Alice Bliss - Laura Harrington [84]
Henry wants to tell her that he remembers everything, but when he tries out the phrase inside his head he sounds like an idiot.
“Alice—”
“Henry,” she interrupts.
“What?”
“Would you—?”
“—What?”
“I don’t know how to say this—”
“That’s okay.”
“I think if you could . . . maybe . . . I don’t know . . . hold me . . .”
She hesitates.
“I might be able to fall asleep.”
Henry has no objection to this idea, and he would like to play it cool, like, oh sure, what the heck, I get this request all the time. Hold you? All casual like. You bet. No problem. But really he is pumped full of the jitters, which is making it especially difficult not to let his hands and his feet sort of do their own nervous dance, and right away he is thinking logistics, like how is this going to work on that skinny little air mattress with a sleeping bag. But Alice has already figured it out. She unzips the sleeping bag so that it can go over them like a quilt.
“I think if we lie on our sides we can both fit.”
So Henry finds himself taking off his shoes and his sweatshirt and lying down next to Alice. She lies with her back to his chest. There’s a momentary question about what to do with their arms, but they figure it out.
“I’m gonna leave the light on, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure.”
Her head is tucked beneath his chin, her body curves into him, his arms are around her. He inhales the heady perfume of her hair, mixed with the workshop smells of woodsmoke and linseed oil. He listens to her breathing. He can feel her breathing.
“Henry . . . ?”
“Shhhh . . .”
“Don’t let go.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
They are quiet for a while.
“Henry . . . ?”
“Go to sleep, Alice.”
“I wish . . .”
“What?”
“I wish we could stay like this forever and ever and tomorrow would never come.”
He begins to sing to her, very softly, almost not singing at all, just a whisper of a tune. He spins out the tune like it is a tale he is telling her, until he feels her body relax, until he feels her falling into sleep. He sings to let her know he’s there, to stay anchored to the earth, to keep from laughing or crying in amazement that he is lying with Alice in his arms, he sings as if music could keep her alive, as if music could feed her soul, as if music could weave a protective spell around her to survive these days and these weeks and these months and these years, he sings as if he could give her a piece of himself, which will ring inside of her like a bell, like a promise, like hope whenever she needs him; and in his singing, he promises her every single thing he can think of, and more.
Inside the house, Angie falls asleep from sheer physical exhaustion and then wakes into fresh grief as she returns to consciousness and remembers. She swims up from sleep to the knowledge that Matt’s death is not a dream, it is not a nightmare, but more real than anything else that has ever happened to her, more real even than the birth of her children. She comes downstairs to make tea or toast or maybe something stronger and looking out the kitchen window she sees the dim, unexpected glow in the workshop.
She checks the clock. Three a.m. What’s going on?
When she crosses the lawn and opens the door, her first thought is: What the hell are they doing? They’re fifteen years old for God’s sake! Now she has to deal with this, too? Alone. Without Matt. Years of this. And then she sees that they both still have their clothes on. And remembers that the door was not locked. And the flashlight is on. Thank God. Henry turns his head to look at her and puts his finger to his lips.
“She couldn’t sleep,” he whispers.
Angie nods. And frowns. As frowns go, it is a loud frown.
“I promised to stay with her.”
He waits for a response.
“Is that okay?”
“Does your mother know where you are?”
“Not exactly.”
“I’m not happy about this, Henry.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Keep it that way.”
“Okay.”
“No funny stuff.”
“No, ma’am. Absolutely not.”
“I’m not kidding, Henry.”
“I know.”
Henry is getting a crick in his neck from trying not to look like he is