The Sleepwalker(51)

“But why me?” I asked, strangely and unexpectedly alarmed by the idea that he had spoken to our health insurance provider about me already.

“Oh, only because you are your mother’s daughter. I love you girls, and I want to be sure you will both be safe when you sleep. No mystery. No mystery at all.” He smiled, trying his best to recover. “And while a sleep study sounds unpleasant—I know you’ve both heard about the wires all over you, the monitors, the camera—everyone manages to fall asleep.”

“So we’re both going to do it?” Paige asked.

“Yes,” he said. “The very same day. But, again, I’m not all that worried about either of you. I’m just not. Remember, Paige, you’ve really only had one event.”

Paige corrected him, reminding him about the swim bag. “That was far more likely your mother or me being absentminded,” he replied. “The testing will give us all closure.”

Closure. The word came to me again as I walked alone to the bridge. First the pastor had used it when she had come by that morning. Then my father had used it at dinner. It rattled me.

I hadn’t thought much about the specifics of my mother’s funeral or a memorial service—what it would look like. Feel like. Who would speak and what we would sing. I tried to think of hymns and realized I only knew Christmas carols. Yes, my mother was gone. Probably she was dead. But only probably. Not definitely. I myself was still dazed. We all were. And I was still reeling at the world of adult secrets that swirled about me like fallen leaves in an autumn windstorm. I wondered if I was keeping secrets from my father for the simple reason that I believed he was keeping secrets from me. But then I chastised myself: Was he keeping secrets from me or shielding me as a parent? There was a big difference. There certainly were things I didn’t tell Paige because my sister was twelve.

When I got to the bridge, I walked to the exact spot where I had found my mother and parked myself on the sidewalk there. I leaned on the concrete parapet, my elbows roughly where my mother’s bare feet had been, and looked down at the Gale River. I reached into the hoodie’s kangaroo pocket for my dope and packed myself a bowl. And then, for the first time in a week, I allowed myself a small buzz and tried to relax.

My mother never told me what she recalled from the walk that had led her here that night, naked and alone. There were so many things I would never know about her and so many things I would never understand. In the days that followed that somnambulant journey, when—always so tentatively—I had asked her what she remembered, my mother mostly had blushed. She had been evasive. Were the recollections that taboo? My father apparently thought so. My mother, I believe, was ashamed.

It seemed unfair to me to be ashamed of your dreams. We can’t control our dreams any more than we can control the weather or the tides.

My mother never mentioned what she recalled—if anything—from that night when she had spray-painted the hydrangea, either. At least she hadn’t told me. She never shared with me where she went in her dreams.

Because, technically, she hadn’t been dreaming. She had been sleepwalking. I knew the difference.

I tapped out the ashes and did something I hadn’t done in ages. I packed a second bowl.

I inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in my lungs, and closed my eyes. Another word came to me, suicide, and I wondered what it would be like to stand on the balustrade as my mother had. I thought it was interesting that no one devoted much energy to the possibility that my mother had killed herself. Certainly I hadn’t. But why would we? Annalee Ahlberg loved her daughters. Her depression had never been debilitating. And hadn’t it been under control? I thought once more of the spectacular energy she had put over the years into her girls’ Halloween costumes. Sometimes into her own.

Still, one night the woman had come to this bridge and nearly hurled herself off it.

There was a bright half-moon tonight. There were no clouds. I looked down at the water, which was lower than I could ever recall. The water here was so clear that during the day a person could look down and see the rocks beneath the surface. Now, at night, I could see only the boulders that broke the plane like icebergs. Some were the size of Volkswagen Beetles; some were bigger still.

I guessed I could walk across the river without getting my hair wet in this section. The riverbank sloped farther than usual because of the drought. It was a long drop from here on the center of the bridge, and with the water so low, longer than usual.

I had been to funerals before. Although my mother’s parents were both still alive, my father’s parents had passed away: my grandfather when I was in kindergarten and my grandmother two years ago. Had those services helped my father? I supposed so. They hadn’t really helped me. The truth was, I had been saddened by the death of each of my grandparents, but not overwhelmingly so. They had each been sick awhile before they died. They had each been in pain. They had each, my father had reassured me, been ready.

I watched the small constellation of stars emerge in the bowl when I took one long, last drag. I blew the smoke straight into the air and thought, I am a dragon. The idea made me smile inside. I placed the pipe on the balustrade.

Almost as if daring myself, I climbed onto the parapet, first kneeling and then, ever so slowly, climbing to my feet. It was perhaps four feet high and little more than a foot wide. It was not as ornate as the ones on the bridges that span the Tiber or Seine, but it had a series of spindles below the balustrade that were rather elegant for the Green Mountains. I spread wide my arms to steady myself, prepared to jump (or fall) back toward the asphalt on the bridge if I felt myself losing my balance. When I was standing up, I allowed myself a glance down at the water. The elevation here was high enough that most likely I’d die if I landed in any manner but feet or legs first. And then I’d wind up crippled. A paraplegic, I guessed. Maybe even a quadriplegic. It wouldn’t be pretty. It would be painful.