The Sleepwalker(46)

Yeah, if I believed in God, I’d be a roamin’ Catholic.

Surest cure for my sleepwalking? The night I walk off my roof.

I know there’s not supposed to be a connection between our dreams and our parasomnias, but I think there is—which is why the sex dreams are the scariest. (Your Honor, my client was only in bed with her because of a very rare parasomnia.)



There were no e-mails in nearly three years. The last one from my mother was an apology of sorts that she couldn’t see him after all, because that Friday was my first Parents Weekend at the college, and she and Warren and Paige would be in Amherst then. I found it reassuring to see that Gavin hadn’t lied to me: based on the dates of the e-mails, at least, he and my mother hadn’t met each other in a very long time. Less reassuring, however, was the realization that my mother must have been deleting the e-mails between herself and the detective as soon as she wrote and received them, which suggested she felt they were incriminating. Or they made her feel guilty. Either way, she didn’t want anyone else to see them.

That is, of course, assuming that it was my mother who had deleted them.

Before I left the bedroom, I stared for a long moment at the lock on the bedroom door, and then tried to see if I could lock it by accident. In the end, I decided it was possible. But it wasn’t likely.





FOR A WHILE, I researched what great minds said about sleep. I learned that both Gandhi and Poe equated sleeping with dying.

Then I collected amazing stories about sleep—about the incredible things people did in their sleep. It made me feel less alone. Less crazy. Less strange.

I only stopped when I realized I was better off alone.





CHAPTER TEN


I WAS FOLDING laundry on the living room floor Monday morning, listening to music as I worked, when I heard the doorbell. I saw it was the minister and ushered the woman into the house. I was relieved—no, I was downright proud—that the kitchen was clean: I had loaded the dishwasher and sponged off the counters after I had gotten Paige off to the school bus and our father had left for the college. Katherine Edwards had been the pastor at the church for at least twenty-five years, a little longer than my parents had lived in Bartlett. She was wearing khakis and a navy cardigan sweater, but her wire-rim eyeglasses still suggested “attorney” to me. The woman’s hair looked a little more gray than some days, but her eyes had their usual sparkle. She was smiling, but all that did was remind me that I had been hungover in Gavin Rikert’s bed yesterday morning when this woman was preaching at the church maybe a third of a mile away from where we were standing right now. I punched the stop button on the CD player.

“I just thought I would see how you’re doing,” she asked me. “Your dad home?”

“No, he’s already off to Middlebury. Do you want some coffee or tea? I think we even have apple cider.”

“I’m fine. I just came from a breakfast meeting. Your dad called the other day, and I said I’d drop by.”

I was almost incredulous at the idea of my father phoning the minister, but kept my surprise to myself. “What about?” I asked simply.

“Your mother—of course.”

“Of course.” I motioned at the front hall behind me. “Want to come in? I was just finishing the laundry. My very exciting life.”

“I will, thank you.” She started to slip off her pumps, but I told her that wasn’t necessary. The pastor took one of the barstools around the kitchen island, and I took another.

“You’re a good egg,” Katherine said. “You’re taking wonderful care of Paige and your dad, I can tell.”

“I guess. Who knew I was such a nurturer?”

“I gather there’s no news about your mom. That was the impression I got from your dad.”

“Can you tell me more about why he called? I mean, was it something specific about my mom?”

“Oh, it was a very brief conversation.”

“I’m sure.”

“You have a magic show next weekend, don’t you?” she asked, instead of answering the question.

I nodded. “Eliza Bowen’s birthday party. Thank you again for that lead.”

“Do you know her?”

“Not really. She’s three years younger than Paige.”

“Well, be warned. She’s a hellion in Sunday school, I hear. Her teacher dreads class some mornings. So…don’t thank me for the lead just yet.”

“I’ll be fine.”

The woman gazed at me a little more intensely. “Tell me honestly: What do you need? What can I do? What can the church do?”

I looked away; I couldn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“I must admit, I feel the deacons haven’t done enough, I feel I haven’t done enough. My husband definitely doesn’t feel any of us have done enough.” Her husband was a therapist, but I wasn’t sure where his practice was. They had twin sons a few years older than me. One, I knew, was in grad school. The other? I had no idea.

“I’m being totally serious: I don’t know what I need. I don’t know what we need. I just don’t. I mean, we don’t even go to church. I’m surprised my dad called you.”

The minister shrugged. “Is that it?”