by Amy Cross
“That was just a nightmare,” I tell her again, forcing a smile that I hope might set her at ease. “Let's not talk about nightmares, eh? Let's talk about nice things. Do you remember that day last year when you had a picnic in the garden? Do you remember how nice the weather was, and how so many of your friends from school came to play? You've always been such a popular girl. You have so many friends.”
I brush the back of my hand against her cheek and feel beads of icy sweat. I think she might be starting to run a fever, but then again, maybe not. Maybe she's just a normal temperature. The radiator is on four or five in the kitchen downstairs, so maybe the room's just a little warm. Yeah, it's probably just the radiator. I'll turn the heat down later and wait a while, and then the supposed fever will probably go away. It's not a fever at all. She's a normal temperature.
“Why does the thing keep chasing me?” she whispers.
“Nobody's chasing you.”
“When I'm asleep.”
“That's not real, honey.”
“It won't let me go to the back door.”
“That's just a nightmare, sweetheart. I promise, nobody's chasing you. Do you seriously think Mummy would let someone do anything like that? I'm here to look after you, every second of every hour of every day. Never forget that.”
“You can't look after me when I'm asleep.”
“Do you want to bet?”
“Every time I go to sleep,” she continues, clearly agitated, “I dream it's chasing me through the house. It doesn't run. It walks. And it always touches the wall while it walks, and it bumps its fingers and I hear like this brushing sound. I always know what that means. It means the thing is coming again. The brushing sound comes closer as it comes through the house. It always rubs its hand against the wall when it's walking. I hate that noise!”
“Let's focus on something happy,” I reply, trying desperately to think of some way I might distract her. “Maybe we can find a way to give you happy dreams.”
I wait for her to suggest something, but she's staring at me with fear in her eyes, as if she wants me to take the pain away and make everything alright. I swear I can feel my heart tearing in two as I realize – yet again – that there's nothing I can do except try to calm her mind and be with her as much as possible. I'm her mother. I should be able to do more. I should be able to stop the pain.
“I don't want to go to sleep again,” she whispers. “I don't want to see the thing again. Or hear it.”
“Why don't I read to you?” I ask, getting to my feet and hurrying around the bed, making my way to the bookcase in the far corner of the room. “Do you remember that book you used to like, the one about a horse? What was it called again? For a while, it was the only book you ever wanted me to read at bedtime.” Crouching down I start looking for that one particular book with a running black horse on the cover. “And if -”
Suddenly Alice lets out another hiccup, then another. I turn and see that her body is shaking again, and she's staring at me with that same desperate expression, as if she can't understand why her own mother isn't doing anything to make her better. And then, as I get to my feet, she tilts her head back and lets out another agonized cry.
“It's okay!” I shout, rushing back over to the bed as she tries to climb out. “Mummy's here! Alice, you're going to be okay! Mummy's right here! Stay in the bed! Everything's going to be okay!”
***
“Sick people should be in hospitals,” Dad says as I grab some more cartons of soup from the fridge. “It's where they belong. If someone's sick, they should be in the hospital.”
“Alice isn't not sick,” I mutter, balancing the cartons in my arms as I use my hip to push the fridge door shut. Hurrying around the kitchen table, I struggle to get a drawer open, and then somehow I manage to reach down and grab a spoon. My hands are trembling, but I'm used to that. I feel like I've been living like this forever now.
“They shouldn't send sick people home,” he continues. “It's not right. Sick people oughta be in the hospital, where they can be looked after by people who know what they're doing.”
“She's not sick,” I say again as I head to the door. “I have to get back up there. She's sleeping, but she could wake up at any moment.”
I glance at the baby monitor on the counter. All I can hear is the steady beep of the machines next to Alice's bed, but she could start hiccuping or crying out at any moment. I hate leaving her alone in her room, even if it's just for a few minutes at a time, but every so often I have to come down and fetch some food.
“Sick people wanna be in the hospital,” Dad drawls. “Why would anyone -”
“Because she's dying!” I hiss, turning to him as a sudden burst of anger rushes through my chest. “Don't you get it, you stupid old fool? They didn't send her home to get better, they sent her home to die! They literally told me to my face that she only has a couple of days left! It's a miracle she's still here at all, so just shut up! Stop saying the same thing over and over again, and just shut the hell up!”
As soon as I've said those words, I know I've made a mistake.
Dad's not right in the head these days, not since the dementia began to cloud his mind, and now he's staring at me slack-jawed, as if everything I've just told him is somehow new. Then again, given his current state, maybe he doesn't remember very much of the past eighteen months at all. Maybe he doesn't remember the diagnosis and the chemo, or the radiation therapy, or the endless cycle of remissions and regrowth that Alice has endured. I've pitied my father since he became ill, but right now as I stare at his uncomprehending face, I think maybe I actually envy his lack of understanding.
I wish I could forget. Not now, not while Alice needs me, but later. When it's over.
He sits with a furrowed brow for a few seconds, as if he's trying to come to terms with the awful truth, but then his face seems to relax slightly.
“They shouldn't send sick people home from the hospital,” he stammers finally, as if his thought process has once again reset itself. “That's where sick people should be. In the hospital, where there are doctors and nurses. Not at home.”
I'm too tired for this.
If he doesn't want to face the truth right now, if he can't face the truth, then that's fine by me.
“I have to go up to her,” I reply, turning and heading through to the hallway, where I notice a pair of black gloves on the table by the front door. I need to put those away, but I don't have time right now. I don't have time for anything or anyone except Alice.
In fact, as I hurry up the stairs and then make my way toward Alice's bedroom, I'm starting to think that maybe I should try to get my brother to take Dad for a few days. The last thing I need is -
Suddenly I realize I can hear a bumping sound as I walk, as if something is brushing against the wall right behind me.
Startled, I stop and turn, looking back the way I came. The sound has stopped now, but I swear I heard someone brushing a hand along the wall. I look down at the wall, but of course there's no sign of anything untoward. I wait, just in case there's actually somebody here, but finally I remind myself that I haven't slept in more than three days, which means it's hardly a surprise if I'm starting to imagine things. I guess I've been letting Alice's talk of nightmares get into my head a little.
There's nobody else here in this house. Just me, Dad, and my very sick little girl.
Tuesday
“Calwell cantered over to the fence,” I read from the picture book, “and stopped to look out across the next meadow. As he watched the butterfly flitting across the grass, Calwell couldn't help wishing he could fly, and that -”
Before I can finish, Alice starts coughing again. Dropping the book, I immediately grab some tissue paper and hold it close to her mouth. She reaches up and tries to take the tissue, but she seems too weak and – besides – the constant coughs make her hands shake too much. I wait until she's done, before moving the tissue away and taking a look; I feel a shiver run up my spine as I see a
few specks of blood. Scrunching the tissue up so that she won't see and get frightened, I toss it into the bin.
“I don't want to go to sleep,” she whispers.
“That's okay. I haven't finished the story yet.”
“But I don't think I can stay awake.”
Those words send a shudder through me.
“I'll keep reading anyway,” I tell her, “and you can just close your eyes and listen.”
“If I close my eyes, I'll fall asleep.”
“Well that's okay, sweetie.”
“I think I might fall asleep even if I keep my eyes open,” she adds.
I turn away, toward the bookshelf. I know that if I look at Alice right now, I'll start crying, and the last thing I want is for her to see that I'm upset. Taking slow, deep breaths, I feel a swelling sensation behind my eyes, as if more and more tears are trying to break through. After a couple more seconds, however, I manage to pull myself together, and I turn back toward Alice just in time to see that she's closing her eyes.
“Hey,” I say, nudging her arm, trying not to panic. “I didn't finish the story.”
I wait, but her eyes slip shut and her head tilts slightly away from me. I want to wake her, but I should probably let her sleep, even if I have to sit here and listen to each and every breath. Her throat has been sounding increasingly thick over the past few hours, as if she's developing more and more phlegm, and I'm worried that soon she might find it difficult to draw breath at all. Reaching over, I move some hair from across her forehead and then I briefly check her temperature and find that she still feels cold and clammy.
“Just hold on, okay?” I whisper, even though I know I'm probably being selfish. “Please. I don't want tonight to be the -”
“No,” she whispers suddenly.
I open my mouth to ask what she means, before realizing that I can see her eyes twitching beneath the closed lids. She's talking in her sleep again.
“Please,” she continues, “I don't want to. I want to go over there instead.”
She furrows her brow before letting out a faint, pained whimper.
Reaching over, I place a hand on her knee. Hopefully, even in a dream, she'll be able to draw comfort from my presence.
“No,” she says again, as a jolt suddenly passes through her body. “I don't want to. Don't make me.”
“It's okay,” I whisper, leaning closer. “Mummy's here.”
“I don't want to,” she whines, furrowing her brow even more. “You can't make me. I won't let you. Why can't you leave me alone and let me go?”
“Shhh!” I take her hand in mine and give her a gentle squeeze, just to let her know that I'm here. “Have nice thoughts. Dream about nice things.”
Her legs are twitching now, but she doesn't say anything for the next few minutes as I sit holding her sweaty hand. I feel utterly hopeless, although that's how I feel most of the time these days, and I know all I can really do is stay right here and wait for her to wake up. I could nudge her and bring her out of the dream, of course, but then she'd just be in pain again. At least while she's asleep, there's a chance that her nightmare might change and become something more pleasant.
And at least while she's dreaming, she's alive.
***
After stepping out of Alice's room, I turn and look back at her for a moment before leaving the door open as I head to the stairs. I'll be back up in a few minutes' time, but I need to feed Dad and -
Suddenly I stop as I hear the brushing sound following me.
I turn and look over my shoulder, but now the sound has stopped. Still, for a couple of seconds there I'm sure I heard something brushing against the wall.
I wait a few more seconds, before turning and hurrying down the stairs.
***
“You were up there a long time this evening,” Dad mutters as he tries to sip soup from his spoon. Barely any goes into his mouth, of course; most spills and splatters against the table. “You were up there hours and hours, weren't you?”
“What else am I supposed to do?” I ask, hurrying to get my soup out of the way. “I'm going back up after this. Alice needs me.”
He hesitates. “Alice?”
“Not now, Dad,” I say with a sigh.
“What do you mean?”
“I just -”
Sighing again, I can't help seeing the helplessness in his eyes. He seems to cycle through three different moods these days: sometimes he has no idea that Alice is ill; other times he knows she's ill but he thinks I'm doing the wrong thing by having her at home; and finally, there are moments like this when I actually think he barely remembers anything at all.
“My daughter,” I say after a moment, feeling a flicker of irritation. “Your granddaughter.”
“I know who she is,” he replies testily, although I have no idea whether he's telling the truth. He can be very defensive at times, as if he thinks he can hide his confusion. He starts trying to lift some more soup to his lips. “You don't have to treat me like I'm an old fool.”
I watch as he struggles again, and I honestly don't think any of that spoonful went into his mouth at all. The whole lot just spilled and dribbled down his stubbly chin. Which reminds me, I need to give him another shave soon.
“Have you heard anything unusual lately?” I ask suddenly, surprising even myself. I hadn't meant to ask, but the words somehow just tumbled out.
Like spilled soup.
He stares at me. “Eh?”
“Have you heard anything odd?” I continue, figuring that I might as well check, even if he's hardly a reliable witness. “You haven't heard a sound like someone brushing against the wall, have you?”
He furrows his brow, and it's already clear that he's not going to be any help.
“Never mind,” I mutter, looking back down at my soup. “I thought I heard something a couple of times, that's all. I should probably just get some sleep.”
“I heard footsteps last night,” he replies, once against struggling with his spoon.
“That was probably me.”
“It was in the middle of the night. On the stairs.”
I pause for a moment, trying to remember whether I left Alice's side between sunset and sunrise. I honestly don't think that I got up from the chair next to her bed, although my sleep-deprived mind could well be playing tricks on me. I'm certainly in no position to get into an argument. In fact, now I think about it, I might have gone downstairs at one point.
“What about something brushing against a wall?” I ask, before leaning over and briefly running my own hand against the kitchen wallpaper. “Have you heard anything like that in the night? Or any time?”
He hesitates for a moment, before slowly shaking his head. Several beads of tomato soup are glistening in the white hairs of his beard.
“I should go back to Alice,” I say with a sigh, getting to my feet. “You'll have to finish on your own. When you're done, take your bowl to the kitchen and I'll wash it later. Okay? Don't try to wash anything yourself. We don't want another mess like last time.”
I wait for him to reply, but he's staring at me as if I'm speaking a foreign language.
“Never mind,” I add, carrying my bowl to the kitchen. “Just watch TV or something.”
Once I've double-checked that the back door is locked, I head through to the hallway. Just as I'm about to go upstairs, I spot a pair of black gloves on the table next to the door, and I realize that I still haven't had a chance to put the damn things away yet. I need to get on with that, but I don't have time right now.
Later.
I'll do it later.
Hurrying up the stairs, I can barely drag my exhausted body up to the landing, but I know there's no time to rest. Alice was asleep when I left her room about fifteen minutes ago, and I would've heard over the monitor if she'd woken while I was having dinner. Now, as I make my way toward her room, I can't help thinking that -
And then I hear it again.
I stop and look over my shoulder.
There's no sign of anyone else here, and the sound is gone again, but I swear I heard something brushing against the wall. It was as if somebody was following me, but I know that Dad is downstairs and I also know that the only other person in the house is Alice, and she's not even able to get out of bed. I wait for a moment, hearing only the sound of Dad bumping about in the kitchen, and then I turn and head toward Alice's door.
The brushing sound returns.
I stop and turn again.
The sound stops too.
I wait, still watching the landing in case there's any hint of movement. It's almost as if something was following me just now, all the way to the door that leads into Alice's bedroom. I know that's not possible, of course, and I'm convinced that my sleep-deprived brain is simply spewing out nonsense, but at the same time the brushing sound seemed very clear and very close. As I look back along the landing, I half-expect to find that there's somebody here with me, but suddenly I hear a coughing sound coming from Alice's room and I realize she's waking up.
“It's okay,” I call out, turning and hurrying through to her. “Mummy's here. Everything's going to be okay!”
Wednesday
“I had that nightmare again,” Alice whispers as I pat her forehead with a cool sponge. “Mummy, why do I keep having the same nightmare?”
“I don't know,” I reply, smiling even though I feel close to tears. “Maybe I need to read you some happier bedtime stories.”
“It was coming after me again,” she continues, “and -”
“Let's not talk about it, okay?”
“But it's scary.”
“Which is a very good reason why we should talk about something else. Come on, we don't have time to waste on -”
I stop myself just in time.
“We don't have time to waste on sad things,” I was going to say. “Let's us our time to talk about happy things instead.”
I'm glad I didn't say that.
I place the sponge in the bowl of water, before taking a towel and carefully drying Alice's forehead.
