Sleepwalking in Daylight

by Elizabeth Flock

  “Nope,” he says.

  “Really? Even a quick flash of a thought that maybe this isn’t what you pictured your life would be?”

  “Can you get to the point?” he asks.

  “It’s just,” I say. “Every once in a blue moon you don’t get the teensiest panicked when you look around at your life?”

  “Panic? Jesus, Sam, where are you going with this? Our life panics you? Are you serious?”

  “Okay, okay, maybe panic is the wrong word—”

  “Sam …”

  “Surprised! Maybe you look around and you’re surprised you have this life. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

  “Not really, no,” he says. “I don’t feel that way. Obviously you do but I don’t. What’s so surprising? This is what we always wanted, right? A family, healthy kids, friends, a nice house …”

  “I know, I know,” I say. “Maybe I’m just—You’re turning back to the computer now?”

  “What else is there to say? You feel panicked and I feel fine. People can disagree, you know. It’s not the end of the world.”

  He turns back to the screen again.

  “It’s because … can’t we talk about this?”

  “We just did,” he says. He shrugs and starts tapping on the keyboard again.

  “What’re you looking at that’s more important than talking to your wife about your marriage?”

  I look over his shoulder. “Real estate? You’re looking at houses?”

  “I’m looking at comps,” he says. “I want to see what the Silvermans’ house is listed for. Is that okay with you?”

  “Bob, seriously. I only want you to let me in. It’s like pulling teeth to get you to open up and I’m so tired of it.”

  “Jesus, Sam,” he says. “Every other goddamn day you talk about how you feel about this or that. You’re asking me how I feel about this or that—”

  “Because you don’t talk to me! And it’s not every other day.” I want to say, I bet you talk to her. That’s if there even is a her. Maybe there isn’t, I don’t know. I don’t want to know.

  “Let me finish. I’m just …” He trails off, trying to form the words. “I’m sick of it. And now you’re telling me you’re panicked? I’ve told you how I feel. I feel nothing. You happy now? I feel nothing.”

  That last statement throws us both into silence. He looks startled and sorry the words have come out of his mouth. WHOA! bubbles into the space between us, freakishly huge like the POW! and ZOWEE! from the old Batman and Robin fights.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for finally saying that out loud.”

  “Sam, wait—”

  “I’m being totally serious,” I say. “I’m not picking a fight. I’m relieved, actually. It’s a relief to hear you admit it. You feel nothing. No—don’t get huffy—you said it. I wanted you to tell me how you feel and you just said it all.”

  “I don’t feel nothing like the way you’re thinking,” he says. “I don’t mean I feel nothing toward the kids. Or you.”

  “No, no, no—I totally get it. I think I’ve known it all along. But I want to ask you something. Don’t shut down again, okay? Just hear me out. Do you think it’s possible … wait, just listen! We haven’t talked about it in months, so don’t roll your eyes like that. Do you think maybe you’re depressed? You don’t sleep well at night. You don’t have a sex drive—don’t get mad, I’m just saying it’s a sign of depression. Nothing makes you happy anymore. This is sheer inertia.”

  “Here we go …”

  “Couldn’t you just entertain the thought? Why do you have that look on your face? What’re you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking I’d like to know what the Silvermans’ house is listed for.”

  I walk away and replay the sting of his words, letting them sink in and it is too big to cry about. That’s all I can think: that it’s too big to wrap my head around. This is where we are. I want so badly to know how we ended up like this. Yes, okay, sure, we never really had that spark, that chemistry, but we were best friends. Pals. Now we sit here in silence. It may be chaotic with the kids, but with us? Silence. That, or fighting. I wonder how he describes me to her. If there even is a her. Maybe there isn’t, I don’t know. Everybody argues and says things they maybe wish they hadn’t, but this isn’t that. He’s wrong—this isn’t all I think about every single day. I stay busy. Busy busy busy. I’m so busy I can barely think about what to make for dinner. Busy. I go to my school meetings and I pick up the dry cleaning and I cook and clean and do a million other things I can’t remember I’ve done at the end of each day. I am the queen of multitasking. I organize my errands efficiently. I buy flats of impatiens to plant only after May fifteenth when the frosts are guaranteed to be over. I help out with school fund-raisers. I run Race for the Cure every year. I plant mums in the front on October first. I pick out the freshest roping to swag on the front of the house for wintertime. In between I do just about everything you need to do to keep a house humming along. That’s who I am. I’m busy. I am every other mom in America.

  Cammy

  They always fight. They don’t think I hear it but I do. I’ve always felt like my parents adopted me thinking it might stop them from fighting.

  For a long time I’d say “don’t fight” and that would be enough. They’d look at me and they’d remember the original purpose of me: to make them better. A little girl to bridge the gap between them. A trial child. Like when couples get a dog before they have a baby … to see if they can handle the responsibility. I’m their experiment. The thing is I don’t know how they could’ve thought they did a good enough job with me to move on to the real thing. They had Andrew and Jamie on purpose so obviously they figured they did something right with me. But really all they do is fight. I don’t know what that something right was.

  I’d say “don’t fight.” I remember seeing my mom’s eyes fill with tears and I’d hug her to make it better. Then I started getting sent to my room or outside to play even though there weren’t that many kids my age on our block at the time. I was eight or nine maybe. They’d raise their voices, remember I was there and one or both of them would send me out of sight so I wouldn’t remind them their mission failed. Adopting me only made things worse between them. I was a walking reminder of the fact that they once had hope for something better. I was supposed to be that something better. I’d send me outside or up to my room, too, if I were them. I’m definitely not something better. I’m something worse.

  Samantha

  A day after the nothingness of our marriage is finally acknowledged, on Sunday night, I find myself in a bathroom stall at the deep-dish pizza place with my head against the cold metal stall, crying. Back outside, across from our table, there is a young couple trying bites of each other’s pizza and laughing at each other’s jokes and listening intently to the other’s stories. Did we used to be them? Now we are nothing, Bob and I. We are nothing. And here I am sobbing, pulling out squares of toilet paper piece by piece because the roll is locked in place. Someone in the next stall sniffs a signal that I’m not alone.

  When I get back to the table Cammy of all people sizes me up and leans over and asks me if everything’s okay. It’s the first time in weeks she’s looked out from the curtain of her oily hair. I tell her I’m fine, just blew my nose. I think I’m coming down with a cold I say.

  “We ordered a large cheese and a small veggie,” Bob says, folding his menu. “If you want a salad the guy’s right over there putting in our order, just go tell him.”

  The next day I’m at the sink wiping the counter clean of cereal dust from the Cheerios box Jamie shook clean. I put the milk back in the fridge and slide the English-muffin crumbs from under the toaster into the palm of my hand. The air in the house is pressurized like when only one car window is cracked open. The vacuum of nothingness. Shit! Nothing? Shit. Do I feel nothing? I feel nothing. I can’t really remember what it was I thought was so great about him. Why did I marry him? I was in such a rush. Why
the hell was I in such a rush? No. Stop it. Stop thinking, Sam. Just stop.

  I should take the toaster apart to empty it clean, it’s been ages since the last time, that’ll keep me from nothing. The metal tray on the bottom pops off easily. I’d thought I’d have to pry it off so I used too much force and the seeds and burnt edges and shriveled-up raisins from toasted bagels scatter on the floor.

  We were in such a hurry to grow up. Maybe that was it. God, what were we thinking. Stop it. Stop thinking. I sweep the toaster debris into the dustpan and it strikes me that the floor hasn’t been swept in a while. I get to the bar stools and I figure I might as well get them out of the way. Mom always used to use that cliché: anything worth doing is … wait, how does that go? Huh. Anything worth doing is worth doing well? Does that apply to marriage or chores? Maybe it was some kind of code she slipped me. Did she know she was going to die before I’d understand it? Did she hope I’d remember so it could help me at a time like this? Did she really think marriage was something worth doing? Of course she did. She of all people.

  The phone rings. It’s Lynn.

  “What’re you doing?” she asks.

  “Cleaning the kitchen,” I say. “Hey, how does that expression go? The ‘anything worth doing’ one. How does that go again?”

  “Anything worth doing is worth doing well,” she says. “Want to come over? I’m bored.”

  “I’ve got stuff to do. Come over here.”

  “Fine,” she says. “I’ll stop over after Whole Foods. You need anything?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Our marriage isn’t nothing. How could he feel nothing?

  I’ve got to stop thinking about it. The couch cushions haven’t been plumped in a while. I’ll plump the couch cushions. On the shelf next to the TV the DVDs have gotten out of hand. None of them are in their boxes. Good project: I match all of them up but Spider-Man 2. It must be caught in a web somewhere I’d say to the twins if they were here. Jamie’d laugh and Andrew would roll his eyes, but inside he’d be smiling. I clean up the debris of a busy weekend—lacrosse sticks, dirty soccer socks, iPod headphones tangled in a hemp necklace Cammy wore in her crunchy-granola phase.

  Here’s Lynn cutting across the grass from her car.

  “We just seeded! Get off the grass!”

  “Oh, please.” She waves me off. We both know my lawn’s too shady for grass, but every year Bob gives it a shot. She walks past me to the fridge. “I’m starving.” She smells it and twists her face up. “This is disgusting. It smells like feet in your fridge, just so you know.”

  She closes the door with her foot, picking olives out of a plastic container as I pour her a cup of tea.

  When she looks up she says, “What’s going on with you? You look terrible.”

  I love Lynn. I absolutely do. But every once in a while, she annoys the hell out of me. Today would be one of those days.

  “Nothing’s going on,” I say.

  “Something’s going on.”

  There’s this moment I think everyone has. A moment when you try to decide if you have the energy to wade into the muck of what’s really going on.

  “Talk,” she says.

  “Oh, fine. We had a fight last night. Me and Bob.”

  “Which one? Which fight?”

  “Which one? We don’t fight that often. Don’t give me that look, we don’t.”

  “Why can’t you leave the sex thing alone?” She shakes her head. “What’re you, a nympho or something? Get a vibrator and be done with it, for Christ’s sake.”

  “It’s not the sex thing. We’re totally disconnected.”

  “What does that mean, disconnected? I’m serious, what do people mean when they say they’re disconnected?”

  “That just proves you and Mike have a good relationship,” I say. “Disconnected means you don’t know what the other person is thinking or feeling. Bob won’t talk. We’re like two ships passing. We’re like roommates. Ever since … God, I don’t even know …”

  “When you started trying for Cammy,” she says. She’s heard all this before but she’s a good friend so she lets me tell her all over again.

  “Yeah. I could tell. Even at the time I could tell we were going our separate ways. Like a deal you make without saying the words.”

  “What was the deal?” she asks. “Pass the Triscuits.”

  They’re stale. They’re barely crunchy. Plus, they’re Triscuits, for God’s sake. Triscuits always seem like a good idea but they never are.

  “Have some grapes.” When I push the bowl over to the middle of us, fruit flies scatter.

  I watch her lightly pinch through the bunch, looking for the firmest grapes. I’d say something about her getting her fingers all over them but I need to throw them out anyway so I don’t.

  “Here’s the thing,” I say. I burn my tongue on my tea. “Shoot!”

  “What’s the thing?” she asks.

  “I just don’t get it. I spend a fortune on organic food at Whole Foods. I’ve cut down on giving the kids fish that feed on the bottom because of mercury poisoning. I’ve had them tested for celiac disease and considered going gluten free because wheat’s supposed to contribute to ADD. You know Jeremiah Pilson?”

  “That smelly kid with the pug nose? Oh, my God, that kid’s an asshole,” Lynn says.

  “Don’t call a child that!”

  “He is, though.”

  “Okay, fine. Anyway, remember how he used to be all over the place? Going a hundred miles an hour? Well, his mom—I can never remember her name—she told me he’s got ADHD and they found out he’s allergic to gluten so they totally cut it out and poof! he’s a totally different kid. She said they even took him off Ritalin.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “I’ve done everything for this family,” I say. I get up to wipe off the breakfast crumbs I missed. “I’ve put everyone first. I’ve disabled the passenger air bags. I replace the bike helmets when they outgrow them …”

  “And she’s off to the races.” Lynn tells me I talk too fast when I get on a tear.

  “They’ve informed every decision I’ve made in my adult life.”

  “It’s called having kids,” she says.

  “You know what I mean. Even before we had children! We chose this neighborhood because it’s in a good school district and we knew someday that’d be important, but you know what? I kind of wanted to live in one of those sleek high-rises downtown for a while. At least when we were younger.”

  “Have you ever noticed how everything’s symmetrical in those apartments?” Lynn settles back into her chair. “Pictures are hung two on this side of the doorway, two on that side of the doorway. Or if it’s not even numbers it’s three. Three candles. The pillar kind—all the same size and equally spaced out in the middle of the dining-room table. Those three balls in a bowl. You know those balls? The shell-covered ones, seed ones. They make balls with everything on them.”

  “You’re totally missing the point.”

  “I’m still waiting for the point.”

  “I’m just saying. What about me? I’ve been reading the same five pages of Eat, Pray, Love for a month now because I fall asleep and the next night I can’t remember whether she’s in Italy, India or Bali.”

  “So you want more time to read?” Lynn is sarcastic in a sitcom way.

  “You’re not listening to me! I’ve put my whole life on hold for this family. I’ve made them the center of my universe and that’s fine. That’s what you do, right? You put the kids first. But no one’s putting me first. No one’s looking out for me. We remodeled the kitchen into this huge open space so I could watch the kids while I’m in the kitchen, but guess what? I want my sunroom back. I loved that sunroom.”

  “That sunroom smelled like mildew,” Lynn says.

  “I loved my herb garden. You know how much fresh dill is now? Almost seven dollars. For a little plastic container.”

  “So you’re asking what’s in it for you,” she says.
<
br />   “I’m asking what’s in it for me.” I can tell she’s serious now. I’m not going to get some Aaron Sorkin line. “Does that make me selfish? Am I being selfish?”

  Lynn sits with her left arm crossed, her right hand in a loose fist like The Thinker.

  “Does this mean I’m crazy?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “This means you’re middle-aged.”

  I looked at the table and back up at her for confirmation I guess.

  “You’re halfway through your life, more or less,” she continues. “It’s what happens when we turn forty. We have midlife crises. Why do you think all those self-help books are multiplying like rabbits? Everyone’s wondering the same thing. The whole ‘is this all there is?’ thing.”

  “You don’t. I never hear you complaining about the deals you made when you had the kids.”

  “What was the deal you made?” she asks again.

  “That we’d try for a baby even though Bob didn’t want one. He went along with it so I’d leave him alone afterward and he could have his big career. Wait. That’s not it exactly. I don’t know. It’s hard to describe.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “You do not.”

  “I do, too!” she says.

  “Give me one example of a deal you guys have made. I’ll know if you’re making it up, so don’t lie.”

  She buys time by taking a sip of her tea and holding it in her mouth before swallowing.

  “Forget it,” I say. “Also, Cammy’s in trouble.”

  “What now?”

  “She’s on probation. We had to go in to talk to the principal on Friday.”

  “What’d she do?”

  “She’s been cutting class. She’s being disrespectful to her teachers.”

  “Yeah, but in Black’s opinion if they don’t say sir or ma’am that’s being disrespectful,” she says. “He’s got a stick up his ass the size of a baseball bat.”

  “And cutting classes?” I say. “I mean, let’s just face the facts. Look at her. Look at her, Lynn. It’s not normal the way she dresses. The makeup. Swear to God, in a million years I never thought …”