Page 43 of Insomnia

“But the thing you haven’t learned yet is that there are so many other men out there who you can love. Some you can probably lovemore. How do you see this panning out, Chlo? Honestly? Even if he does leave Michelle for you? There’s a twenty-year gap between you. And I know you’re going to say age doesn’t matter, but it does. You’re going to want todostuff. Have adventures. Go to uni and go partying and all those things that are part of being young and free before real life kicks in. He’s already got two children, so he’s always going to be tied to Michelle and so will you. A stepmum at eighteen. And the fallout. God Chloe, he’s your dad’s friend. His wife’s your dad’s friend. It will be such a mess.”

“I said go away.” Her tone is cold, but I hope she’s at least been listening. She’s a clever girl, and despite herself she’ll think about what I’ve said. “I love you, Chloe. I will always be here for you whatever happens.” I get up. “I haven’t said anything to Dad yet. But I will. And it would be good if it was over before he knows about it. Okay?”

She may as well be fast asleep for the response I get. When I get to the door I look back. “And I didn’t lose my shit, Chloe. I thought you were going to open the passenger door. I was trying to protect you. That’s my job. I’m your mother. I will always protect you.”

34.

It’s past twoa.m. The window glass is cold under my hands as I press up against it. My mouth open, I breathe a wide O of condensation. How would I seem to someone down in the garden looking up? I press my body closer, until I feel the cold through my shorts and T-shirt, and then turn my face to push one cheek against the window, even though it hurts my whiplashed neck. I want the chill to lift this haze of dread that fuels the tics that fill my nights.

Madness.

During the nights, I’m as concerned about me as Robert and Phoebe are. At least I don’t have to worry about Robert waking up. He’s fully out thanks to another NightNight.He’d asked me if I wanted Chloe to go to university only so the money would be gone and he couldn’t have his bar. What kind of woman does he think I am? What kind of husband is he?

And what kind of wife drugs her husband?

Who am I? Exhausted daytime Emma, crashing cars, shaking kids, paranoid and suspected of murder, and nighttime Emma, carried along on a haze of odd behaviors that somehow reassure me. Is the real me stuck somewhere in between?

I imagine myself in the garden looking up—the me who’s always ready to take on the world, the me who knows exactly whatshe wants and how to get it. The one other people always turn to.Pull yourself together,that’s what she’d be saying down there, the me I used to be.Get a grip on this situation. Get to the bottom of it and move on.I’m fighting the overwhelming urge to go down to where the under-stairs cupboard is calling me to climb in. I have to break this cycle. I have to.

“Two hundred and twenty-two one hundred and thirteen one hundred and fifty-five two hundred and eighteen...”

I don’t realize I’m whispering the numbers until I’m suddenly not. A shadow shifts at the end of the corridor to my right and I freeze.An intruder in the house. My children. No. Too small a shape. Watching me.

“Will?” Speaking aloud jars me back into the moment. The shadow retreats back into his room and my night haze falls away momentarily. It must be him. God, what must I have looked like, smearing myself against the window? I go after him.

His night-light isn’t on, and the room, so cheerful in daylight, is soaked in ash-gray gloom, only a little moonlight creeping in from outside. It’s unusually tidy, his thick colored pens and coloring pads all in their boxes and his toys in his trunk. Did Phoebe do it? Or Robert? Surely not Will, my little tornado, always leaving a mess in his wake. Not so much this past week, I think sadly. I’m not the only one who’s not been myself recently.

He’s back in his bed, to all outward appearances fast asleep, but I can see his breathing is fast and his eyes are moving behind their lids. “Can’t you sleep, monkey?” I ask quietly. He doesn’t answer but his fingers tighten on his duvet. “Do you need a glass of water? Did you have a bad dream?” Nothing. I lean forward and carefully touch his shoulder, and he stirs slightly, sliding onto his back. Now I don’t know what to think. Maybe heisasleep. Maybehe was sleepwalking. Maybe I just imagined him in the corridor. Maybe I’m actually asleep and this is all a dream. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Who the fuck knows?

I sit there, watching him, for a few minutes, maybe longer, but he doesn’t wake.

35.

THREE DAYS UNTIL MY BIRTHDAY

I sleep from around four thirty until seven, a rest deep and dark as the grave with no dreams or nightmares, just an empty nothingness that is only broken by Robert getting up. I drag myself to the bathroom and straight into the shower, my body a sack of aches and pains and the bruise on my knee blooming large and bright. A glance in the mirror confirms that I’m looking as bad as I feel. I’m falling apart.

I turn the water up high, until it’s nearly burning my skin, and let the power jet pummel my shoulders in a brutal massage until I can’t take any more and get out. It’s the weekend, so maybe I can spend the whole day in bed after breakfast. Sleeping during the day may be less of a problem than at night. Then when I wake up hopefully, despite its being Saturday, Darcy may have straightened out all the other mess and I’ll be able to tackle the Chloe situation with a clear head. Maybe I should ring Julian. No. Chloe will have already told him I know, and I imagine that’s probably put the fear of divorce into him and he’ll finish it anyway. The end of a tawdry affair and a learning curve for my beautiful girl about older men who seem so charming from the perspective of youth.

Once dried, I’m about to pull on some scruffy joggers and a top when Robert shouts out.

“Emma!” For a second, I think he’s calling me down for breakfast, but it sounds like he’s upstairs.

“Hang on.” I tug on the joggers. They’re baggier now. Insomnia burns calories it seems, along with car crashes and accusations of murder.

“Come here.” His tone is cold. “Now.”

Oh god, what now?

“Jesus.”

Chloe is in the doorway to Will’s room, her mouth open, an expression of disbelief on her blotchy face, eyes pink from tears. Has Julian broken up with her? Is that one less problem on my plate? She turns to look at me and all thoughts of Julian are ash on the wind. She’s aghast. “This is some messed-up shit,” she mutters, turning away to head to her room. “This family is so fucked.”

I come forward and then it’s me with my mouth open, staring in disbelief. “What happened?” I say, although I can see what’s happened. The drawing from Will’s sketchbook, the one he’d done over and over, is now all over his bedroom walls, drawn large and small, in every available space in thick marker pens. He must have climbed up onto his chest of drawers to reach some of the spaces. I can’t stop looking. The little boy in the bed. The crazy lady with the mad face, her long hair hanging down like some kind of ghoul from one of those terrifying Japanese horror films. Scribbled everywhere around the pictures is the wordMummyin uneven letters, over and over, and then, more accusatory, there are two instances ofEmma.

“What is this?” Robert asks, staring at me from where he’s standing in the middle of the room.

“I don’t know.” I look at Will, sitting on the bed with his knees pulled up under his chin, not looking at either of us. His colored pens—weren’t they tidy in the box last night? Did I make that up? Why are the nights such a haze?—are all over the floor, lids off and colors soaking into the thick plush cream carpet like pools of multicolored blood at a crime scene.

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