A Walk Along the Beach(87)
She crossed her legs and spoke to me as she would a friend, which she was. “Tell me about a typical night.”
As best I could, I explained what was happening, the long periods of restlessness after only a few hours’ rest. “I feel like I’m running on empty. I’m making stupid mistakes at work; I recently ruined a batch of cinnamon rolls. Then I forgot to make a bank deposit and…and I’m afraid of what I might do next because I’m exhausted.”
“Have you tried taking an afternoon nap?”
“I’ve tried everything.” The frustration was as irritating as my inability to stay asleep for more than a few hours a night. “My eyes burn, but for the life of me I can’t go back to sleep.” I continued listing the other ideas I’d tried. Reading before I went to bed. Warm milk. Listening to music. Various kinds of white noise: the ocean waves, gentle forest sounds, birds chirping.
Annie listened, nodding now and again.
“I’m desperate,” I admitted. “I need something…a pill, drug, sleep therapy, something. Anything.” If she told me to stand on my head for fifteen minutes before I went to bed, I’d do it.
“When was the last time you had a full night’s rest?”
The answer immediately came to me. It was the night I’d gone to Sean’s house when I didn’t want to look at Harper’s empty bedroom, nor did I want to be alone.
“A while ago…a few months.” I didn’t elaborate with details. My weakness embarrassed me now.
“Was there anything different about that night?”
Avoiding an answer, I shrugged, unwilling to tell her I’d spent the night curled up around Sean. “Can you help me?” I asked.
Annie leaned closer, her look warm and sympathetic. “Insomnia isn’t unusual in your circumstance, Willa. You’ve lost your sister and you’re grieving. Our bodies react differently to that kind of stress. There are several drugs I can prescribe that will help you sleep, but I’m not fond of prescribing them. The side effects are worrisome, and in the end I’m afraid you’ll become psychologically reliant upon them. And the more you use them, the less effective they become. I suggest we start with melatonin and go from there.”
“Melatonin?” Shirley had suggested I give it a try. She said her husband used it and slept like a baby. The local pharmacy carried it, but I brushed off her suggestion, thinking I needed something stronger.
“Can you tell me what it is and why it works?”
“Melatonin is a hormone that regulates the sleep-wake cycle,” Annie explained. “It’s non–habit-forming and completely natural. Give that a try, and if after a week it doesn’t work, come see me and we can discuss other options.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t happy. I was looking for a quick, easy solution, not something I could get over the counter. My problem was serious.
Instead of heading home, I drove out to the cemetery. I hadn’t been to see Harper since before Christmas. I’d left a poinsettia at her grave site, weeping until I could barely see, missing my sister to the point I was physically ill.
The marker had been in place a few days before and I wanted to check on it, although Dad and I had given the approval before it was permanently set.
The wind whipped my coat around my legs as I climbed out of my car. I wrapped a knit scarf around my neck, shivering against the cold. January wasn’t my favorite month of the year. Since I lived near the ocean, the winter months were often stormy, characterized by strong winds and heavy rain. I missed my walks along the beach. If ever I needed them, it was now.
As I approached Harper’s grave, I noticed a bench. It was made of wood and was placed in such a way that it faced Harper’s tombstone. I swept aside the leaves with my gloved hands and noticed a small plaque on the armrest. In loving memory of Harper Lakey.
My immediate thought was that Dad had done this, creating this bench because he knew I would want to spend time with my sister. Working at the hardware store, he had access to everything he’d need. It was such a thoughtful thing to do; I was surprised he hadn’t mentioned it.
Standing by Harper’s grave, I looked down at the marker. It had her favorite verse, 1 Corinthians 13:13: “Now of these that remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” Below were the dates of her birth and death. It said little about the vibrant sister who was so close to my heart. Tears leaked from my eyes. You’d think by now I’d shed all the tears I had inside me, and yet they came without bidding, without warning, leaving me defenseless in my grief.
How long I stood and stared at Harper’s grave I didn’t know. After a while I sank down onto the bench, grateful it was there. I grabbed a tissue out of my purse to blow my nose. I’d give anything to have my sister back and didn’t know how I would ever fill the huge hole her death had brought into my life.
That evening I made one of Dad’s favorite meals in appreciation for his thoughtfulness. He deserved something special, and I knew this chicken-and-rice casserole would please him. He came home from work, petted Snowball, washed up, and, seeing that dinner was ready, sat down at the table. His eyes widened when I set the ceramic casserole dish in the middle of the table. This was one I used only on special occasions, because it had belonged to Mom.
“What did I do to deserve this?” he asked. Even before I had a chance to answer, he reached for the serving spoon, piling a large heap of the chicken dish onto his plate.