Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [19]
Matthew told me the next day that he had found me curled on my side, snoring, clutching the meditation book close to my chest.
Journal 4
I struggled to stay awake every night—read books, watched mindless television programs and movies so old they were monochromes, drank mugs of coffee, waited until I could be sure he’d fallen asleep— and then I could ghost myself into the bedroom.
I quietly switched off the lights in the den and hoped he had left the bedroom door open. I always made an effort to avoid causing the door hinges to moan or else the sound would stir him. After I softly shuffled to the bed, I lifted the sheet and blanket ever so carefully. Then, I lightly perched on the edge of the bed, testing, as my weight shifted the balance.
Feeling no perceptible movement, I raised my bare feet from the carpeted floor in an orchestrated, practiced ballet. Like minute hands on a clock, my feet quietly ticked their way to the bed. I’d lie on my left side, facing empty space so my shallow breaths wouldn’t stir the dead air. My head barely grazed the pillow—no sudden movements—everything achingly slow, but fluid. I waited, still, corpse-like, waited for a stir, a shift in body weight. I dared not allow myself the luxury of expansive breathing until his snoring was rhythmic and offensively solid.
Some nights my protective and routine concert was successful. I’d wake up in the same position I’d so carefully arranged myself in during the darkness.
Many nights I failed.
9
A knock on the door woke me from a sleep interrupted by frequent trips to the bathroom. I didn’t know if I should hang my head over the toilet or sit on it. Angry tidal waves of headaches crashed against the shore of my skull. I didn’t remember reading about a wake-up service or midnight parties. My mind needed more time to rouse itself than my body. I opened and closed my eyes while my brain rummaged through its files for something recognizable. Home? No. Beach house? No. Uh-oh? Yes.
I untangled myself from the web of sheets, blanket, and bedspread that had crept up during the night and scarfed my body. I sat in bed, hugged my knees to my chest, and stared through the darkness.
How long had I slept? I smiled at the question, knowing my mother's response would have been, “Doesn’t matter. God never sleeps.” For most of my life, I imagined God suffered from eternal insomnia. No wonder He would, one day, stage Armageddon in an act of horrific vengeance. He’d been sleep-deprived by mothers for centuries.
No matter what earthly horror had been inflicted upon me, I depended on my mother's soothing pronouncement to wrap itself around my damaged ego. “God never sleeps” was my maternal shield against the worldly infidels, a no-nonsense ointment to heal my emotional bruises. It was a global warning for friends turned traitors, boys who never called, and employers who manipulated. I comforted myself with the promise of heavenly havoc when the offender reached God, assuming the possibility existed that would allow such a cruel person to reach that height.
I had no doubt my mother watched my life unfold or, maybe, unravel. She’d probably jab God in the stomach with that manicured hand of hers just in case, in a surprising spiritual snafu, He might nod off when her daughter needed Him.
Let the jabbing begin.
Another knock, this time accompanied by an unrecognizable female voice, “Breakfast in a half hour.” I rubbed my right hand over my bare left wrist as if doing so could magically make my watch appear. Funny how you become so accustomed to the feel and weight of things on your body—the clunky stainless steel watch, the diamond and emerald tennis bracelet— like that phantom pain sensation amputees felt even after the limb had been removed. Not that jewelry deprivation was, on any level, comparable to a loss of limb. I’m rationalizing