Tips for Living(97)

“Every chance I get. Why?”

“You’ll need to stop drinking coffee immediately. No dark chocolate, either. Caffeine is your problem. Caffeine leaches calcium and magnesium. The tests show that your calcium is low, but more seriously, you have quite a severe magnesium deficiency.”

“I do? Is that dangerous?”

“It’s probably responsible for the exhaustion and arrhythmia. It can cause a host of other difficulties over time. Confusion. Violent muscle spasms. With severe magnesium deficiencies, we’ve even seen brain seizures. And parasomnias.”

“Parasomnias.”

“Yes. Like night terrors, for instance. Or sleepwalking.”

That gave me a jolt.

“Sleepwalking? You’re sure of that?”

“Have you . . . ?”

“Yes,” I said excitedly. “I’ve been walking in my sleep recently. A couple of times. It was a problem when I was a kid. But the doctor said I’d grow out of it after puberty. I thought I had.”

“You probably did. But if you have a predisposition, it can become a ‘weak spot.’ It’s likely been triggered by this deficiency. I want to observe you for another day or so, but my thinking is, if we replace your magnesium and cut out coffee, your arrhythmia and the sleepwalking will cease.”

I fervently hoped the problem boiled down to coffee and magnesium.

“You think I can be cured?”

“I’m very optimistic, but of course, we’ll have to wait and see.”



“Today is Sunday, right?”

“Yes. It’s Sunday,” Dr. Patel said.

A week since the bodies were discovered—a life-changing week, to say the least. Having ascertained that my heart held a steady rhythm, Dr. Patel ordered my release. After two nights under strict observation, the night nurse reported that I had not done any sleepwalking. It seemed Dr. Patel’s prognosis was correct. His only prescription besides magnesium pills and a ban on caffeine was “pleasure and leisure.”

“Don’t jump right into anything. Take it easy for a couple of days. Stay home. Read books. Watch movies. Drink wine, in moderation. Enjoy the company of your loved ones.”

That would be Aunt Lada, Grace and Mac and the boys and, maybe, Ben. When he picked me up at the hospital, I asked if he could stay at the Coop for the rest of the day.

“Unless because Sam is home you’d rather . . .”

“Sam is busy hanging out with his other friends who are home on break. It would be my pleasure.”

The temperature had remained cold since the storm, which meant the snow hadn’t melted. The sun shone on a beautiful, shimmering wonderland as we turned onto Crooked Beach Lane and approached my driveway. A few dogged city reporters waited there. They were eager to get a statement from the woman who had faced down her ex-husband’s murderer. Ben shooed them away. “Unless you want to stay and help me shovel this snow,” he said. “Seriously, Ms. Glasser will call you if she decides it’s in her interests to speak to the press.”

Then he accompanied me inside and insisted I go right to bed while he brewed his favorite tea for us. “I was hoping you’d invite me to stay. I brought supplies,” he said, pulling two tea bags out of his coat pocket.

I fell asleep before the water boiled. When I woke, Ben was in bed next to me, reading my April Krim book on artists’ muses.

“You’ve been asleep a long time.”

“How long?”

“Eleven hours.”

“Wow. Catching up, I guess.”

He tapped the book. “Interesting women. Most of them talented in their own right. Passionate. Generous. But some of these male artists . . . It’s disappointing to read how they treated the women who loved them. Let’s just say these sons of bitches are best known through their work.”

I closed my eyes and mused on Ben’s observation. Was Hugh “best known through his work?” If I could go back in time and leave that art gallery before he introduced himself, would I? Did I regret our entire relationship? No. But I let the admiration I had for his talent and success overshadow his hurtful behaviors. I got hooked on being his muse and betrayed myself. I had to forgive me before I could forgive Hugh. It was time to do both.

I opened my eyes and looked over at Ben.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“You are pretty terrific,” I said.

He smiled, kissed me, went off to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of mushroom soup from a pot that Grace delivered. I thanked him, drank the soup and dropped off to sleep again.



For the next two days, I happily heeded Dr. Patel’s advice and stayed home. I kept tabs on Aunt Lada, who was lucid and recovering well. The first time I called, she wanted to talk about Abbas.

“I remember him from your wedding. He was such a charmer, that one. But na yazeekey myed. A na seardsea lyod.”

A tongue of honey. A heart of ice.

“I don’t want to . . . I can’t talk about him, Aunt Lada. I’m just glad it’s over.”

Since I’d panicked in the hospital, I’d used Ben’s method and put up another curtain to keep that monster out of sight. I never wanted to think about Abbas or my terrifying night at Pequod Point again.

I spent much of the time reading a delicious mystery novel and watching Harry Potter movies with Grace and the boys. They’d brought DVDs from the library. I told Ben it wasn’t too rushed to invite Sam for lunch and was pleased to discover his son was a delightful kid with an interest in history and politics. We had a lively discussion about the rise of fake news. The days ended making love with Ben. And at night there was still no sign that I’d done anything but sleep peacefully.