Sleeping Awake

by Noelle, Gamali

  I showered quickly and went down to the kitchen. This was my first day alone in over eight months, and I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. I decided to indulge myself and made a Nutella and banana crêpe and brewed ground Blue Mountain coffee beans instead of my usual tea.

  I was in such a good mood that I hummed as I washed the dishes. Around this time for the last few days, Cienna would come barging into my room and start jabbering away about her self-improvement project. I wished that she would leave me out of it. I was Macduff. Born not by a woman, but ripped from the womb—a fatherless bastard who accepted her plight. And then Cienna had to blast away my armour and expose me to the elements.

  I scrubbed the French press as I remembered our last conversation about the night that Philippe had left. I didn’t want to go over the details of how strange he’d been acting at dinner and how he and Maman had been arguing constantly during the month before. Who the hell wanted to remember those times?

  I was fine. Fucking f-i-n-e. I didn’t need some Kumbaya session talking about our father walking out on us and the hole that he left to know that I preferred casual sex to relationships because I didn’t want anyone close enough to hurt me. All I had to do was look at Nicolaas and his pleading eyes to be reminded of the fact that there was clearly something wrong with me. Who else would push away a man who was so smitten with her that he called every night “Just to say goodnight” and usually sent her follow up “good morning” text? Thousands of articles were written in magazines about how to best get a man to be that attentive, and here I was wishing that just for once, I wouldn’t get the message when I woke up.

  I set the press on the counter and began to rearrange the bowls in the dish rack to make space. My hand shifted ever so slightly and tipped the pot over the edge. I watched as it fell to the floor. I bent over to pick up the largest piece and accidentally stepped on a shard of glass. I couldn’t tell which was worse, the blood or the pain that surged through me. My cell phone began to vibrate on the breakfast table. I grabbed it just in case it was Maman or Cienna calling to check up on me. It was a text message.

  “Morning, Mooi.”

  I slammed the phone down on the table and dropped to the floor as the tears began to fall. One month out of Golden Ridge and I was back to being a failure.

  “Get yourself together!” I slammed my fist down on the wood.

  I was pain. All that I did was cause pain, and all that I seemed to enjoy was pain. Why else didn’t I want to change like Cienna or find love like Camelea? Why else would I put Maman through all the hoops and hurdles like I did? I had single-handedly turned my house into a circus, and I didn’t fucking care.

  “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

  With every word said, I banged my head against the kitchen cupboard. My eyes fell on the broken glass. I formed my hands into two fists, bit down hard on my bottom lip and looked away. I tried to think of a million reasons why I shouldn’t do what was on my mind, but I couldn’t think of a single one. My hands started to shake. I grabbed a piece of the glass. The cut that I made on my foot bottom wasn’t so deep that I wouldn’t be able to walk without limping, but it was just enough to sting.

  “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

  I made another slit and another, until the stinging turned into burning and the burning turned into mind-numbing pain. It was only then that my hands stopped shaking. I dropped the glass. I felt as if I’d been injected with a tranquiliser. I could breathe again. I sat in Maman’s pride-and-joy-of-a-kitchen with its open space plan and calming yellow walls, surrounded by the broken glass and the recently laid hardwood floors—now stained with the crimson of my carelessly discarded blood. I could not help but wonder what my herd of well-wishers at Golden Ridge would think of my backsliding.

  Would Dr. Stein nod his head in that annoyingly slow fashion of his and tell me that he understood that when my hands started shaking, every second spent not satisfying my desire would lead to anger so intense that I could probably punch a hole in the wall? Or better yet, would he for just once not try and diagnose me and listen to me when I tried to explain why I did what I had done? Why thinking about my father and Nicolaas had triggered all the wrong emotions? Would he cluck his tongue and shake his head?

  Knowing him, he would tell me that I had allowed myself to lose control because I didn't want to get better, to become “well” like everyone else, and that I didn't have to cut myself.

  “You have a choice, Noira,” he always said at the end of our sessions. “Work towards happiness, or keep being sad.”

  I suppose that he would also say that I chose to remain sad when I made the choice to pick up the broken glass. Dr. Stein did not believe in the theory that by feeling some sort of external pain, one can rid one's self of internal pain.

  “Self-inflicted wounds are exactly what their name means,” he once said to me. “A wound that you give yourself. Wounds hurt, don't they? You are only giving yourself more pain.”

  I watched as the blood poured freely from the almost microscopic slits that I had cut into the soles of my feet. I disagreed with Dr. Stein. Some of the pain was in fact gone.

  I could feel it slowly ebbing as I leaned my head against the cupboard door and closed my eyes. In the darkness of my mind, an image immediately formed of Dr. Stein sighing away as he wrote on his notepad with the speed of a gold medallist.

  He wouldn't listen to my side of the story; he never did.

  "By cutting yourself, you are giving into the sadness!"

  Always the fucking sadness! Always giving in! I could never do anything right in his chastising eyes.

  I slammed my fists down onto the insipid cherry oak flooring, and a slab of glass cut right through. I bit down sharply on my teeth as the hot pain soared through my veins.

  Fuck.

  "This is why you should take your medication," Dr. Stein’s voice hissed in my ear. “Don't you want to be well, Noira?”

  What's the point? You're only going to be disappointed in the end, aren't you? Smile today, cry tomorrow. Here one moment, gone the next. It's the way of the world, isn't it?

  "Don’t you love yourself?"

  I sometimes thought about what it would be like to break the mirror in the bathroom and to use the glass to slit my throat. In high school when I went swimming during physical education, I fantasised about remaining under water and holding my breath for so long that my lungs had no other choice but to collapse. I spent a lot of time thinking about how best to end my life.

  Dying really was an art, an exquisite one at that… Everyone knew that I could more than paint a pretty picture.

  **~*~*~**~*~*~**

  ¯ CHAPITRE SIX ¯

  NOT AT HOME

  The sun hung languidly in the sky, dripping ever so slowly over the garden, like honey oozing from honeycombs. As luck would have had it, our central air decided to break down, and it required a part that would be delivered the next week. I sat on my bed, windows wide open with the ceiling fan turned on high. I was practically asleep when the phone rang and startled me.

  “Hello?” I wanted to yawn, but that would have required extra muscle movement.

  “Mooi?”

  Nicolaas.

  “Hello!”

  “What are you doing, Mooi?” he asked.

  “Waiting for you to climb up my tower and rescue me,” I replied.

  “Well let down your hair, Rapunzel. I’m almost there.”

  “Almost where?” I sprang up in the bed.

  “At your tower. I’m about twenty minutes away, give or take.”

  “Twenty minutes?” I cried. I looked across the room at the mirror, which sat atop my armoire. My hair was plastered to my face and there was an unmistakable sweat stain on the front of my tank top.

  “Yes. Have you got anything flapper-like?” Nicolaas continued. It was as if he hadn’t heard the alarm in my voice.

  “Flapper-like?”

  I didn’t need to do a mental sweep of my wardrobe to know that I d
id not in fact have anything flapper-like.

  “1920s fashion…”

  “I know what flappers are,” I snapped. I was trying my hardest not to panic. Nicolaas was on his way and expected me to be dressed like a 20s It Girl. Where in the hell was I supposed to find something flapper-like?

  At the same moment, Cienna fluttered past my room door.

  “Nicolaas, I have to go and get ready.” Dropping the phone on the bed, I jumped up and raced out my door. “Cienna!”

  Cienna stopped just seconds shy of Camelea’s room door and turned. “You summoned?”

  Realizing that it was then or never, I swallowed my pride and made my request. “I need your help. Please.”

  There was a mirror in the hallway, but I didn’t look to see how I must have seemed as I shifted my weight from one foot to the next and tugged on my skirt.

  “With what?” Cienna’s eyebrow rose up her tiny forehead.

  “Nicolaas is about twenty minutes away and apparently I have to dress like a flapper and I don’t know anything about dressing like a flapper except that they had those feather things in their hair and smoked and I just don’t know if I have anything that’s…”

  Cienna’s hands clamped over my mouth. Her eyes locked with mine. “Breathe.”

  I nodded, slowly inhaling.

  “Are you going to a costume party?” She removed her hands from my mouth and took a step backwards.

  I shrugged. “He just said that he was twenty minutes away and that I was to dress like a flapper.”

  “Hhhmmm well flapper, I can do,” Cienna said. “I don’t know about the being ready in twenty minutes part…”

  Turning ever so slightly, she leaned her head towards Camelea’s room. “Camelea!”

  Camelea appeared in her doorway looking as sour as always. “Yes?”

  “Nicolaas will be here in twenty minutes,” Cienna said. “Get him a cocktail and keep him busy. I have to turn Noira into a flapper.”

  Camelea continued to stare.

  “For fuck’s sake, woman!” Cienna snapped. “Do your Christian duty and help your sister out!”

  Camelea rolled her eyes and started walking towards the stairs. The doorbell rang.

  “He said twenty minutes!” I squeaked.

  Cienna grabbed my hands and pulled me as she walked. “Breathe, Noira, or I’ll go back to my Vogue.”

  I nodded, breathing through my mouth all the while.

  “Now… When you return, if you’ve even so much as a piece of thread missing from my dress, I will kill you,” Cienna warned.

  I nodded once again, struggling not to roll my eyes, and followed behind her.

  After a hasty shower, the plucking, rouging and curling seemed to go on for eternity as I sat before her wall-length vanity mirror and allowed her free reign of my body. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to see just what she was doing to hide my imperfections and make me flawless.

  “Finis!” Cienna finally cried.

  Slowly, I opened my eyes. I could barely recognize the person with the smoky eyes and hair that was tightly curled to flank the sharpness of her facial features. The dress was the deepest of reds and set against my skin, made me glow. I was initially worried about the deep V-neck—it only ended as the dress fitted to my stomach, like a corset, and resumed its flow into the skirt. Thankfully, Cienna fished some tape out of her drawer and all was right in the cleavage world. As I twirled in her mirror, the skirt of the dress gave the illusion of being long, but steadily appeared shorter with the dipped, scalloped hemline.

  “Well?” Cienna asked.

  “Wow,” I breathed.

  She beamed. “Ravishing, no? And to think that it only took me an hour!”

  “Thank you.” I managed. I couldn’t bring myself to look away from the mirror. “I look…”

  “Marvellous!” Cienna did a little clap.

  I turned. Convention called for us to have a sisterly embrace, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead I squeezed her hand and quickly pulled away. “Thank you.”

  She shrugged, turning quickly as her cheeks rouged. “Just don’t scuff my shoes or spill anything on my dress.”

  I nodded. I glanced once more at my reflection in the mirror and walked as gracefully as I could out of her room and down the stairs. As my heels hit the marble of the first floor, the chatter in the parlour ceased and two sets of eyes turned towards me.

  The smile on Nicolaas’ face seemed to reach his eyes as he stood. “Mooi.”

  Mooi. Beautiful. His name for me.

  I felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as Nicolaas crossed the room and took my hands.

  “Bye Camelea,” I called.

  Once we were outside, Nicolaas pulled me towards him in the fiercest of embraces. I leaned forward, eager to inhale his scent. He wouldn’t let me. Instead, he pushed me slightly against the door. His fingers trailed the length of my arms and down, down, down before making their journey upwards and languidly crossing over the curves of my breasts. He bent his head and kissed the base of my neck. As he sighed, his breath sent ripples through my body.

  “Mmmm…” he moaned. “You look delicious.”

  I lifted his head and pulled his face towards mine. He tasted delicious.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered, “before I decide against going to the party.”

  Nicolaas held my hand as we drove deeper and deeper into Long Island. I closed my eyes and tried not to imagine what it would be like to have his lips pressed against mine—tried not to remember what it felt like to have his lips pressed against my skin, making his way slowly down my spine and sending spasms through my body. I shivered.

  After about forty-five minutes, we turned onto a private road that cut through a forest. As we got closer to the house, the pepper lights that were draped along the trees twinkled through the night. In the centre of the driveway a fountain with a statue of a cherub lit up the driveway. Nicolaas swerved to the right and joined the queue that was circling the drive.

  “Where are we?” I whispered as Nicolaas and I began the ascent into the sprawling mansion. The house loomed above us with its ornate trimmings and sprawling columns.

  “Pascal’s house; his birthday party. I only remembered about it when a friend of ours called to see if I’d be here tonight.”

  “So that’s why I had no forewarning,” I mused.

  “Sorry about that. I receive too many invitations to keep track of what’s happening and when. I usually just rely on someone calling to see what time I’m going to be somewhere in order to decide where to go that evening.” Nicolaas shrugged and nodded at someone ahead of us. “I suppose that I should just hire a social secretary…”

  “Perhaps,” I agreed. We stepped into the mansion and joined another queue. Inside screamed “fussy old woman” with everything in various shades of pink and enough frills to make a classroom of pre-school girls’ party dresses.

  “Are you sure that we’re at the right place? This doesn’t seem like a man’s home…”

  “He just inherited it from his grandmother,” Nicolaas replied. “Apparently he hasn’t bothered to redecorate.”

  I nodded. “Will Bryn be here?”

  “Bryn was supposed to have been here, but he went to Palm Springs with a friend of his. I can’t remember her name; I think that it begins with A…”

  “Anjali,” I replied.

  He nodded. “Yes, her. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  The doors to the ballroom were held opened for us and with a quick whisper, we were being announced.

  “Monsieur Nicolaas Armgard et Mademoiselle Noira Saint Clair.”

  I inhaled deeply as I took in the sight before me. Men in sharp tuxedos embraced très chic women dressed in their various flapper fashions, furs, rouged cheeks, and short hairstyles. I felt like Cinderella before the ball.

  “You decided to grace us with your presence, I see!” Out of nowhere, a Marlon Brando look-a-like appeared at our side. He handed us each a glass of champa
gne.

  “I always make time for the little people,” Nicolaas replied good-naturedly.

  The stranger rolled his eyes and turned his gaze towards me. If I were meat on a plate, I imagined that he’d waste no time in devouring me. “Going to introduce me to your delectable friend?”

  My cheeks rouged.

  Nicolaas frowned and pulled me closer. “Pascal this is my girl friend, Noira. Noira, this is Pascal, my whore-of-a-flatmate during the St. Andrews years.”

  “Me, a whore?” Pascal rolled his eyes again. “One simply has to read the papers to see who’s the biggest whore of us all...”

  I giggled and took a sip of my champagne.

  “Oh!” Pascal’s face froze. “Am I offending you?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve read all about Nicolaas. Go on; this is entertaining.”

  “Go away, Pascal, before you really ruin things for me.”

  “I’ll just go off and mingle with the interesting people, shall I?” Pascal said, sneering a bit.

  “See you tomorrow at polo,” Nicolaas replied, raising his glass of champagne.

  Pascal turned towards me. He took my hand and kissed it. “I bid you farewell, my dear. Your boy friend is threatened by my virility.”

  With a final look of contempt in Nicolaas’ direction, Pascal disappeared into the crowed.

  “Sorry about that,” Nicolaas said. “His brain is light years behind his tongue.”

  I smiled, finishing my champagne. “It’s nothing that I didn’t know before.”

  I placed my empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. A Paul Whiteman tribute band stirred mayhem as a Bix Beiderbecke tune began. I tapped my feet on the ballroom floor.

  “Dance with me.” Nicolaas took my hand and reeled me in.

  I laughed, breathing in his scent. Something took over me as we dipped and swayed along with everyone else. I moved closer to him until we were pressed firmly against each other. He looked down, a look of surprise on his face. I stood on my tiptoe and kissed him on his cheek. He smelled like home.

  As if on cue, a fast tune began and we spun away. Nicolaas knew just what to do as we danced. I felt as if I was being tossed out to sea among the waves as we surfed through the tide. I didn’t even care that a few tendrils were coming out of the complicated hairstyle that Cienna had created for the night.