Before I Wake

by Robert J. Wiersema

  “Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…”

  Simon had a nice voice. Back when we were in school he even used to play a bit of guitar. We’d have people over to our place, a tiny apartment in one of the big, converted heritage houses near downtown. Friday nights of songs, soup and jugs of homemade wine.

  “And if that mockingbird don’t sing…”

  But that was a long time ago. I didn’t even know where his guitar was. Probably up in the attic somewhere.

  He broke off mid-line as I came into the living room, setting the two mugs down on the table.

  “You didn’t have to stop.”

  He smiled. “Well…Listen, Karen, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” His tone was careful. Too careful.

  “What? Is it Sherry?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that…Mary and I are going away next weekend. Four days. Head up to Tofino.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I thought you should know…”

  I could feel a hot rush in me.

  “You thought I should know that you and your girlfriend are getting away for the weekend? That’s nice. Have a great time.” I stood up. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him.

  “Karen…”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Simon,” I snapped. “What made you think that this would be a good thing to share with me?” I was trying to keep my voice under control, but it was starting to rise.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I wouldn’t be coming by for a few days.”

  “Good for you. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “You thought I’d want to know?” I said, dripping sarcasm. “That’s sweet. Now when I wake up alone in the middle of the night next weekend, I can think about you and your girlfriend fucking in Tofino. That’s great. Thanks.”

  I should have left then, but I couldn’t stop myself. “I hope you get a room with a fireplace. Maybe a hot tub. I imagine doing it in a bed must be getting pretty boring for you.”

  “Karen…”

  “Oh, right. I forgot. She’s all of what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? Shit, you probably won’t get bored with her for another ten years.”

  “Jesus Christ, Karen, Sherry’s right here! Keep your voice down.”

  “The next time you’re looking at her ass, be sure to check the expiration date!”

  He headed for the door and I followed him. I couldn’t stop.

  “Simon, what you fail to see is how little I care about what you do. You may not have noticed, but I have a little more on my mind than that. Come or don’t come, I don’t care. Sherry doesn’t care. It’s all the same to us.”

  He stopped at the front door.

  “Listen, this isn’t…I’m just going to go.”

  “Fine. Whatever. That seems to be what you’re best at.”

  “Hello?”

  “Ruth? It’s me.”

  “Sarah?”

  “Yeah. Listen…I just had a doctor’s appointment…”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Well, I started to notice some strange things a week or so ago—”

  “Are you okay?”

  “So I made a doctor’s appointment—”

  “Sarah! Are you okay?”

  “It’s gone, Ruth. They did X-rays, tests…Spontaneous remission. That’s what the doctor said.”

  “Spontaneous remission.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I was thinking. Exactly.”

  “You’ve reached Jamie Keller, extension 328. I’m not at my desk right now, or I’m on another line. Please leave a message after the tone. If it’s urgent, please dial zero to have me paged.”

  “Shit, Jamie, you’re out. I was hoping you’d be there. I just…I just had this colossal fight with Simon. No, not even a fight. I just screamed at him for like twenty minutes…Oh, it’s so stupid…he’s going up-island with Mary for a few days…I just freaked out. Call me, okay?”

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. Is this Pam?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Sarah. Sarah Page.”

  “Sarah Page?”

  “From the group. Sarah from the Tuesday-night group.”

  “Oh yes, yes. Sarah. Hello.”

  “How are you feeling, Pam?”

  “Oh, not so good, Sarah. It’s not a good day. But how are you?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m calling…”

  RUTH

  For the whole morning after the phone call with Sarah, I alternated between staring at Sherry and not being able to look at her. I tried to find some physical sign of what she could do, but I didn’t know what I was looking for. An aura maybe. A halo. But there was nothing—just a little girl who will never wake up.

  “Who are you?” I asked her at one point. She didn’t answer.

  Anything that I had read about healers and saints, all my Sunday-school lessons so long ago, led me to believe that I should have been able to see something, some trace of the divine. Her ordinariness—it scared me.

  How would I tell Karen? For that matter, what would I tell Karen? That her daughter had cured my sister of cancer? My arthritis? That she could do miracles, but she would still never wake up? How she could heal others but not herself?

  I bathed her carefully. Not that I was at all rough with her usually, but now I took an exaggerated care, cradling her as though she was an object of great value. I looked for some sign that I had missed, but no. It was still just the same pudgy, pale body I had washed so many times before.

  This mortal vessel…

  Karen was distracted. She had been upset yesterday morning. I had heard the raised voices from the front room as I sat in the kitchen with my second cup of tea, heard Mr. Barrett slam the door as he left. He hadn’t come for his regular visit last night or this morning, and I had caught Karen checking the clock as it got later and later, until it finally became clear he wasn’t coming.

  She was gone three hours on her walk, and when she returned it was obvious she had been crying. I wanted to do something to comfort her, but she retreated upstairs to the privacy of her bedroom.

  She was a little better this morning, but it seemed like she was trying not to let anything show. I mostly stayed with Sherry. I didn’t know what else to do.

  If I told her about my sister, maybe it would help to put all of this stuff with Mr. Barrett into perspective. Or maybe not. Maybe it would all be just too overwhelming. Or maybe it would be just what she needed.

  How could the miraculous and the banal exist so close together?

  “I’m going out,” Karen said from the doorway, startling me. I hadn’t heard her footsteps.

  I glanced up at the clock. 11:30. That was pretty early, even for a Tuesday.

  “I’m meeting Jamie for lunch downtown before the movie,” she explained, as if she’d read my thoughts. “I’ll be back well before five, though.”

  As if she needed my approval. I nodded, although it really had nothing to do with me. “All right.”

  She looked past me at Sherry. I had dressed her in her green nightie after her bath. “How is she today?” she asked. It wasn’t like her to have to ask.

  “Oh, she’s doing just fine. We were just about to listen to some Bach.”

  She nodded. “I’m sorry, Ruth. I haven’t been very…I’ve been a little stressed.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I know there’s been some stuff going on.”

  She smiled. “I guess it’s pretty hard to keep anything a secret around here, isn’t it?”

  I returned her smile, but her words struck very close to home. Secrets.

  She glanced down at her watch. “Shoot. I have to go. I’m walking. Listen, thanks. I’ll try to be more together tomorrow.”

  “Don’t rush anything,” I said as she was turning away.

  She looked back and I forced
a smile. “These things work themselves out.”

  “Not this time.” The front door clicked shut.

  I sat down next to Sherry and brushed her hair away from her face. The light coming through the windows didn’t seem to penetrate as deeply into the room as it had even a few weeks before.

  “That’s okay, Sherry. Your mom and dad are having a little argument, but it’s going to be okay. It’ll all turn out okay.”

  I spent the next while listening to the music, leaning back in the chair, my hand touching Sherry’s hair where it spread out across the pillow. I knew she could hear what was going on around her, the music, the voices. I knew she was aware of what was going on between her parents when they argued across her bed. I knew she could hear her father sing to her, and people saying her name. I wanted to ask her what I should do, how I should tell her parents what she was capable of…

  I was awakened from a light sleep and a vague dream by the sound of the doorbell. The music had finished, and for a moment I didn’t recognize where I was.

  Then the doorbell rang again.

  Sarah was standing on the front step. Gone was the oxygen tank, the pallor, the lifelessness. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright and full of life. She held her overcoat around herself against the cold, but she seemed stronger. Taller, even.

  “Hello, Ruth,” she said, a little too cheerfully. “I’m sorry for not calling first. This is my friend Pam.”

  As bad as Sarah had looked when she arrived at the house two weeks ago, Pam looked even worse. A much younger woman, no older than thirty, she seemed withered, almost weightless. Her hair had fallen out in chunks, leaving bright spots on her scalp. She clung to my sister as if Sarah was all that was holding her to life.

  “Sarah…” The thought of what Sarah was asking me to do chilled me.

  “Can we come in, please?” She spoke with forced joviality. “It’s really too cold out here for Pam.”

  I knew that by letting them into the house, I was condoning what would happen. I looked again at Pam and stepped aside. I couldn’t leave this frail person standing on the doorstep in the cold. But I couldn’t let this happen.

  Pam’s steps were slow and tiny. Sarah carefully guided her along, over the doorsill, into the house, supporting her weight and rubbing the back of the hand that clutched her arm. I closed the door behind them.

  “You have a seat, Pam,” Sarah said, walking her into the living room and settling her on the couch.

  “Can we talk?” I gestured for Sarah to come back into the hallway, out of Pam’s sight.

  “I’m sorry, Ruth,” were the first words out of her mouth. “I would have called, but I knew you would have said—”

  “No?” I finished her sentence. “Sarah, what do you think you’re doing? Do you know what Kar…Mrs. Barrett would say?”

  “Have you told her? About…” She gestured with her head toward the front room. “About Sherry?”

  “Not yet. I don’t see how I can.”

  “She’s dying, Ruth.”

  “What?”

  “Pam. She’s dying. She’s in this support group that I was going to. For terminal patients.”

  “Sarah.” I realized I didn’t want to hear Pam’s story. But Sarah was not going to stop.

  “It started off in her breasts. She had a double mastectomy, but it’s metastasized all through her now. They’ve taken out most of her stomach, pieces of her lungs. The doctors figure she’s got no more than a couple of weeks.”

  “Sarah, I can’t.”

  “Ruth, she’s got two little kids. Both under five. I could show you pictures.”

  “Sarah…”

  “Please?”

  I was stunned: it was the first time Sarah had asked me for something in years.

  I took a deep breath before speaking, knowing that I was going to regret my decision, whichever way I went.

  “All right,” I whispered. “We’ll give it a try.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But listen,” I interrupted. “This is it. You can’t tell anybody else. This can’t get around, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “No,” I said. “This is important.”

  “I said okay.” She looked at me unflinchingly. “I do understand.”

  “Okay,” I breathed. “Let’s try to get you both out of here before Mrs. Barrett comes home.”

  I started back toward the living room, but Sarah reached out for my arm. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  I knew that she wasn’t talking about Pam.

  SIMON

  The last thing I wanted to do was to upset Mary by telling her about the fight with Karen, so I kept it to myself.

  Mary worried so much. One night, when I was almost asleep, she started a conversation by saying, “Are you ever sorry you’re here?”

  I rolled over to face her. My eyes were dazzled by her skin, glowing in the darkness. “What?” As if I either hadn’t heard or hadn’t really understood.

  “Are you ever sorry you’re here?” she repeated, her voice small.

  “Why would I be sorry to be here?” I curled my arm around her, shocked to find her cool despite the temperature of the apartment.

  “Well, I feel…sometimes I feel like I stole you from your wife…” Her voice dropped even lower.

  “There were problems between Karen and I before I met you.”

  “Yes, but if it weren’t for me—”

  “If it weren’t for you, I’d be very unhappy right now.”

  “And with me?”

  “With you I’m very happy.”

  Her eyes lit up, and after that she fell asleep quickly, but I knew that wasn’t the end of it. Occasionally she would look at me and almost speak, but then she’d change her mind.

  The reactions at the office hadn’t helped. If anything, the tension had built, not eased. Everyone was still civil to my face, but it was different for Mary. People treated her like she wasn’t even there. Sheila wouldn’t acknowledge her presence. If she brought files or records to us while we were working, she would hand me everything I needed, but leave Mary’s materials on the table or desk out of reach. She would bring me coffee without bringing anything for Mary. She would ask if I wanted her to order lunch for me, ignoring Mary entirely.

  I spoke to Sheila about it a couple of times, and she assured me that I was mistaken, that it had been an oversight, that it wouldn’t happen again. That was, of course, a lie, and we both knew it.

  “How’s Karen holding up?” Sheila would ask.

  Karen.

  I had picked up the phone half a dozen times in the forty-eight hours since the fight, punching in what used to be my home number, disconnecting each time before the phone had a chance to ring. What would I say?

  I would apologize.

  But I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  What was I thinking? Hadn’t done anything wrong?

  I might as well have rubbed salt in her eyes, kicked her while she was down.

  Mary had been quite concerned when I told her that I wasn’t going over to visit Sherry the morning after the fight.

  “The doctor’s going to be there.”

  “Well, shouldn’t you be there too?”

  “Karen’ll let me know what he has to say.” I cleared my throat. “Sometimes the doctor and I don’t see quite eye to eye. It’s best if I just give him the space to do his job.”

  She seemed to accept that as a valid reason, and didn’t pursue it any further. That afternoon I deliberately let a meeting run well past five, the time I normally left to see Sherry.

  “Are you still going to stop by the house?” Mary asked after the client had left.

  I pretended to think about it, then shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t want to disturb Karen at dinnertime. Besides, I really feel like a long run tonight.”

  She eyed me strangely. “Don’t you want to hear what the doctor said?”

  Caught in my own lie. “I’ll call her later.”
<
br />   Mary didn’t say anything more, and we drove home together in silence.

  The next day’s excuses were even weaker.

  And then it was 1:42 a.m., according to the red digits of the clock radio. Mary’s breath was as regular as a metronome, and I had lain awake for almost three hours, watching the soundless changing of the numbers, listening to the distanced, muffled noises from the other tenants.

  Mary shifted a little in her sleep and moaned softly.

  Without disturbing her, I slid out from under the covers. By the light from the windows, I navigated out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind me before I turned on one of the table lamps in the living room.

  I looked around in the low amber glow. I had been living with Mary for months, but I didn’t seem to have made much of an impression. There were a few of my books stacked on the floor next to her bookshelves, but all of the art in the room was hers—reproductions of a Lichtenstein comic panel, a blue Matisse Jazz figure, a Navajo-style blanket. There was a small stack of my CDs on top of the stereo cabinet, but the stereo itself, the television, the furniture, the apartment, were hers. Sometimes, it was as if I was not even here. As if I were no more than a guest in her home.

  I crossed the room to the CD rack. There were almost no artists that I recognized among Mary’s CDs. The rack was filled with groups with names like The Orb, Prodigy, Blur, Moist and Sloan.

  Each time I looked, it brought home the fact that an entire generation separated us. Although I preferred the classics, I had once taken a great deal of pride in my knowledge of music, and kept up to the minute on all the latest artists and trends, even if I didn’t listen to much of it. Not to recognize any of these performers? Old.

  Sighing, I turned to the stack of CDs I had bought over the last couple of months, comforted by their spines. Van Morrison. Bob Dylan. Neil Young. The Grateful Dead.

  “What’s that?” Mary had asked in the record store when she saw what I was carrying.

  I showed her the CDs—American Beauty. Blood on the Tracks. Astral Weeks.

  “That’s all fogey music,” she complained good-naturedly.

  “Get outta here.”

  “No kidding. I mean, how old do you think you are? Fifty? This music was old when you were my age. This is the stuff my grandparents used to listen to.”