A Thousand Sleepless Nights

by Teri Harman

  Lowering the book to her lap, she surveyed the typewriter. It was beautiful. Something about it made her want to smile, but how could she be happy about it? It was certainly old, but well kept. Someone had cared for this machine. The dust-free keys gleamed in the sunlight. Another sound made Matilda startle—this time the clack of keys—but it too faded before she could lift her head.

  I’m hearing things and hallucinating.

  Matilda looked around her ruined room again and suddenly needed more clean air to breathe. With the book locked in her hand, she fled the room, leaving the typewriter resting on the bed. Running down the stairs, through the derelict living room, kitchen, and out into the wild backyard. Jetty’s lovely yard laid half dead in overgrown chaos. Weeds chocking the flowers, the thin, papery grass grown to shin-height. The garden beds a mess of more weeds. The sight made tears roll down Matilda’s cheeks. How could this happen overnight?

  Matilda spun in a circle and then stopped. She closed her eyes and gripped the odd book to her chest. “This is a dream,” she whispered. “Wake up, wake up.”

  “Matilda?”

  Matilda spun around, realizing for the first time she was in her pink nightgown and barefoot. Thea stood at the fence. Jetty’s house stood on a corner lot and the backyard chain-link fence faced the side street. Matilda blinked and then frowned. Thea was at least six months pregnant.

  “Oh my gosh! It is you!” Thea’s eyes went wide.

  Matilda’s head pounded so hard she couldn’t see clearly. She took a couple steps toward Thea. “Thea?” She’d grown her hair out into a soft bob, curling just under chin. She looked older, different.

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s me. Plus one, of course.” She placed a loving hand on her swollen belly.

  “But … but how?”

  Thea threw back her head and laughed. “Well, I won’t give you the intimate details, but about two years after you left …” She paused awkwardly, like she had said something forbidden. Quieter, she finished, “Parker and I started dating. We’ve been married for a little over a year.” Her brow furrowed as her hand rubbed absently at her stomach. “Matilda, are you okay? You look … sick.”

  Matilda put the heel of a hand to her forehead and pressed hard. The book in her other hand felt extremely heavy. After you left … But she hadn’t left. She’d wanted to, but woke up in her bed. She hadn’t actually done it. This was the next day after that night. The morning after … Isn’t it? Her eyes lifted to her dirty bedroom window.

  Thea married Parker …

  “Do you want me to get Dr. Wells?” Thea called out. “Are you gonna faint or puke or something?”

  Matilda pressed her eyes closed. “Thea, what is the date?”

  “Huh?”

  “The date! What day is it?” Matilda yelled.

  “Good grief. You don’t have to be rude!” An impatient huff and a sideways glance at Matilda who felt ready to attack Thea, despite the baby bump, if she didn’t hurry up and answer the question. Thea frowned. “It’s May 3, 1998—of course. Sunday. I was just going to church—I’m late, as usual … Tilly?”

  The earth shifted and then nothing.

  n

  “Well, there she is! Welcome back—in more ways than one.”

  Matilda blinked up into the wide, rectangular face of Dr. Richard Wells, Silent Fields’s physician. The familiar sight of his droopy gray eyes flooded her mind with memories of annual office visits, shots and lollipops, and one broken finger after a fall from the school monkey bars.

  “I’m a little worried about your blood pressure, Tilly.” Dr. Wells held out a hand and helped Matilda sit up. She was still in the overgrown backyard of Jetty’s house. He pulled a cuff off her arm and folded it into his black bag. “Can you tell me what happened? What brought on your panic attack?”

  Panic attack? Yes, there had certainly been that. But what was she supposed to do when she woke up in Jetty’s ruined house and it was six years later than she expected it to be? She looked up at Dr. Wells, hunched over her, his giant-like frame shading her from the morning sun. “I … I’m not really sure.”

  His eyes narrowed in concern. “How did you get back into town? Did you drive? Did you sleep last night?”

  “I …” Matilda looked passed the doctor’s shoulder. Thea was still there, watching nervously as she chewed her thumbnail. Her pregnant belly. Parker’s baby. Parker, the man Matilda was going to marry, and then … “I think I had a nightmare. Or something. I’m really disoriented.”

  “Have you been sick? Any illnesses in the last six years? And what are all these scars from?” He pointed to her arms, left leg, and right cheek.

  Matilda shook her head, dizzier at the sight of her own body. There were pink slash marks on her forearms and a long nasty gash on her left shin. She touched her face and found a few small indentations near her jawline. She couldn’t pull in a breath. Those weren’t her forearms or leg or face. That wasn’t right. She’d never been hurt like that.

  “Matilda?” Dr. Wells lifted her wrist to check her pulse. “Take a slow breath, dear. Your pulse is racing. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t … I don’t know.” She couldn’t take her eyes off her left leg. Suddenly, it hurt, a bite of pain strong enough to make her cry out. She grabbed at the limb, but the pain had already gone.

  Dr. Wells put a hand on her back. “Take some breaths. Breathe for me.”

  Matilda tried to breathe, but nothing in her body worked right. Nothing in her head made sense.

  “It looks like you broke your leg. Here.” He pointed to her scar. “And it didn’t heal very well. How did you do that?”

  She didn’t have an answer. How can I not remember breaking my leg? She couldn’t look at the scars anymore. She felt violated. She looked around the yard instead. “What happened to my house?”

  Dr. Wells furrowed his brow even further. The look made Matilda nervous. “Matilda, you left town, remember? Without a word. None of us knew what to do. Greg Flounder had a yard crew come by the first few years, and I think he still pays the utilities, but he hasn’t been in good health lately, so some things have fallen to the wayside.”

  “But I didn’t leave …” Matilda clamped her mouth shut when the concerned look on Dr. Wells’s face deepened. He’s going to commit me. Maybe he should. Matilda hurried to stand up, which became an awkward exchange of Dr. Wells trying to assist her and then her assisting him when his old knees stiffened.

  He cleared his throat and brushed at his blue dress shirt and red tie. “Why don’t you come back to my office with me? We can figure things out.”

  Matilda swallowed, looked at Thea, and then back. “No, no. I’m fine really. Just a bad night. I got back late and went right to bed and was just a little disoriented when I woke up. It’s a little weird to be here.” Not a lie. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble. Are you sure? I gotta say I’m more than a little concerned.” He placed a large hand on her shoulder, turned her, and pointed a small flashlight in her eyes. “No signs of neurological problems. Did you hit your head?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Bad choice of words.

  Dr. Wells nodded. “Are you sure you won’t come back with me?”

  “No, I’m fine. Sorry to scare you. I’m fine. I’m home, aren’t I?”

  Dr. Wells smiled. “Yes. And it’s real good to see you again. We’ve missed you. We’ve worried. And Jetty would be so happy to have you back in the house.”

  The emotions in his words made her want to run, to scream, but she smiled and mumbled, “Thank you.” She looked around nervously. The mysterious book was on the grass. She picked it up and tucked it to her chest.

  “Well, if you insist on staying here, please take it easy. Rest, eat something hearty, and call me if you don’t feel any better. Okay? Promise?”

  Matilda half smiled. Dr. Wells said the same thing at the end of every examination. “Yes. Promise. Sorry if I pulled you out of church.” She took a few steps to
ward the back door.

  He laughed. “Don’t be. You did me a favor. Reverend Claude was going on and on like he does. I was half asleep when Thea tapped on my shoulder.” He smiled over at Thea and then back to Matilda. “I’ll call you later to check in.” He retrieved his bag from the dead grass and then, with a wave, went out the gate. Matilda watched him walk down the street, ignoring the weight of Thea’s stare.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Thea called out. “You’re limping.” She looked pointedly at Matilda’s left leg. “And what are you doing here? I mean, it’s your house, of course, but we were all beginning to think you’d never come back. It’s been so long. And the way you left …”

  Matilda met her eyes and then looked away. It’s been so long. “Thanks for getting Dr. Wells, Thea.” Then she opened the screen door and went inside without looking back.

  Henry

  Henry sat right down on the front steps of the library, typewriter on his knees, and did not move for several minutes. He couldn’t. Not until he understood why he thought it was 1992 and the world was busy living in 1998. He held the newspaper in his hand and read it from front to back three times.

  Did I hit my head?

  Am I sick?

  Am I dreaming?

  Nothing made sense, each possible explanation weak and unsatisfactory.

  Should I ask someone? Tell someone?

  Dramatic visions of white coats and padded cells convinced him to keep his mouth shut for now.

  Bill Clinton was president and accused of having an affair with an intern. The tech geeks were all buzzing about Windows 98. Across the street, there was a billboard advertisement for the season finale of a television show called The X-Files on the FOX network. The fifth season.

  But none of that was right. George Bush was president. The computers at the University of Ann Arbor—where he was earning his degree—ran on Windows 3.1. He watched plenty of TV, but X-Files didn’t sound familiar.

  It’s 1998. It’s 1998. HOW?

  Henry set the newspaper beside him on the step and looked at the typewriter. He ran his fingers loosely over the cool keys. Words started to form in his head, words that wanted to be written. He lifted the typewriter and put it aside.

  He took the book out, thinking that would be easier to examine. A Thousand Sleepless Nights. He opened it and looked at his name. For Henry. Not only was this apparently his book, but someone had given it to him. But who? He didn’t have any friends close enough to give him books. He didn’t have parents or relatives. It wasn’t a library book—no numbers for shelving or plastic to protect the cover. But something about it made his blood move faster.

  Henry couldn’t retrace his steps. The last thing he remembered was sitting at the table and trying to write, with pen and paper, not a fantastically old typewriter. It was supposed to be a Friday. Normally, he’d be teaching his creative writing class at four this afternoon. Then, as usual, he’d grab dinner at the Indian place by his apartment, browse the used bookstore until it closed and go home to his apartment with an armful of new books. Normally. Usually.

  He should call the community college.

  Henry bent the book back and forth, the pages creaking.

  What happened to me?

  He hefted the typewriter and stood, heading back into the large library. The whole place was done in fine cream- and gold-toned marble and decorated with huge, vibrant murals and frescos. He didn’t recognize the receptionist. “Excuse me,” Henry said quietly. She looked up—blonde, big blue eyes, pretty—and smiled, her eyes moving briefly to the typewriter. “Is there a phone I can use?” he asked.

  “Sure.” She picked up the receiver of the desk phone and leaned forward. “I’m supposed to direct you to the pay phones outside, but you look like a nice guy. Cool typewriter too.” Her smile grew, she brushed her hair off her shoulder.

  Henry blushed fiercely as he took the phone, careful not to touch her fingers on the exchange. “Thanks.”

  He dialed the college English Department, unsure exactly what to say.

  “English Department,” a bored female voice said.

  “Uh, yes. Can you tell me if Henry Craig still teaches any night classes on creative writing?”

  She sighed quietly. “Let me see.” Computer keyboard noises. Henry’s heart pounding against the earpiece. “It looks like Dr. Craig stopped teaching for us recently.”

  “Okay. Do you know why?”

  “Nope, sorry. All I have are dates.”

  “What date exactly?”

  Another sigh. “April 25, 1998. Anything else?”

  “You said, Dr. Craig?”

  “Yes, he has a PhD in creative writing.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Henry handed the phone back to the smiling receptionist and turned away before she could commence flirting. The date the secretary had given meant nothing to him. It only confirmed that things had happened that he could not remember. Including finishing his PhD.

  Standing on the outside steps once more, Henry closed his eyes and fought back a harsh surge of emotion. After several agonizing moments, he opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. They were trembling at the edge of the typewriter. He tilted the machine to one side and found a pink scar on the back of his right hand.

  That’s not right.

  He sat down, put the typewriter on the step, and then pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt up, revealing more scars he didn’t remember. He touched his face and found a deep ridge on his forehead that he didn’t know. I’m scarred. I have scars. These aren’t my scars.

  Henry looked out at the busy street; he heard nothing but a heavy silence. It smelled like rain or snow or something wet. He pulled his sleeves down as far as he could.

  Slowly, typewriter back in hand, he went down the steps and headed for home.

  Certain the home he expected wouldn’t be his anymore.

  Matilda

  Standing in the dusty living room, Matilda held Louis Winston’s book in her hands as if it were an anchor to dry land. Everything around her was exactly the same and yet completely transformed. The blue gingham couches. The steamer trunk coffee table, now home to the anomalous typewriter. The red-brick fireplace surrounded by bookshelves. Even the small vase of daffodils she’d put on the mantel after Jetty’s funeral. Except they were dead and decayed to almost nothing, a spider crawling in the remains.

  Wake up. It’s time to wake up. WAKE UP!

  The doorbell rang.

  Matilda screamed, dropping the book. It hit the floor in a puff of dust. Numbly, she went to the door, opened it. Parker stood there. Handsome as ever, but with shorter hair and more lines around his eyes.

  He blinked several times and then let out a long breath. “It really is you,” he whispered. “Thea said, but I didn’t really …”

  “Parker” was all Matilda could say. Part of her wanted to hug him, but she suddenly remembered that he wasn’t hers anymore. And that she’d been planning to leave him anyway. Last night—but not last night. She had left. She …

  “Are you okay? What happened?” Parker stepped forward, studying her from head to toe. “You don’t look good.”

  Matilda looked away from his curious examination. “I’m fine.” She folded her arms over her thin nightgown, wishing she had on pants, a thick sweater, some makeup. Anything other than this old thing that made her feel so pathetic and out of place. She didn’t need to feel that way any more than she already did.

  He narrowed his eyes and leaned his head a little to one side. “You don’t look fine. You look … scared.”

  The words brought a flash of tears to Matilda’s eyes. She wanted to tell him everything. Have him fix it, explain it—something. “I just … I’m not feeling too good. Just need some rest.”

  Parker slipped his hands into the pockets of his tan Dockers. He wore a white golf shirt to match. His shoes were made of a more expensive material than she remembered. Things at the cabinet mill must be good. He had a look on his face, like he want
ed to say something more. He nodded slowly. After a tense moment he stepped forward. He touched her arm and Matilda felt incredibly shy. “Tilly, what happened?”

  He never called her Tilly. Everyone else had adopted Jetty’s pet name, but he never had. She didn’t like the way he said it. A sudden breeze blew through the weeds in the front yard. Emotions stuck in her throat.

  “You married Thea?”

  He blinked. “Yes.”

  Matilda nodded. “That’s good. I’m glad. And a baby?”

  “In July. A boy.” He took another step closer and Matilda retreated two.

  “Good. That’s good.”

  He caught her eyes; his were full of sadness. “I looked for you.”

  Matilda bristled. I did leave. I left and I can’t remember. “I’m really sorry.”

  “That whole first year. I looked for you everywhere. I did … everything I could think of. I waited for you to call. Every time the phone rang …” His jaw tensed, and Matilda saw the anger under the sadness. Emotions clouded his voice now. “I worried. I worried every second of every day. I didn’t sleep. I went to the police, but they said it looked like you’d left on your own. Missing suitcase, missing car, house locked up tight. But it didn’t make any sense to me.” A breath, then quieter. “I thought you might be dead.”

  Matilda couldn’t fight the tears anymore. “That’s so horrible. I don’t know …” What could she say? “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then that note came.” He took a slow breath. Matilda didn’t remember a note. Parker went on, “That stupid note. But at least it was something. At least—”

  “I’m sorry!” she interrupted. She couldn’t stand it anymore. Please stop. Just stop. I don’t remember! How could I do that to him? What happened?

  Parker ran a hand back through his sunny hair, quiet for a long moment. “Are you staying?”

  Matilda nodded. What else would she do?

  Parker reached out again, but she pulled away. He dropped his arm with a sigh and turned away. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said as he looked out at the porch. Then he walked away.