Page 53 of If All Else Sails
I hear her quiet laugh. “Yes, some of usaretrying to sleep. But it’s impossible to keep it down or sleep in this bed. This mattress is like a giant dog toy.”
Her voice is almost as loud and clear as if we’re in the same room. Note to self: Whether I renovate this house or build a new one in its place, therewillbe soundproofing. Lots of it.
Squeak.
And better furniture.
I sit up, punching down my pillow. Not because it’s uncomfortable, but because I want to punch something. “A dog toy?”
“Yeah. You know, the ones shaped like a hamburger or a bumblebee or something, and they squeak.”
As though to demonstrate, it sounds like she’s using the bed as a trampoline.Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak.I half expect to hear the crash of the bed breaking apart and hitting the floor. It holds.
But itdoessound like a dog toy.
I want to laugh. But I don’t. Because now, I’mnevergoing to sleep. Not when I know how easy it is to have a conversationwith Josie from bed, our voices carrying intimately through the darkness.
“Maybe if you stopped flopping around and tried going to sleep, the squeaking wouldn’t be an issue,” I call.
“Gee, and here I was going to suggest you invest in some new furniture,” she says. “But I’ll go with your suggestion and just try harder to sleep. How’s that working for you, by the way?”
“Every time I drift off, you wake me up with your squeaking.”
“Which is the fault of your mattress,” she says. “Not me.”
“Justtrybeing still.”
There are approximately five seconds of silence. Interrupted by asqueeeeeakand a giggle. “Sorry,” she says. “I tried.”
I groan and swing my legs over the side of my bed.
And not for the first time since my injury, I stand, forgetting about my jacked-up foot.
Pain shoots through my arch, and I quickly lift my foot, then lose my balance in the process, tumbling to the floor.
I’ve barely landed on my knees and palms when Josie bursts through my door. Her hands find my back.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay? What happened?”
I try to shake her off, but she’s as stubborn as a burr, her palms flattening, a warm and comforting press. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”
And I am. Mostly. The pain in my foot subsided as soon as the weight came off it, but my knees ache from taking the brunt of my fall. And I think I have splinters from the roughed-up hardwood floors.
“Something happened or you wouldn’t be doing cat-cow in the dark,” Josie says.
“Doing what?”
“It’s a stretch. Never mind. Did you fall out of bed?” Josie asks.
“No.”
“But you’re on the floor.”
“Gee, I hadn’t noticed.”
“Save your sarcasm for someone who isn’t trying to help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
