”

  “Hudson, please just ring the bell.”

  “He has to wear the hat!”

  “He just doesn’t understand Halloween,” Maddy pipes up. She descends the steps, takes the hat, puts it on her little brother’s head, and holds it there with a firm but gentle little hand. “There, J.J., see? You’re a kitty cat! The Cat in the Hat! Meow, meow.” The baby laughs at her cat imitation.

  “Ring the bell, Huddy! Hurry!” Maddy says between meows.

  Allison smiles at her middle child, so often the lone voice of reason in this family of passionate personalities.

  Phyllis Lewis comes to the door with a Longaberger basket of candy, managing, as always, to be effortlessly sexy-elegant. Tall and slender, she’s wearing a snug-fitting black cashmere turtleneck with trim black pants and flats, looking like a 1960s screen siren. Her face is fully made-up and her chestnut-colored hair is short and chic and perfect, making Allison all the more conscious of her own unshowered-since-Saturday state.

  “Trick or treat!” the girls shout.

  “Oh my goodness!” Phyllis slaps both manicured hands to her cheeks. “What have we here?”

  “We have here Thing One and Thing Two plus also the Cat in the Hat,” Hudson informs her proudly. “I made the costumes all by myself. Well, Thing Two helped a little.”

  “Well, aren’t you talented?”

  “Yes,” Hudson agrees immodestly.

  Phyllis laughs. “I happen to love cats, so I might just have to give you an extra treat or two because of that.”

  She urges the girls to take lots of miniature candy bars and deposits a handful into J.J.’s bag with a wink, saying, “I’m sure someone will be able to help him eat those. Where’s Daddy tonight?”

  “He’s still at work, unfortunately,” Allison tells her, and Phyllis shakes her head.

  “I remember the days of trick-or-treating alone with the kids. I dreaded taking them out without Bob, but he was always on the road when they were this age. He still is—last week, Tokyo, this week, London . . .”

  “That stinks,” Allison says. “You must be lonely.”

  “Oh, but I’m not! Not at all. Don’t tell Bob,” she leans forward and says, in a conspiratorial whisper, “but I actually prefer to have him gone. As long as I have lights and heat, it’s nice to have the house to myself.”

  Allison can’t imagine ever preferring to have Mack away from home. Yes, things change—but they aren’t going to change that much in her marriage.

  Are you sure about that? With a little twinge of regret, she remembers the way she snapped at him on the phone a few minutes ago.

  “Come on, Mommy, let’s go!” Hudson is already halfway down the walk, anxious to get back home and tear into her chocolate.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Harried, she bends to strap J.J. into his stroller again. “Thanks, Phyllis.”

  “I know it can be crazy, Allison, chasing around after little ones, but time is going to fly by. Those three will be away at college before you know it, just like mine.”

  Phyllis’s son, Ryan, is at Brown; her daughter, Laurel, is at Cornell. Scholastic, athletic, and extracurricular overachievers, both—par for the course in Glenhaven Park.

  “Enjoy every minute of this, Allison,” her neighbor calls after her as she wheels the stroller down the path. “Trust me—you’re going to miss it when it’s over.”

  Mothers of older kids are always talking about how quickly children grow up. It bothers Allison that they all seem so wistful for the good old days, as though it’s all downhill from here on in.

  She glances back over her shoulder to see Phyllis still silhouetted in the doorway, looking out into the night. Jet black Marnie has appeared beside her, poised in profile with her feline back humped and her front paws extended toward her mistress.

  It’s a sight Allison quickly forgets as she catches up to her children . . . but one she will forever remember, with a shudder, whenever she thinks of w
hat happened to Phyllis and Marnie later on this Halloween night.

  Mack expects Allison to be a bit frosty toward him when he gets home too late to even see the kids in their costumes, having just missed the 6:51 train after all. When he walks in the door, she’s upstairs wrangling the kids into bed. The house is cold and lit only by a few flickering candles that cast weird shadows on the walls. He goes right up, of course, and is immediately regaled with a recap of the evening’s activities by his sugar-fueled daughters.

  Allison can’t get a word in edgewise if she wants to—and he can’t tell whether she wants to. The baby is overtired and cranky and she has her hands full.

  “I left you some macaroni and cheese,” she calls from J.J.’s room after Mack has kissed everyone good night, changed into a double layer of sweats to keep warm, and is about to head back downstairs.

  That’s a good sign.

  He thanks her and goes down to look for it in the candlelit kitchen, hoping it’s the homemade kind she sometimes bakes in her big blue-and-white Corningware dish.

  But it isn’t—of course not. It’s Kraft, from a box, sitting on the countertop in a Saran-wrapped plastic bowl. He forgot that the oven is useless without its electronic control panel. Only the gas stove burners are working.

  He eats the mac and cheese cold with ketchup, standing at the counter. Then he finds a slightly wizened apple in a bowl on the counter, slices it, buries it in cinnamon and sugar, and carries it to the living room. An orange jar candle is burning on the coffee table, throwing off a tiny bit of light and a powerful pumpkin smell.

  He crunches through a slice or two, caught up in his BlackBerry, which was fully charged when he left work but is already down a bar. In trying to tie up a few loose ends he left at the office, he succeeds only in complicating matters even further, and now he’s worried he’s going to run out of battery before anything is resolved.

  This power outage is getting to him.

  No, this job is getting to him.

  Understatement. This job is killing me.

  The fall programming schedule is under-delivering, not achieving the ratings estimates. The clients, furious and frustrated, are looking for make-goods, but there’s no inventory for that; the ad sales team has been scrambling for ways to avoid having to return cash to them in what has become a no-win situation . . .