The Innocent Sleep

by Karen Perry

  And then she turned and I saw the tracks of tears on her face and it made me flinch. In that moment, she looked cold, and beautiful, and sorrowful.

  “What is it?” I asked, my voice hushed and hoarse. “Sweetheart, what’s the matter?”

  She dropped her head, shook it, and when she spoke it was with such melancholy and such regret that it pained me. There was a tinge of sadness to her voice that seemed to say, I thought we had moved on; I thought we were over this.

  “I was dreaming about him,” she whispered. “After all this time, I still dream about him. It was so real. He was here. Dillon was here. Out there, playing in the garden.”

  “Robin…”

  But she shook her head and turned away, casting her gaze back out the window, and there was something incredulous in her manner, the way her eyes scoured the frozen ground as if she might find evidence there—footprints in the snow, something to confirm the impossible.

  I went to her and put my arms around her. Not long, I thought to myself. Just hold on.

  “It’s Christmas Eve,” she said flatly. And then she slipped from my grasp and walked away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ROBIN

  My parents arrived just after twelve on Christmas Day. I was leaning into the oven, draining fat off the roasting goose, when Harry opened the door to them.

  “Isn’t this lovely?” I heard my mother declare to the hall.

  “Avril,” he said in reply, and there was a brief pause where I could tell he was leaning down and offering his cheek to her and she was planting a warm kiss near his ear. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Harry.”

  “Jim. Here, let me help you with those.”

  “Good man. Heaven knows what’s in all these bags. Avril came prepared for a nuclear winter.”

  “It’s just a few bits and bobs. No need to make a big fuss, Jim.”

  The front door closed, and I wiped my hands on my apron and came out to meet them.

  “Darling!”

  My mother looked smart in a red wool dress with matching lipstick, diamonds twinkling from her earlobes, her hair perfectly set. She handed her coat to Harry and came forward to offer me a hug.

  “Happy Christmas, Mum,” I said, feeling her warm embrace and catching a whiff of sherry off her breath. “Drinking already? Whatever will the neighbors say?”

  “Oh, now! It was just the teeniest glass of sherry. And it was the neighbors that forced it on me.”

  “Forced, indeed. They were fighting you off. Where’s my girl?”

  My father is a smallish man whose hair disappeared sometime in my childhood. He has a rather stern carriage—an almost military bearing—and a hard voice that belies his soft nature. He hugged me tight, held me at arm’s length while he cast his shrewd little eyes over me. Then he nodded firmly, which could be taken as approval or a dismissal—sometimes, I just couldn’t tell.

  Behind him, my mother was complimenting Harry on his appearance, and it was true that he did look well. His hair had been recently cut, and he had shaved that morning and was wearing a black cashmere polo shirt. I felt a sense of relief, now, when I looked at him. He glanced up and caught me gazing at him and smiled, and all the worries I’d had about this day dissipated.

  * * *

  It had been some time since my father had been in this house—his childhood home—and he wanted to see what changes we had made. And so the four of us set about going through the rooms, pointing out the work we had done and what we were planning on doing next. Throughout the tour, my father nodded sternly, and again it was difficult to tell whether he approved or was simply reserving judgment. My mother, on the other hand, kept up a series of cheerful rejoinders and enthusiastic compliments. She had clearly set her mind to being positive and optimistic. I knew that this forced cheerfulness would wear a little thin after a while—it drove Harry crazy—but I was grateful to her for her efforts, for her determination to make the best of this day.

  Our tour ended up in Harry’s studio, and we stood in that cold concrete space as he pointed out the new shelves he had put up, the work space he had cleared, the new lighting he’d installed. As he spoke, my eyes cast about, searching for the crate of his secret drawings. They were nowhere to be seen.

  My mother gave a dramatic shiver.

  “Lord, it is cold in here, isn’t it? Shall we go back inside?”

  “You girls go on in,” my father said. “I want to take a look at some of these.”

  He was hunkering down in front of the canvases lined up against one wall. My father had always shown an interest in Harry’s work, and Harry, in return, seemed to welcome Jim’s attention. It gave me a feeling of warmth, that clear bond between the two men I loved most in the world.

  Back in the kitchen, I checked the oven.

  “Smells delicious,” my mother said.

  I was roasting potatoes with parsnips, butternut squash, shallots, and garlic. The mingled smells filled the kitchen.

  “You’re a great cook,” my mother said, “when you put your mind to it.”

  “Thanks, Mum.”

  “Mind you, that’s true of most things with you. So intelligent, so talented.”

  I glanced up and saw her looking at me wistfully.

  “Oh, Mum, now don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” she asked and smiled. “It’s Christmas Day. Let’s have a drink. Where’s your corkscrew?”

  I went to fetch the glasses from the dining room while she uncorked the wine. She poured out two glasses, and when I asked about wine for Dad and Harry, she swatted away my concern. “They’re well able to take care of themselves. Leave them to it, and let’s enjoy this moment, just the two of us. Cheers, my love.”

  “Cheers.”

  We clinked glasses, and I watched her drink. And when we returned our glasses to the kitchen counter, I told her.

  “Mum, I’m pregnant.”

  She held me in her gaze for a second. Her hand went to her chest and she emitted a sound somewhere between a sigh and a suppressed sob. Then, without saying a word, she came to me and wrapped her arms around me, and I felt the force of her hug, the ferocity of her embrace. When we drew away, the tears had started in her eyes, and she shook her head and said, “That’s wonderful. Oh, darling, that’s wonderful.”

  And then the sob escaped from her and I watched in amazement as she shook her head violently, her hands flapping about her face as mascara streaked her cheeks.

  “Here,” I said, ripping a paper towel from the roll and offering it to her.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, stroking her back as she dabbed beneath her eyes and tried to compose herself.

  “He was a beautiful child—Dillon,” she said, still shaking her head. “I adored him, you know. I just adored him.”

  “I know you did, Mum.”

  “And I never know with you whether I should say anything about him. The last thing I want is to upset you. But it’s just that … I have missed him so much.”

  There was such force in her words that the tears came again. I felt my own emotions rising to meet hers and bit down hard to keep them under.

  “It’s been hard for you, Mum. I know.”

  “Darling,” she said, turning to me and taking my face in her hands, and she smiled at me through her tears. “Another baby. You have no idea how much this means to me. No idea.”

  The door opened and Harry came in, my father behind him, still in conversation. But when they saw the two of us there together, and the tears running down my mother’s face, they both stopped.

  “Oh, Jim,” my mother exclaimed as he moved toward her, his face concerned and confused. “The most wonderful news.”

  She told him, and my father came and wrapped his arms around me, and I believe that in the moment of our embrace, I could feel his body shaking with some deep-buried emotion. Again he gripped my arms and looked at me, nodding.

  Behind him, my mother was hugging Harry, laughing and wiping the tears from her eyes
. She reached for her wineglass and then stopped herself, saying, “Wine? We should be drinking champagne! This is a celebration!”

  This roused my father from his momentary paralysis, and the two of them set about finding champagne flutes and unwrapping the foil from the Veuve Clicquot, both of them taken with a new excitement, an almost childish giddiness.

  Harry and I looked at each other. I smiled at him as if to say, Isn’t this wonderful? See the happiness this baby is bringing already? The healing?

  His face was set and unreadable. And then my father put a glass of champagne in his hand and he turned away.

  * * *

  The dinner was a lavish affair. It was—I admit it—slightly over the top. Candles and linen napkins; bouquets of flowers and white china; silver cutlery and a starched white tablecloth; Bill Evans’s piano playing softly from the stereo. There was smoked salmon to start, followed by a terrine, then a lemon sorbet to cleanse our palates. The conversation around the table was lively and brisk. At first, we spoke a little of my pregnancy, Harry and I filling them in on all the details, before the talk turned to more serious matters: the state of the economy, how long before the government would fall, who we would vote for in the next election. There were only the four of us, though we made enough noise for eight, the tone bright and cheery, despite the subject matter.

  In the kitchen, Harry carved the goose and I spooned the vegetables into warm serving bowls.

  “It’s going well,” I said to him.

  “Hmm,” he replied, intent upon his work.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You seemed a little quiet earlier, when I told them.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I just didn’t know we were telling people yet, that’s all.”

  “They’re my parents, Harry. They’re not just people.”

  “I know. I just thought we should have discussed it in advance.”

  “You’re not angry, are you?”

  He put down the carving knife and he kissed me.

  “Of course I’m not angry.”

  “Good. Did you see their reaction? Did you see how happy it made them?”

  He smiled at me then.

  “Yes.”

  And then he turned and picked up his knife and renewed his efforts with the goose and I brought the vegetables through into the dining room.

  * * *

  It was just after we had served the chocolate amaretto trifle for dessert that Harry’s phone bleeped. It was on the mantelpiece behind him, and after reaching for it and checking it, he stood up and excused himself, the expression on his face changing.

  “Harry,” I said quietly. “It’s Christmas Day. Can’t it wait?”

  “I’ll just be a sec,” he said, squeezing my shoulder as he moved past me. “Promise.”

  We continued talking in his absence; my mother had moved on to the subject of my brother, Mark, and his new girlfriend, Suki, and we were speculating as to how long this relationship would last. All the time I was aware of the conversation taking place in the next room. The tones were muted; I couldn’t make out what was being said. But when Harry returned to the room, there was a new light in his eyes, a quickness and agitation in his movements. He sat with his chin resting on the back of his hand, elbow on the arm of his chair, the fingers of his other hand drumming the table, over and over. His eyes had a faraway look, and I could tell he was finding it hard to sit still, that his mind was elsewhere. It made me uneasy. Something about him made me uncomfortable. I thought of how he had been for these last few weeks—nervy and unpredictable—and I remembered what Liz had said: his old trouble. I watched him carefully, so much so that neither one of us paid much heed to the conversation.

  When my father asked Harry a question, and he seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he had even been addressed, I felt a spark of anger. Why was he behaving like this? Why, when this day was going so perfectly, was he now threatening to make a scene?

  When Harry went into the kitchen to make coffee, I followed him. I found him standing in the middle of the room, staring at his feet and scratching his head.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “What?”

  He glanced up at me, and I caught a certain wildness in his eyes. His hair, which had been neatly combed, was now disheveled. In the glare of the kitchen light, his face looked pale and creased with worry, shadows lurking beneath his eyes.

  “On the phone? You’ve been completely distracted ever since. Who was it?”

  He took a breath.

  “It was Spencer.”

  I made a face and he saw it and a shadow of annoyance crossed his features.

  “It’s not like that, Robin.”

  “Oh, come on. With Spencer, it only ever means one thing—trouble.”

  He looked at me for a moment, chewing on his lip, and it seemed that he was weighing whether or not to tell me something.

  “What?” I asked, growing impatient.

  He came toward me slowly, his eyes passing over my face, and I realized that whatever it was he was about to tell me, it was serious. And my heart tightened.

  “It’s Dillon,” he said quietly. “I’ve found him.”

  For a moment, there was complete silence. Neither one of us spoke.

  When I finally found my voice, it emerged as a whisper, low and hoarse.

  “Dillon is dead,” I said.

  He shook his head slowly.

  “No, Robin. No, he’s not. He’s alive. He’s alive and I’ve found him.”

  He spoke softly, but his words held a quiet conviction. His eyes seemed lit from within. It chilled me to the bone.

  “It’s true, Robin. Listen to me—I know it’s hard to believe—but you have to get your head around this.”

  “Stop it, Harry.”

  “No, really. I know it sounds mad, I know you think I’m crazy, but just hear me out. You remember the day of the march? Back at the end of November? That’s when I saw him. In a crowd with some woman. He’s older now, obviously, but I still recognized him. I knew him straightaway—the same eyes, the same face. He looked right at me, and I immediately knew it was him. He was with some woman I didn’t recognize. She pulled him away before I could get to them. But then I got on to Spencer and he got on to his contacts in the Guards, and they got hold of this CCTV footage and…”

  On and on he went. His voice rose on a tide of mounting excitement, the words coming out quickly, a frantic babbling rush. His eyes grew wide and his hand gestures became more rapid, more expansive. I watched his mouth moving, felt the words brushing past me like dandelion seeds caught in the wind.

  I felt suddenly exhausted. All the labor I had invested in the preparations for this day, and even before that—I felt like for the past five years I had been climbing a hill, dragging something heavy behind me—and now that I was so close to the summit, I had met a barrier that I was just too tired to overcome. I thought of those weeks after Harry came home from Tangier, how dangerously unhinged he was then, those weeks that were a living hell for me—I had been so sure we had put it all behind us. I had convinced myself that the healing was almost done. But now I saw the wildness in his eyes, and I knew that the wound had not been healed. He’d ripped the band-aid off, exposing an ugly weeping sore. I felt all the energy drain from me.

  He stopped speaking and waited for my response.

  “No,” I told him, shaking my head slowly.

  And then I turned and walked away.

  * * *

  He followed me into the dining room, where my parents were sitting awkwardly, passing little worried glances between them. How much of our conversation they had overheard was unclear.

  “Don’t walk away from me, Robin. You’ve got to listen. You’ve got to understand.”

  I whirled around to face him, finding a pocket of strength from the anger churning inside me.

  “All I understand is that you’ve had too much to drink.”

  “What? No! No, l
isten. I’m not drunk—”

  “Well, then you’re insane. Either way, I don’t want to hear it!”

  My father stood up. He nodded to my mother, who was looking from one of us to the other with a tight face of anxiety. “Come on, Avril. Let’s make a start on those dishes.”

  They brushed past Harry, but he hardly seemed to notice them, he was staring at me so intently.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked him, feeling tired and sorry for myself and in no way prepared for this situation. “Why are you trying to sabotage this day?”

  “I’m not trying to—”

  “You didn’t want my parents to come, I know. You hate Christmas. But this? To do this? To say these things to me? About Dillon?”

  I shook my head vehemently, feeling emotion rising up my throat.

  “Harry. It’s too much.”

  He stood there for a moment, weighing things.

  “Wait here,” he said, and left the room.

  I dropped into my chair, made a nest of my arms on the table, and rested my head there. I felt I could sleep for a week and still it wouldn’t be enough.

  He came back with his laptop, and I raised my head wearily as he fired it up and fiddled with a DVD, scanning through until he found what he was looking for.

  “There!” he said triumphantly, and turned it so I could see.

  A grainy image taken from a CCTV camera showed a woman with a boy, walking hand in hand. Harry pressed Play, and I watched as their images flickered across the screen, briefly showing them walking toward a car.

  “Do you see?” he asked.

  “It’s just a boy,” I said. “It could be anyone.”

  “I was there, Robin. I saw him. It was Dillon. I swear on my life it was.”