Page 17 of Insomnia

“Come on, that was an accident. Ben’s okay.”

“You don’t think it’s a bit coincidental? You should speak to the teacher again tomorrow. Make them talk to Ben.”

“I know how to do the school stuff, Emma.” He’s irritated now. “That’s what Ido,remember?”

“Oh, like you’re going to complain about your best friend Michelle’s kid.” I’m still annoyed at him for bitching with her about our sex life and even more annoyed that I can’t raise it with him.

“What’s the matter with you?” He’s on his feet. “I’ll speak to the school tomorrow. There’s no need to be so shitty with me. And I’ll speak to Michelle too, if you want me to.”

“I wantyouto want to. I don’t know why you’re not angry about this.”

“I don’t know why you’resoangry about this.”

I stare at my unfinished dinner and bite back more argument. I can’t be bothered with another spat. “It’s been a long day,” I say.My mother’s numbers.“And Will’s been off for a couple days and that worries me.” Men can be so blinkered, and Robert may well talk to the school about it, but I know him, he’ll accept whatever they say as gospel and it will be a case ofboys will be boys.It willblow over and that will be that. Will’s five. Bad things can happen when you’re five.

“Don’t take it out on me,” he says, quietly. “I’m doing my best here.” He takes his beer and heads off to his den. His dirty plate sits in front of me and the frying pan is still on the stove.Are you though?I find myself thinking.Are you really?

I hate messy kitchen sides. I always have. Another echo from her. I grit my teeth and start to clear it all away.

14.

Once again, it’s night. Once again, I’m still awake.

I’m staring into the under-stairs cupboard.It is not a void.It will not swallow me up.Dark yes, but just a cupboard. I’m getting pins and needles in my calves from where I’m crouching, looking into it. Henry hoover is there to one side by the golf clubs. Just a cupboard. I close the door and get back to my feet, my legs tingling with the rush of blood. I took two NightNights this time and yet here I am. Wide awake.

I go back into the kitchen to rinse out my mug. The back door is locked. I know because I checked it when I came downstairs just after ten past one. New routines, new anxiety tics. As I put the mug away, I look at the white backsplash, stylish and expensive, which also doubles as a wipe-clean board where Robert writes all the daily reminders we need. Dentists. Doctors. Humdrum. At the bottom I see “EMMA’S BIRTHDAY PARTY PREP.” Ugh. I go and rub it off. I find I’m wiping away all the other reminders with it and just stare at the blankness left behind. It’s soothing. I’m so shattered. Nothing is working right. After a moment I take a long breath. I may as well go back to bed and try to sleep again. Must. Try. Harder.

I feel like an echo as I drift up to the grainy darker upstairscorridor. Am I passing through ghosts of myself going the other way? The me of last night and the me of tomorrow night maybe.Yesterday upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there.I shiver. I’m so tired.

I get a sharp urge to check on Will again. I don’t need to. Will is fine. But still, I stand outside his door for a moment and check my watch: 2:21a.m. I have to go into his room. Ihaveto. It’s a compulsion. Nothing can have happened since I went downstairs, but still Ineedto be in his room. I give in and sneak through his door. I don’t know what I’m looking for. He’s fast asleep, just as he was earlier. I stand by his bed and watch him. He’s growing up so fast.

I go to my own bed and lie down on my cool pillow. I want to cry. I want to sleep.

“You okay?” Robert mutters, shifting slightly.

“Just went to the loo,” I say.

“Go back to sleep,” he mutters.

If only it were that easy. I roll onto my stomach, and I grip the sides of my pillow, squeezing hard to stop myself from screaming with the frustration.

After an hour of just lying there, my heart racing, I give up and go back downstairs again. Maybe I’ll be able to doze on the sofa more easily. In the kitchen I peer out at the garden as the kettle boils but can’t see any threat.Paranoid much, Emma? Who does that remind you of?

I make the chamomile tea and find myself reaching for the vodka bottle.Fuck it,I think, adding just a dash. Vodka at three thirty in the morning is not a good idea. I know that, but I’m all out of good ideas—theNightNight is useless and anything that might help me relax is worth a shot. I want the first hint of dawn to come. My tiny, life-saving sleep window.

As I turn to go to the sitting room, I freeze. I thought I’d wiped the backsplash clean. And I did. And I thought that I’d left it blank. I wassure.But the backsplash isn’t blank. Something else has been written there. I stare at the jaggedly scrawled numbers.Oh no.

1 5 5 2 1 8 2 2 2 1 1 3 1 5 5 2 1 8 2 2 2 1 1 3

No, no, no.

15.

SEVEN DAYS UNTIL MY BIRTHDAY

I did fall asleep at dawn for an hour or two, surprised that it was possible through my fear—I am going mad—but I still feel like death. I’m nauseous and my nose is running. A whole day looms long, endless, ahead of me. I need a lot of coffee and maybe a cake or a bacon roll or both for an energy injection on the way to work.

With the radio on and Robert sorting breakfast and last-minute packed lunches, everything seems too loud. Everything but Will, who is still unnaturally quiet. My little boy is definitely not himself. I should be enjoying this rare later morning—I don’t have court today and no clients to see until eleven—but I’m wound tight with anxiety and tiredness.

---