The Sleepwalker(45)

I went to the window to see the lake and squinted against the sun. Then I closed my eyes and backed away. Too soon, I thought, way too soon. But I had seen enough to know the view was lovely. Romantic. The sunsets over the Adirondacks must have been glorious.

The kitchen was cleaner than I expected, but I wasn’t sure why I thought it would be messy. My mother would have approved of the white cabinetry and slate-colored countertops, and I shivered at the very thought of my mom. Could she have been here, too? God, I hoped not.

I knew I should phone Gavin to thank him. I dreaded it, but wanted to get it over with. So I pushed the blanket and sheet onto one side of the couch, collapsed into the cushions, and called him.

“I am so sorry,” I began when he picked up. “I am so embarrassed and I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I feel bad. I should have stopped you when you ordered that second glass of wine at the show. Maybe I should have stopped you when you ordered the first. I had a feeling that was the tipping point.”

“Next time, feel free.”

“I will. You know, I’m older, but I think I was afraid to advertise that. I think it would have felt too, I don’t know, controlling to weigh in. I’m just glad you still want a next time.”

“I do if you do. But I won’t drink.”

“I gather you don’t drink much at college.”

“No, I smoke a lot of”—and I remembered he was a detective and stopped myself.

“Dope,” he said, finishing the sentence for me, almost laughing as he spoke. “Don’t worry, I won’t judge you or arrest you.”

“Thank you. And thank you for last night. I had fun. I had a great time.”

“Me, too.”

“And thank you for, um, putting me to bed.”

“It took about three seconds. I pulled off your boots and you were out like a light. Again.”

“Again. Wow, I was just great company.”

“You were.”

“I gather I locked you out of your bedroom.”

There was a beat I hadn’t expected, a pause. Then: “What do you mean, you locked me out?”

“The bedroom door was locked. From the inside.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You know, I don’t think you would have done that. I don’t think you could have done that. I must have locked it by mistake when I was getting my clothes,” he said, but something had changed in the tenor of our conversation. He sounded at once affable and false. But I couldn’t imagine why he would lie.

“Okay,” I said. I let it go, but I knew my curiosity and confusion about it were going to gnaw at me—like so much else that autumn.

“Have you called my buddy?” he asked. “He’s doing nothing today but watching football. He lives in the building and he’s happy to bring you to your wheels.”

“I’ll just take a cab.”

“No, call him! It’s all good.”

“We’ll see,” I murmured. “I like your apartment,” I told him.

“Thank you. I hope you’ll come back.”

“I will. But don’t bother to chill a bottle of wine.”

“I’ll make a note,” he said.

After we hung up, I called my father and told him that I was on my way home. In the background, I heard Paige singing “Drunken Angel” for my benefit. I folded the sheet and the blanket on the couch. Then I returned to his bedroom to retrieve my boots. I made Gavin’s bed. There was a computer on a small, antiseptic black desk by the window—there it was, the digital knowledge free to be plucked—and for a long moment I stared at it. I knew I couldn’t resist, and so I didn’t even try. I turned it on and watched it spring to life: the cobalt blue of Windows and rows of square icons. One of them, I noticed, was for an art program that came with the operating system, and it reminded me of an armoire or clothing cabinet. Narnia, I thought: I was about to open the wardrobe. I told myself that I should turn the machine off before I had gone too far.

But I didn’t. There was a document on the desktop, and I assumed by its name that it was a case file. I opened it and saw it was about a domestic abuse murder-suicide that had been in the news all week. An unemployed car mechanic in Newport had shot his wife and then himself. Gavin probably was working on it before leaving to meet me yesterday afternoon. I closed it and clicked on his e-mail. I felt bad, but I knew I wouldn’t turn back. Not now. I resolved that I would do one search and one search only. I put my mother’s name in the search bar and pressed the return key. And there they were: a dozen and a half e-mails from her. Maybe more. All were short, but all were clear.

I’m designing a guesthouse on the lake out along Appletree Point. I’ll be there on Wednesday. Up for a cupcake?

No adventures. I slept through the night.

Clonazepam dreams. Not for the faint of heart. You?

Paige will be racing all day Saturday and Warren is entertaining some poet from Scotland. Any chance you’re around for coffee?

I’d love to see you. I need to see you. But I can’t. Not this week. I’m so sorry.

The coffee shop on Tuesday would be great. 11:30?

Perfect. I’m actually at the sleep center that day. See you then.



I read through the chains that led to each final e-mail in the mailbox. There was nothing incriminating in them, though I stared long and hard at my mother’s sentence, I need to see you. The tone of that one unnerved me. But most really were about nothing more than logistics: where and when they would meet. Gavin was more likely to bring up sleepwalking than my mother was, but always as a dark aside or deliberately bad joke.