A Thousand Sleepless Nights

by Teri Harman

  “I’m sure Gill is thrilled.”

  “I’m sure they are best friends by now, Gill and the new guy.”

  Matilda smiled at the idea. “Drinking beer and yuckin’ it up. Swapping farm war stories.” Thea laughed. “Good for Abby though,” Matilda added. “She’s actually someone I’d like to see. Does she still come to the library every Friday?”

  “Like clockwork. Dr. Wells told my mom that the guy is here to take over for Ronnie at the paper.” Thea switched the radio station.

  “Really?” Matilda lifted her head. “Ronnie’s still running the paper? And now he’s giving it over to an outsider? I’m shocked.” She put her hand to her chest sarcastically.

  Thea laughed. “He’s been campaigning for a successor for like ten years, but no one here would take it. He finally had to lure in someone from the real world. Going well for the guy so far, don’t you think?”

  Matilda laughed. “Splendidly, indeed.”

  “And someone told Edith he’s really good looking.”

  “How is Edith? Is she still in town?”

  “My sister is the same as always: quiet, refined, and alone. I swear she’s never gonna allow a man into her life. No one is ever good enough. It’s getting pathetic. I’m two years younger and look at me.” Thea gestured to her belly. “And, yes, she’s still in town. She runs Old Mill Antiques now. Edith and her old junk. It’s a good thing she loves it so much because it’s the only thing she has to keep her company.”

  “I love that store. I’ll have to go see her.”

  “Just don’t try to set her up with anyone.”

  Matilda laughed. “Not really my thing. I’m sure she’ll find someone when the time is right.”

  Thea pulled into Matilda’s driveway, sat back in her seat, and rubbed her belly. “Yeah, maybe. Who knows? I’ve never really understood Edith, but she’s my sister and I love her, so I guess I should stop bad mouthing her.”

  Matilda smiled as she looked out at the faded white clapboard, aspen green shutters, and violet gingerbread trim of Jetty’s Victorian cottage. Matilda had cleared most the weeds yesterday. She still needed to touch up the paint where it had peeled. It had a long way to go to get back to Jetty standards. If she hurried, in the summer there would be roses and wisteria hanging from the porch.

  I always wanted a storybook house, Jetty had said. So I made one. Decided against making it out of candy though. That would probably attract too many bugs.

  The memory made Matilda smile. But then she frowned. And I abandoned it. She relished every moment of the chore to repair it. Atonement. Punishment. For crimes I can’t remember committing.

  “Want me to hang out with you? Beat back the heathens that come knocking?” Thea offered.

  “No, thanks. I’ll survive. You should go home and put your feet up. I’ll see you tomorrow for more ‘accost Matilda’ fun.” She opened her door. “And thanks for the ride.”

  “Of course. See ya!” Thea waved.

  n

  Matilda stood in the kitchen. Only the small Tiffany pendant light over the sink was turned on, casting a colorful soft glow. She stared, hands on hips, at the three pies and platter of cinnamon rolls. What do I do with all that? Cooking to avoid thinking about the upheaval in her life had its problems. Of course, Jetty would be pleased her gourmet kitchen was back in action.

  The trip to the market after Thea dropped her off had been like surviving an obstacle course. She’d dodged people left and right, sprinted down aisles at random to avoid being seen, and crouched behind her cart more than once. But the checkout line had been her undoing. Kathy, the cashier, had a question for every item she scanned.

  But at least Matilda now had food. Plenty. Too much. She could hole up in her house for at least two weeks, if it came to that. Or maybe a whole month. Don’t be dramatic, she told herself, still staring at the baked goods.

  Randomly, she thought of Abby O’Nell and the injured new editor.

  She found a box, put two pies into it, and carried it out to the small, detached garage. Jetty’s old tangerine-orange Volkswagen Bug slumbered under a thick blanket of dust. Matilda could walk to the library and market, and most places in town, but Abby’s place was a half hour outside of Silent Fields. Matilda’s beautiful Bel Air was not there, not in the garage or driveway. Missing. Along with six years. Matilda set the box on the workbench and focused on the car that was there. Will it even start? She found an old rag and scrubbed off the windows, making plans to wash it properly tomorrow night after work. She yanked open the door, which gave a grinding squeal of protest. The inside was nearly as dusty as the outside. With a sigh, Matilda sat in the driver’s seat, slid in the key, and prayed. The engine sputtered, died. She tried again. After a guttural gasp, the engine turned over.

  “A miracle,” she whispered. She smiled at the blue lace agate stone dangling from a string from the rear view mirror. It had always been there. As a child, Matilda had been thrilled by the smooth surface of the stone, adored the early-morning-blue color lined with white, and loved what Jetty said about it. “I put it there because it’s supposed to have calming energy. I hate to drive. It’s like being trapped in a metal box and thrown down a hill. So the stone is there to calm me. But really it’s there because it’s pretty.”

  Matilda touched it now. “It’s still pretty, Jetty.” She retrieved the pie box, wedged it carefully in the passenger seat, and then headed out of town toward Abby’s farm.

  Abby had always been a good friend, a regular at the library. She had read almost as many of the books on the shelves as Matilda had. Each time Abby came in, they’d hide far away from Beverly’s tyrant eye and talk books. Their favorite new cheap romance or a character they couldn’t stop thinking about or how they had cried at an ending.

  Matilda parked outside the old farmhouse. Looking through the murky windshield, she wondered how Abby would receive her. Suddenly nervous, Matilda looked over at the pies and almost turned around to go home. She forced herself out of the car.

  Careful not to upset the pies, she balanced the box up the steps and rang the doorbell with her elbow. It was almost ten o’clock; something she probably should have thought about before she was standing on the porch.

  Thankfully, Abby opened the door, not Gill. Abby blinked twice and then smiled. “Matilda! Is that you, sweetie? Well, bless my soul! I’d heard you were back. What are you doing here?”

  “I made some pies. Thought your invalid might want some comfort food. And I wanted to say hi.”

  Abby laughed. “I wondered how long it would take until that news got ’round.” She pushed open the screen and Matilda stepped in. “I bet it was Dr. Wells. He’s the worst gossip of them all. Not sure he cares much for the whole doctor/patient privacy thing. He was the one told me you were back.”

  “I’m not surprised. Seems he’s been very talkative lately.” Matilda followed Abby to the kitchen and set the pies on the stove. “Apple and pumpkin. Hope you like those.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart. Want coffee, tea? A stiff drink?”

  Matilda laughed. “No, I won’t stay. It’s late.”

  “You sure? I’d love to catch up.” She stepped closer. “I’ve sure missed our book talks.”

  Matilda half smiled, glad for Abby’s kindness. “Yeah, me too. Sorry that I left.” Matilda looked back at the pies.

  Abby must have read something in her expression. “You’ve had to say that a lot lately, huh? The ‘I’m sorry.’ I can only imagine the reception of this town.”

  Matilda continued to look at the pies, trying to hide her emotions. “Yes, I have. I went back to work at the library today.”

  Abby whistled. “Brave girl. Well, you don’t have to say sorry to me. Everyone’s allowed to go crazy and do what they need to do. Our goofy town should mind its own business.” Abby stepped next to her and nudged her arm with her own. “You okay? Looks like you’ve had a rough go.”

  Matilda felt the weight of Abby’s examination. She tugged her l
ong sleeves further down to hide her scars. “A little.”

  “That why you came back?”

  The warmth in Abby’s tone and her standing close made Matilda want to break down into her arms like a little child. Like she would have done with Jetty. “I think so.”

  Abby nodded sagely. “Sometimes you just need to come home.” She stepped away, to the stove, and Matilda exhaled in relief. “You sure I can’t make you a hot beverage? You can sit for a bit. I won’t feel as guilty about shoveling pie into my face if you do it with me.”

  Matilda smiled. “No, thanks. I better go. It’s late and you have the new editor to take care of.”

  Abby looked to the hall again. “I’d introduce you, but I think Henry is sleeping.”

  At the sound of Abby’s guest’s name Matilda felt a sharp pang in her chest. She flinched, confused. To cover the reaction, she said quickly, “No, of course. That’s fine. I’m sure I’ll see him sooner or later.” She moved out into the hall and toward the door. “You’ll be in town Friday, right?”

  “Of course. I’ll find you. I’ve got six years’ worth of books to tell you about.” Abby touched her arm. “Thanks for the pies, dear. You are sweet.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Abby opened the door. “Hang in there. And if you need anything, Tilly …”

  Matilda stepped past her with a shy smile. “Thanks, Abby.” She went down the steps, trying her best to hide her limp. It was obvious Abby noticed it, watching her closely, but the old woman smiled kindly, completely without judgment or curiosity.

  “Good night,” Abby called as Matilda got into her car.

  Abby waved as Matilda turned and drove away.

  Henry

  Henry stood in the hall leaning on his crutches as Abby walked someone to the door. All he could see was long black hair, shiny and rich, and the swish of a long black skirt as the woman walked. And how short she was. His heart took off in an unnatural gallop, his mouth went dry.

  Abby turned, startled. “What are you doing up? Thought you were sleeping.”

  “Who was that?”

  Abby blinked at him, stepping closer. “You are mighty flushed.” She pressed a hand to his forehead. “I think you might have a fever. That can’t be good.”

  Henry heard nothing. “Who was that?” he repeated, staring at the door.

  Abby followed his eyes. “Just a neighbor. Brought you some pie. What’s wrong with you?”

  Henry shook his head. What is wrong with me? “I … I think I got up too fast.”

  Abby hummed a suspicious mmhmm. “Want some pie?”

  He blinked twice, looked away from the front door. “Sure. Yeah, sure.”

  n

  Henry sat on the bed, staring hard at the typewriter. He’d just eaten the best pie of his life. He wanted to write about the woman who’d made it, about a woman he’d seen for no more than three seconds. And he hadn’t really seen her. Just her hair, her short stature, the swing of her hips as she walked. He couldn’t stop thinking about the swing of her hips, the color of her hair. In his head, this partial image was surrounded by words, like a flock of pesky black birds.

  He wondered what her face looked like.

  Henry hopped over and dropped into the chair in front of the sleek machine. He lifted a paper from the stack and slipped it into the paper table. Rolling the knobs, it came into place. A blank page. A writer’s greatest fear. He exhaled, the paper rustling in the sudden rush of air.

  Violently beautiful words, sensual and lovely.

  Hands hovering over the keys, Henry’s heart raced.

  “No,” he whispered to the typewriter. “Stop it.”

  He was an addict; he needed to resist the craving. Especially one that wanted him to write about a woman he didn’t know. Henry threw himself back in the bed. Tomorrow he’d ask Abby to take away the typewriter.

  Matilda

  Late May 1998

  Every night for two weeks, Matilda had nightmares. Tangled in the quilt, her pretty brass bed squeaking as her body jerked and thrashed, she dreamed of spectral, terrible things.

  A voice calling out her name in panic. Someone crying, maybe her. Snow. Endless drifts of frigid snow. And the pain, like nothing she had ever felt. Pain in her head, in her racing heart, and in her left leg.

  Matilda woke at dawn, chest heaving and left leg burning. She threw back the quilt to examine the leg. There was nothing wrong with her leg, except for that four-inch jagged scar. Rubbing the aching muscles, she tried to shove away the nightmare.

  She flopped back to the bed. What is wrong with me? She’d always been a vivid dreamer, but not nightmares; those were rare. She’d had a few in the last days of Jetty’s life—dark visions of being left alone—but nothing like this. These dreams lingered, staying with her all day, mucking up her mood and thoughts.

  But what did she expect? Of course a mind as broken as hers would produce nightmares.

  Matilda shook her head. These desolate dreams. Maybe she should call someone and tell them the truth. Abby? Thea? Parker? If she got it out in the open, would that ease the pressure in her chest? The desire to talk was always there, right on the edge of every thought.

  Turning, she lifted Winston’s book from her nightstand. The pages were well-bent now, the binding loose. She flipped to the page she wanted and read.

  I want to find comfort in my loneliness. I want to crawl under it, a childhood blanket fort, and stay there always. And yet, even as I embrace my solitude, I wish it away. I crave what everyone craves: a house, a family, security, safety. A house full of love, laughter, arguments, the smell of food. I want someone in bed beside me, a hand on my chest late at night. But do I deserve it? I don’t think I do and so I must accept this curse.

  I want to be lonely.

  But I hate it.

  “I hate it,” Matilda repeated out loud.

  When Matilda had been about eight years old and able to grasp that her parents were dead, she’d spent a lot of time crying.

  “Listen to me, Tilly,” Jetty had said, holding her close in that same bed. “You are never alone. Your mom and dad watch over you. The ones we love never really leave us.” She hugged a little tighter. “Always, always remember that.” A moment of silence. “They are dead, but not gone. You are here. You are them. Don’t cry anymore.”

  Now, with washy sunlight creeping in the widows, Matilda closed her eyes, her heart heavy with grief. I’m so alone. I’m cursed. The blackness in her mind threatened to overwhelm her. She took a long breath. “Are you here, Jetty?” she whispered. “I can’t get rid of this grief. I miss you.”

  Matilda sniffed and shook her head. “Stop it.” She got out of bed, leaving the confusing emotions to wither on the pillows. It was Saturday and she had the day off. A whole day of hours that needed filling. So first a long bike ride. While cleaning up the yard, she had found her old bike in the small garage, dusty and tires flat, but otherwise ready to ride after a little care. She’d started riding in high school and had loved it. It was only natural to start again when she had so much time to fill. The best thing about gliding along in the saddle of her road bike was that the world got lost in the slipstream of quickly passing scenery. She could switch gears, push her muscles harder, be in control, and forget. She could move fast and not limp.

  Maybe she could out-pedal the feelings in her chest or ride down some answers.

  n

  The ride had helped.

  Matilda stepped out of the shower feeling lighter, free of her nightmares. She dressed in jeans and a black V-neck Tee and pulled her hair into a ponytail. There was one more room that needed cleaning. The last thing. The thing she’d put off long enough.

  Jetty’s room.

  Matilda opened the door, which squeaked in protest, having been shut for so long. The smell of dust was strong, but the memories were stronger. They hit Matilda full in the face. Instantly, there were tears on her cheeks.

  Across the hall from Matilda’s room, Jetty’s be
droom had always owned a sense of wonder. It was a magical place. Jetty had painted a large mural of the beach and the ocean that covered all four walls. It was the same picture on each wall—a strip of sandy beach and the rolling ocean beyond—but each one had a different feeling. One was sunny; one was cloudy and gray, churned up during a rainstorm; one was a peachy sunset; and the last was sparkling under the full moon.

  Each stunningly real.

  Standing there now, Matilda swore she could hear the surf.

  As a child, Matilda had often wondered why Jetty had chosen to fill her room with the ocean. They lived on the dusty plains; the ocean was so far away. But knowing now about Enzo and Florida, it made perfect sense.

  Jetty had a four-post bed, draped with silks of all different colors. When Matilda was in eighth grade, Jetty had become obsessed with birdcages. The room was filled with birdcages, all shapes, sizes, and colors. And Jetty had filled them with her books, getting rid of her traditional shelves, as if to keep the words from flying away.

  Matilda walked over to one cage nearly as tall as she and touched the cool metal. On the top of the stacks of books was Jetty’s favorite: Bridge to Terabithia. Memories of the funeral, of Jetty reading her the book nearly every summer of her life, flooded her mind. It was a story about losing the person you love most in the world. That vibrant, amazing person who showed you the world. So like Jetty’s own life, and now, so like Matilda’s.

  Sniffling, Matilda stepped back and put her hands on her hips.

  Time to work. No more tears.

  Henry

  This place is just right for you!”

  “It’s nice.”

  “Nice? This is one of the best apartments in town. You’re lucky it’s available.”

  Henry smiled as he shook his head. Abby walked slowly around the space while he leaned into the white quartz island in the small kitchen area. His new apartment was two blocks over from the library, where his new office was, and one of four built into an old colonial mansion that had once been the mayor’s residence. This unit was on the top floor, the east side. He appreciated that the owners had transformed it to look like a New York loft with exposed gray brick, tall windows, and an open studio floor plan.