“Look Richard, I’m sorry if you’re--”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he interrupted, grabbing the bull by the horns. Her words took a side-route of pity, and he felt no desire to travel down that road. He wanted no continuation of last night’s affairs, the crying, the yelling, the name-calling. “I didn’t lose any sleep,” he said sarcastically. In truth, he never did, over Pam or anyone else, even though he sometimes wished and prayed that he could spend just one night tossing and turning with a harried mind, collecting images of the prior day’s ordinary events. But that never happened.
Now, his expectations of losing Pam were finally turning into a reality, and it hurt deep down inside. She was the only person he ever trusted enough to share his secret world with. The one and only close acquaintance who was altogether willing to look past the chaos in his life in an effort to perpetuate a long-lasting relationship. She’d been incredibly understanding at first when he told her that she couldn’t sleep with him--as in spend the night sleeping. He knew her interpretation of this was more or less ‘an inherent attempt to commence their relationship the old fashion way.’ The sex had been quite good at first, each sharing a docile, reasonably trustworthy approach to lovemaking. But when the volume of sex they shared increased and their intimacies flourished to a point where their relationship should have held no secrets, Richard maintained his rather odd, belligerent demand with no rational explanation: that they never sleep together.
Sleep, as in simply spending the night doing just that. Sleeping. For reasons unknown to Pam, this had been Richard’s source of tribulation, a rather perplex hang-up that placed an emotional burden on their relationship, making Richard Sparke one damn difficult person to be with.
“Well, it looks as if you were awake all night. You could play outfield for the Yankees with those circles under your eyes.”
“Please don’t play games with me. We’ve been through all this before.“ Up until last night, Pamela had never acted rudely, but Richard wasn’t entirely positive that this cutesy knock had intended to be cynical. She’d become so damn frustrated, and many times he’d considered giving in to her simply because he loved her. But he reminded himself time and time again that if he did succumb and give her what she truly wanted--allow her to spend the night--it would very much grant her full understanding of his impervious situation, something he absolutely, positively could not do. It would prove to be a fate worse than just the end of their relationship.
And it was here, immediately after her snide remark, while she stood staring and thinking and waiting for some kind of cue, that Richard Sparke saw something truly foreign in Pamela Bergin’s magnificent blue eyes. A tiny spark notably distinct from the sweeping pain and sadness filling them last night. This observation shocked Richard, not unlike her cry that startled him awake. He’d never noticed anything quite like it before, in her or anyone else for that matter, and he immediately feared that something might be very wrong with her.
Still sitting, she stared him down, the strain in her features--dilated pupils eating away the blue of her irises, flushed skin, veins bulging at her temples--was an irregularity he could only interpret as incalculable rage.
Pamela Bergin, the woman he knew and loved and was about to lose, looked very different. All of a sudden, she was a different person.
A monster.
And damn, it scared Richard Sparke to death.
Somnambulism
Pamela Bergin had maintained the patience of a saint throughout their four month struggle to secure a relationship between them. Little did she know at the time that it would do her no good in the end.
They’d met by accident after Richard decided on a whim to follow up a painful therapy session at Doctor Delaney’s office with a trip to the bookstore for some additional research into his ongoing problem. Stafford’s Coffee House had supplied not only a wide spectrum of books and magazines and music to suit nearly every cultural preference, but also offered a fair-sized eat-in cafe with an acoustic folk duo performing sixties covers, and of course, nearly twenty flavors of coffee. Not to mention the desserts, truly satisfying to a wide variety of palates. Richard had found a seat in the cafe, one at a fairly safe distance from the small crowd developing in front of the band, and started reading up on REM-related sleep disorders over a cinnamon scone and cafe mocha. The stimulating combination of caffeine and sugar had picked him up a bit, and the sounds of soft music distracted him from his real reasons for being there in the first place.
Evidently the two female guitarists had earned a nice following, and although the cafe filled up rather quickly, Richard found the crowd to be generally passive, and unassuming. They were there to drink coffee and enjoy some smooth, gentle music. For the first time in months, Richard was enjoying himself.
“Is someone sitting here?”
The first thing he noticed were her eyes, crystal blue with flecks of red that divulged only the purest and most honest of personalities. Her wine colored lips screamed taste me, and the bronze tone in her skin told the story of European ancestry, something Richard bore a soft spot for.
“Are you okay?” She squinted as if unsure of her decision to share a table with him.
He shook away his reverie with an uncomfortable laugh. “No, I’m...yes. Of course I’m okay. I was just having some coffee.” A sneaking, sensory sluggishness and curtailment of decision-making abilities were two of the many ill effects Richard had come to associate with his sleeping problems. When he’d first met Samantha, he’d had no trouble performing the slyest of strategies courting her; here and now, when it fell into his lap like hungry cat sucking up to its owner at mealtime, he embarrassingly stumbled over his words, sounding much like an over-zealous second-grader revealing a truly special item during show-and-tell.
She placed a hand on the back of the chair. No ring. “If you’d rather be alone...”
“Yes, no, of course,” he interrupted. “Please sit down.”
She nestled into the seat opposite him, placing a napkin and a cup of coffee on the table between them. She crossed her legs and Richard couldn’t help but check out the soft denim skirt riding high above the knee. When he peered back up, she gave him a delicate, near eye-contact smile. Caught with your hand in the cookie jar, eh, Richard? That assured his immobility for a while--he’d have to allow ‘things’ to settle back down before standing up.
He pretended to go back to his perusal, fingering the pages in the book but not really reading the words. His mind had lost its initial focus, now settled on the beautiful woman only two feet away.
He sipped some coffee; it was cold. Here and there he glanced at tan-blue-eyes-dark-hair, but she kept her attentions to the band. Richard turned in his seat to face the music, trying to appear interested. He didn’t possess a taste for folksy renditions; he liked his tunes with more of a progressive edge, singing Stratocasters with distortion and reverb and wah-wahs. The acoustic duet was nearly lost behind those seated in front. They were in the middle of a choicy version of Tom Petty’s ‘Free Falling’.
“They’re pretty good, huh?” he asked, looking not in her eyes but somewhere between her lips and neck. Skin so smooth. Delicate.
She smiled. “Yep, they always are.”
From this straight-on, face to face angle her voice sounded a touch deeper. It had a DemiMoore raspiness to it, and he knew that if she ever whispered close in his ear he would damn near turn to jelly. “Do you know them?”
She nodded. “One of the girls dated a friend of mine.”
“Lucky guy,” Richard commented.
“Girl, actually.”
He buried his face in his hands, smiling. There’d be no hiding the red rush in his cheeks when he pulled them away. “Oops,” he said. When he faced her again, he added an ironic grin to compliment his embarrassment. She returned the flirtatious gesture with two rows of fine pearly whites, the positive response catching him with pleasant surprise. Not only was this woman beautiful, but in these few minute
s he could tell that she knew all the angles and attitudes of perfect gracefulness.
Richard hadn’t had much cause to smile in quite some time. Now he couldn’t wipe the moronic beam off his face. Failing to hide his enthusiasm, he said, “I didn’t even know they had bands here.”
Head bobbing gently to the music, she said, “Well…it’s more of a duet, I’d say. No bass, no drums, doesn’t make much of a band.”
Richard looked down at his hands, at once uncomfortable and tongue-tied. For him, it was very easy to dissect every word coming from a person’s mouth, and then create either a negative or positive interpretation. It all depended on how you looked at it, how much light you shed upon their words. Here, her statement could have been brusque; it might have been an attempt at humor. He couldn’t tell.
Only one way to find out.
He held out his right hand. “I’m Richard Sparke.”
She smiled, warmly accepting his handshake. “Pamela Bergin.”
“Are you here by yourself?”
Her brow arched, and she pinned him with a semi-serious look. She latched on to her near-empty coffee cup with both hands, a gesture of security. Richard noticed her defensive reflex, realizing that his question could have been interpreted as a possible invasion of privacy.
“I came to see my friends play,” she said.
That answered his question in a roundabout sort of way, satisfying him enough to move forward with the conversation. “I just wanted to make sure I didn’t get in any kind of trouble if I offered to buy you another coffee.”
Her smile returned, albeit thinner and slightly less welcoming than before. She loosened the bond with her coffee cup, perhaps a bit more comfortable. “Thanks. But I’ll be up all night.”
“Decaf then?”
She hesitated as if analyzing the solicitation. If she agreed, then it would be a commitment towards conversation for as long as it took her to finish the coffee. She nodded. “Sure. Thanks, Richard.” The sound of her voice saying his name sent shivers down his spine. He scooted up to the counter. Minutes later, he returned with two cups of decaf and placed them on the table.
“Thanks.” She gently blew upon the steamy surface. “Are you a student?”
“Do I look that young?”
“You don’t have to be young to take college courses.” She ran her hand palm-down across the table, tapped the open textbook in front of him. “While you were getting the coffees I noticed you were reading a chapter on ‘The Psychology of Sleep Disorders’.”
While at the counter Richard had promised himself not let any gush of enthusiasm creep into his voice, difficult as that might be given the level of attractiveness Pam possessed. It would more than likely ruin the air of confidence he’d hoped to manifest for a first-impression. Now that she directed the conversation toward the one thing he knew so much about, sleep disorders, it would be difficult not to appear overly impassioned.
Take a deep breath, Richard. Just like Dr Delaney instructed you to do during those moments of distress. A long slow deep breath...
“I’m not the best sleeper in the world,” he confessed, leaning back. His right elbow accidentally nudged the woman seated behind him. He received a slight twist of the head in retort, and returned a half-hearted apology in response.
Pam cocked her head to one side and offered an apologetic grin. “I can relate, Richard. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over a year.”
“Insomnia?”
She nodded. “Been to a few doctors for it . They can’t seem to help me.”
“Really? That bad, huh?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Did they prescribe any sleep aids? What about Ambien? I heard it works wonders.”
She grinned, nodded. “Oh, I’m all too familiar with Ambien. But my problem isn’t falling asleep. It’s staying asleep. I wake up after an hour or so, and on bad nights I’ll be up until the morning.”
“Takes a real toll on you, huh?”
“Especially after taking a pill,” she said, sipping her coffee. Richard found something comforting in the way she performed the mundane action. The sound of her lips, gently sucking in, was like the gentle swish of ocean waves on a sandy beach. His conscience reminded him of something Dr Delaney had said once, the psychiatrist sitting back in his leather highback, double chin pressed against his collar, voice deep and resonating: inclinations like these are driven by deep-down sexual desires, Richard. Jesus. Did it really matter what Delaney thought anyway? As long as Pam was willing to talk, then he would go ahead and accept any positive intuitions with open arms. Sexual or simply ebullient. Didn’t matter, as long as it felt good.
She sighed breathily, and he smelled the coffee on her breath. Warm and tasteful, no doubt. “I’m sure you understand all too well.”
“Actually, insomnia’s not my problem. I’m a pretty heavy sleeper.”
She gazed oddly at him, eyes wide and brows raised with speculation, as if she had a bit of trouble understanding his insinuation. Apparently Pam hadn’t realized that insomnia wasn’t the only sleep-related affliction people suffered from. “I thought you said you weren’t the greatest sleeper.”
“Well, I said that I’m not a very good sleeper.”
“So what’s the difference?”
He blew out a deep nervous breath. Discussing the problem had always made him feel a bit uncomfortable, whether it was here and now with Pam, or with Doctor Delaney where moments of discomfort and duress were commonplace. Where snippets of an unpleasant dream would come back to haunt him and make him realize that some things were better off left in the locked rooms of his mind where they couldn’t hurt him or anyone else. Where--following the sessions and the tests and the treatments that never seemed to work very well--he’d begun to believe that no one out there would ever understand or make sense of what he was going through, even Dr. Delaney himself. Yes, perhaps some things were better off left unsaid.
Group therapy had been a suggested alternative on the part of the psychiatrist, but Richard couldn’t accept placing himself amongst those others whom he generally classified as mentally delicate, regardless if they suffered from comparably disabling symptoms. Richard Sparke, only thirty-four years of age, felt strong, confident, smart. Not like those meek-minded individuals seeking counseling in group therapy. His problem, he was convinced, had been prompted by outside forces. Not from a frenzied subconscious, as the doctor had led him to believe.
His words came out slowly and stiffly, a safeguard against divulging any more details of his ‘illness’ than he really wanted to. “My problem isn’t sleeping...I can’t believe I’m telling you this. I don’t even know you...”
Pamela placed a gentle hand on his, a gesture both friendly and sincere. Ripples of pleasure lanced down his back. “No, please. Go ahead. I’m very interested. Besides, if you’re willing to lend me an ear after you’re through, I’d be more than happy to get into how raggy I am on bad-sleep nights.”
They both laughed. The mood between them lightened some, and he felt the sudden urge to tell Pamela everything about his nocturnal distress.
Almost everything.
The folk duet started strumming a gentle version of Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. “To make a long story short...I suffer from somnambulism." Richard, trying to sound smart.
"Somnambulism?"
“Sleepwalking.”
“Wow. That’s interesting.”
“Yeah, well it might be interesting to someone on the outside, but it’s not much fun for the person who actually experiences it. It’s really scary. You’ll never really know what you’ve gotten yourself into until you wake up the next morning.”
Pamela fingered her cup handle. “Can I ask a question?”
“Sure.”
“Have you ever woken up during a sleepwalk episode?”
He smiled, nodded. The ardent look in her eyes and the intense tone of voice, not to mention her use of the word ‘episode’, fostered Richard’s trus
t for her and made him realize that she might even be sensibly fit to evaluate his problem on a more relative level, as opposed to Dr Delaney’s highly singular professional perspective. This was something he’d always craved, but never encountered. “I can’t honestly answer that. I always wake up in bed. Sometimes utterly exhausted because I might have been up and about for most of the night doing things.”
She pinned him with serious, unflinching eyes. Delicious blue eyes. She looked genuinely interested. And beautiful. “Interesting. What kind of things do you do?”
This was an area Richard decided not to explore. Not yet, anyway. “Menial things,” he lied. “Housecleaning...not very efficiently, I might add. Some other activities, ones that wouldn’t make much sense to the casual, awake observer. This morning, for instance, I found all the pillows from the house outside, piled up on the front lawn.”
“Nothing personal,” she joked, adding some light laughter, “but that’s kind of strange.”
If you were her boyfriend or husband, she’d probably have you committed. Isn’t that right, blue eyes? “It’s getting better though,” he lied again. “I used to sleepwalk every night. Now it’s only an occasional event.”
“Do you know anything about insomnia?”
Richard felt his heart pounding with excitement. This woman named Pamela Bergin really seemed interested in what he, Richard Sparke, had to say. And now she was seeking his advice. He could take this conversation anywhere. All he had to do was lie. Again. “Sure. You want some of my expertise?”
She nodded. “Yes, I would like that very much.”
Here goes nothing... “Over dinner?”
She smiled. Damn well too. “Sure.”
Fear
“Pam?”
“What, Richard?” She turned away, facing the wall. The sharp glow in her eyes that had insinuated fear now departed. He felt a twinge of relief at the reversion, but it had been short lived. When he rose from bed to approach her and she looked at him again, the panic shot back into her dilated pupils much like the shifting skin of an angry octopus--even brighter than before. Damn, something was definitely wrong with Pam.
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