A Thousand Sleepless Nights

by Teri Harman

  Matilda

  Matilda cooked eggs with tomatoes and basil in Henry’s kitchen. The basil was from her own garden, sealed in a plastic baggie and given to Henry only days ago. Another lifetime, other people, Matilda thought as she resealed the bag and returned it to the fridge.

  Abby ate more than Matilda expected, and it made Matilda feel better. Hopefully Abby too, although Abby’s face remained pale, her eyes distant. Matilda sat on Henry’s couch with her legs tucked under her, staring at his typewriter as she listened to him read Abby to sleep. Matilda didn’t hear the words he said, only the cadence of his voice. The only words in her head were those of the letters he had written.

  He’d written them to her not knowing she read them. She knew every word was as real as it could be, every sentence unabridged, unrestrained. Raw. She found satisfaction in that. But not comfort.

  Henry startled her with a hand on her shoulder. “She’s asleep,” he said. She didn’t look up, her eyes still on the typewriter. “Do you want me to put it somewhere else?” he asked.

  At that she did look up, finding the underside of his chin as he also stared at the typewriter. “No,” she whispered. “We can’t hide from this. Sit with me.”

  Henry sat, leaving space between them. Matilda hated that space, but found it necessary. The last time she’d been in this room there’d been passion hot enough to curl the edges of some of Henry’s books. Part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms, kiss him, touch him, until ecstasy evaporated all the bad. She cleared her throat. “Tell me more.”

  “I woke up in the Detroit library, thinking it was 1992. The book and the typewriter on the table in front of me.”

  “I woke up in Jetty’s house, in my bed, the place in shambles, and I thought it was the morning after I left Silent Fields. I thought I’d decided not to go. The typewriter and book were on the bed.”

  Henry ran a hand back through his hair. “How is that possible?” he whispered. Unexpectedly, he stood and went to the desk. He returned with a scrap of paper and a pen. “Write, ‘For Henry.’ ”

  Matilda’s heart pounded. She took the paper, lowered it to the simple pine coffee table. With an unsteady hand, she wrote the words while Henry went back to the desk to rummage through a pile of books. He came back with his copy of Louis Winston’s book. The sight of it, real and held in Henry’s hands made her shudder.

  He opened to the title page and lowered the book next to the scrap of paper. The air stilled. “The same,” he murmured.

  “Mine says ‘For Matilda.’ ”

  Henry knelt down and wrote the words next to hers on the paper.

  “The same,” Matilda echoed. She’d know that handwriting anywhere. “I’ve read this book at least ten times. Something about it …”

  Henry shifted to sit on the floor, his shoulder against her leg. “I’ve only read it once. The night I punched Parker.”

  “Is that why you were so upset? Why you were … crying?”

  “Yes. The words were so hard to read and they felt so … familiar. So blindingly real.”

  For a moment, they said nothing. Matilda stared at the mountain scene on the cover of A Thousand Sleepless Nights. “I did run away and … we met,” she finally said, feeling dazed.

  “We fell in love,” Henry said. “I can’t remember it, but of that I am sure.” He fumbled for her hand and she took it. She rubbed his knuckles, as certain as he.

  “What happened? Why is that book so important to us?” Matilda bit her bottom lip. “And the typewriters?”

  Henry slowly shook his head. “Do you feel that?” He leaned into her leg. “When you think of that lost time.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Something terrible.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought I had gone mad. Actually, insane. Same as my mother.”

  Henry looked up at her. “What do you mean?”

  “My mom—there was something wrong with her mind. She … saw things and thought things that weren’t real. She drove our car into oncoming traffic and killed herself and Dad. I was six months old.” She shivered, took an unsteady breath. “I didn’t know until a couple weeks after all this started. I found a letter in Jetty’s room. I thought …”

  “You had inherited her condition?”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “I even started taking medication. I’ve wanted to tell you but didn’t know how.”

  Henry sighed, kissed the back of her hand. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I had no idea how to explain my memory loss. So I ran from it. I saw the job announcement for the editor here and just ran. Then when the typewriter typed back, I was sure there was something wrong with me. I threw it across the room.”

  “But how …”

  “I put it back together.”

  “The grease under your fingernails.”

  “Dr. Wells found a shadow on an MRI of my brain. I thought that explained everything. I thought I’d been in an accident and hurt my head. Amnesia, you know?”

  Matilda’s pulse quickened. “The scars …”

  Henry frowned, his eyes dropped to her left leg. “We both have scars. We must have been in an accident together, but amnesia? Both of us for the exact same amount of time?” He scoffed. “That sounds impossible, right?”

  Matilda looked over at Abby asleep in the bed, a mound under Henry’s gray comforter. “Do you have dreams?”

  Henry stiffened. “Nightmares. I’m hurt, someone is crying. I’m desperate to help, but can’t. I never see anything clearly.”

  “Me too. There is someone with me—I can feel them. I call out, but never hear the name. All I can hear is a baby crying.” Another chill down her spine. Henry turned to her. “I think it was you I called to,” she said slowly. His face paled, his eyes grew wide.

  Matilda thought of the empty side of her bed. She thought of that moment in The Mad Hash when her eyes had found his. The air in the room now rippled as it did then, smelling of books and cinnamon.

  Henry whispered. “I want to remember.”

  Matilda let her eyes fall to A Thousand Sleepless Nights. The cadence of the words, the feel of them were so similar to Henry’s letters. She sat forward. “You’re Louis Winston!”

  “What?”

  “You wrote this book, these stories. It was published in 1997, during the lost time. You wrote it!”

  Henry shook his head, but the movement soon slowed. He lifted the book. “I have a PhD in creative writing. I … I’ve wanted to be a writer most of my life.” The scene from his childhood of Todd beating Mavis flashed in his mind. “But I checked on this book. It’s from a small publisher in Detroit. I called and they said they couldn’t give me any personal information on Louis Winston. They said I could write a letter and they would pass it on. I never heard back.”

  Matilda knew she was right, two pieces coming together in her head. “My middle name is Louis.”

  Henry stilled. “Mine is Winston. Louis Winston. A pen name made from both our names.” He touched the book again and opened to the dedication page. “ ‘For my wife, who breathed life into these once pathetic stories and awakened my shy heart with her shining brilliance and sublime beauty.’ ”

  The air in the room stopped moving, all sound sucked away in the vortex of those words. Henry’s hand went cold in Matilda’s grip. “For my wife,” he repeated in a whisper.

  Henry

  Matilda pulled her hand away from Henry’s to cover her face. Henry, suddenly restless, stood and went to one of the tall single-hung windows. He pushed it open as wide as it would go, letting in the warm, sugary breeze. He sucked in a few breaths as memories sparked in his head.

  “We met at the library,” Matilda said. “I ran away and didn’t stop until I saw that beautiful library in Detroit.”

  “It took me nearly a month to find the courage to ask you to dinner.”

  “We went to that little Italian place, with the divine ravioli. I ate two plates, and then we had gelato. Dark chocolate. It was like silk.�
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  “I held your hand on the walk back. The streets were so crowded with people.”

  “You kissed me for the first time in the stacks.”

  “My favorite place to be with you.”

  “You wrote me love letters.”

  “On the typewriters.”

  Henry did not move. His feet were rooted to the floor. He could feel the joists in the wood plank floors, the large beams underneath, the electrical wires, plumbing, dust settled between—all of it. Abby shifted in his bed. Gill was dead. And Matilda was his wife.

  “But I don’t remember …” Matilda started.

  “There’s more. I can’t remember asking you to marry me or the wedding.”

  “There’s more.” Matilda sighed loudly as she dropped her head to the back of the couch. “My name is Matilda Craig. It felt weird when Beverly called me Miss White.”

  Henry shuddered, finally finding a way to move. He lowered his chin to look down into the empty street. A flutter of movement caught his attention. Someone walking. A woman in a long flowing skirt, curly hair. Henry stepped closer, looking down the length of the building, but she was gone. Something about her was familiar …

  “Henry?” It was Abby, her voice weak and thin.

  He went to her, Matilda came too. “What’s wrong?” he said.

  Abby shifted, sitting up against the pillows. She looked from him to Matilda. “The memories will come back.”

  Henry blinked. “You heard all that?”

  “You think I could actually sleep?” She shook her head. “You’re married!” A big smile. “I can’t believe this. I always knew there was something between the two of you, something more. It’s bizarre, for sure, but you’re together again. I have to believe your memories will come back.”

  Matilda looked away. Henry asked, “But what do we do? We don’t know how this happened. This kind of thing shouldn’t be able to happen. How does so much time just disappear? And the books and typewriters?”

  Abby shrugged. “I don’t know. But sometimes it’s not the how, but the why. Why did this happen to you?”

  Matilda wrapped her arms around herself. Henry wanted to hold her. She said, “It feels like a punishment.”

  “Oh, Tilly. Don’t say that,” Abby cooed. “You found each other again. That can’t be punishment. It’s a miracle, really.”

  Henry’s mind spun, a carousel of information, out of control. “But Matilda’s right,” he said. “It feels … black. Dark.”

  “Loss always feels that way.” Abby closed her eyes.

  For several minutes no one spoke. Henry dug deep into his mind, trying to force memories to the surface. A few had come, why not all? Matilda caught his eye. Henry felt the turn of her mind match his and all the words neither of them could say out loud like rocks in the gears. The despondent curve of her shoulders, the droop of her head brought a hot sting to the back of his eyes. He looked away.

  Matilda lowered herself to the bed. Henry suddenly realized how bone-deep tired he felt. He lay down also, he and Matilda curled into matching positions on their sides, parentheses around Abby. He wanted to say something but didn’t know what.

  Cricket song drifted in through the open window.

  At some point, all three of them succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep.

  Matilda

  Birdsong pulled her from a restless sleep. Matilda blinked. Her shoulder and neck were wickedly stiff. A thick shaft of sunlight came in the open window, a square spotlight on the wood floor at the foot of the bed. She stared at the dust swirling in the tunnel of light for several long, unmoving moments.

  Henry is my husband.

  She could hear him breathing steadily on the other side of the bed, but didn’t look over.

  Henry is my husband. Lucy was our daughter. And she died. She died!

  Matilda remembered it all, every terrible detail. All six years had come back to her as she slept, the worst nightmare of them all.

  Somehow I did this to us. I erased those years with the fire of my grief.

  She felt the power of the words she’d said in the car. I wish I’d never met you. How could she have such power, to actually make the black wish come true? How did she live with this? How did she face that power and not shrivel away into nothing?

  What happens now?

  Matilda slipped soundlessly off the bed. She stood for a moment in the warm shaft of sun, her gaze on Henry. She wanted to touch him. She wanted him to wake up and tell her none of it was true. But she knew it was, without a doubt. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she moved away. Fighting the pain, she left the apartment. It was just past dawn. The streets were still deserted; only the birds greeted the sun. She realized halfway to her house that she’d left her shoes. Her feet were starting to get raw from the rough pavement and asphalt. She sighed with relief when she stepped onto the cool, dew-damp grass of her backyard.

  Glancing at the garden, a raw ache in her chest, she went into the house. She lifted the typewriter from the floor and set it on the coffee table. Slowly, she rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the platen. Her hands trembled over the black and silver keys.

  Henry, I remember.

  I remember Lucy. Do you remember her? We had a child. A beautiful, sweet little girl. She died, and I wished our lives away. The power of my grief somehow answered that sadistic wish, burying our lives. This is my fault. Jetty warned me about grief and I didn’t listen. Now I’ve ruined the beauty of what we had. Lucy is gone, and I destroyed our memories, our love.

  I don’t know how to say I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter anyway; there is no forgiveness for this.

  Goodbye, Henry.

  Matilda left the typewriter, tears rolling down her cheeks. She packed a bag, numb and dazed, thinking only one thought: I ruined everything. She put on fresh clothes, good sneakers, and brushed her hair and teeth. Ready to go.

  Stepping out in the backyard, she remembered her car was at Henry’s. I’ll walk. I’ll just walk until there is nothing left of me. She went to the garden, put her duffle on the grass by her feet. Her beautiful, thriving garden. She picked a basil leaf, smelled it. An inexplicable rage burst in her chest, so hot and surprising, she reacted before she understood what was happening. With vicious hands, she ripped off whole chunks of the basil plant. Tore at the tomato and pumpkin vines, cutting the flesh of her palms. Grunting, nearly screaming, she kept going.

  Ripping.

  Pulling.

  Destroying.

  Strong hands yanked on her shoulders, pulling her back. “Stop it!”

  Henry’s face in her face.

  “Tilly! That’s enough.”

  “No!” she screamed, beating on his chest. “Go away!”

  He didn’t go away; he held her tighter, fighting her rage until she was exhausted. Finally, her eyes focused on her arms and hands pressed against him. Dirt splattered all over her. She saw it on her arms, felt it on her face and clothes, like blood at a murder scene.

  “Tilly?” Henry said cautiously.

  “I …” She looked from him to the massacred plants to her hands stained brown and green. “Lucy … our sweet Lucy,” she sobbed, collapsing to the ground, kneeling with her face in her hands.

  Henry knelt beside her. “Tilly, look at me, please.”

  “No, I can’t,” she cried. Matilda felt her chest would cave in, her body would burn to ashes. “I ruined us. I have to leave. I have to go. Leave me alone, Henry. Let me go.”

  Henry said nothing, and Matilda knew he blamed her.

  As he should.

  Henry

  Henry’s body had gone completely numb. He felt nothing, as if he floated, weightless and displaced, only a broken mind. He remembered it all, had seen it in his sleep just as Matilda had. The final nightmare. Every second of what had been missing. He’d been pulled from the final moments by the sound of typewriter keys. He dove across the room to read the words typing themselves. Her words. To him. A letter goodbye.

  The moment
he saw those last words—Goodbye, Henry—he’d run. Faster than ever before. Across town, into her yard. The sight of Matilda ripping apart her garden, the angry, foreign sounds in her chest, would never leave him.

  A freak accident, a child’s death, and one sentence had changed everything.

  I wish I’d never met you. The words echoed in his head.

  He looked at Matilda now, shaking on the grass, but hardly saw her past the white-hot anger.

  All this is her fault. One errant sentence and she ruined us. How could she do that?!

  Henry put his hands in his hair, pressing into his raging head. No, no, it’s my fault. I was the one driving. I killed our daughter. Matilda only erased the memories. I should thank her for that.

  In his mind, he saw Lucy, her round face and dark hair. Her eyes, the same color as his own.

  The anger drained away. Only grief and confusion remained. He looked at Matilda. He could let her leave. He could leave too. They could leave each other, run away. Pretend it never happened. A rush of fear made him dizzy. If I do that, it’ll be Mavis all over again. It will be the worst mistake I’ll ever make.

  I have to save us.

  Henry immediately reached for Matilda, trying to take her in his arms. She thrashed at him again. “Don’t touch me! I did this. It’s my fault.”

  He tightened his grip, pushing her snarling hands down. “No. No! I won’t let you go away again.”

  Matilda stilled, stiff as stone. “How can you forgive me?”

  He pushed the hair away from her tear and dirt stained face. He held her face until she looked at him. A bizarre happiness rose inside him, standing next to the pain. “I proposed to you in the stacks. It was the second of January, seven months after we met. I remember the way you looked in your wedding dress, the curve of your tiny hips under the white silk, and the smile you gave me as we faced each other to say our vows. The sound of your sigh in your sleep on our wedding night. All the words that came to me from you. I wrote and wrote because of you. I remember the determined, nearly supernatural look on your face as you labored to push Lucy from your body.” He wiped tears from her face, ignoring his own. “I remember the horror of watching you in the backseat with Lucy after the accident. How the world ended when you said she was dead.” He took a shaky breath. “And I want those memories, all of them.”