What We Keep - Elizabeth Berg [32]
Sharla and I left Jasmine’s house different people. It seemed to me we were simultaneously disappointed in and more respectful of each other—such was the mixed effect of unearthing long-held secrets.
I heard the cellophane package in my pocket making small noises all the way home. When we got to our bedroom, I put the rubber under my mattress—it would stay there until I could be alone to hide it. I had no idea why I wanted it. It made me feel sick. But there was a thrill to the sickness, a jazzy edge that made what felt like an internal eyeball jerk open. Therefore it was worth it.
I closed my eyes, settled in for sleep. An image came to me: Jasmine’s face, her red mouth smiling. She was looking away from me; then she looked right at me, and she knew everything. Everything. She kept smiling. I felt an enormous sense of relief. Then guilt.
Sharla woke me up a few nights later calling my name. “What do you want?” I asked, my voice croaky, my mouth stuck to itself. I tried to open my eyes, but I was dizzy with fatigue, and so I shut them again. I hoped Sharla wasn’t sick; I didn’t feel like helping her.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
I remained silent; the answer was obvious.
“Ginny?” she whispered.
“What?” I whispered back.
“Are you awake now?”
“Yes, I’m talking to you.” I was not whispering any longer.
“Well, I have to be sure. You could be talking in your sleep, you know.”
“You don’t have conversations in your sleep!”
“Yes you do. I learned it in science that you can have an actual conversation and yet still be sleeping. Mr. Weaver told us.”
I considered this, yawned, scratched my knee. “Well, then how do we ever know the difference?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Like, how do we know we’re not asleep all the time?”
Sharla sighed loudly. “You don’t ever stay on the real subject!”
“Well, what is the subject? You never even said. Plus why are you waking me up? I’m tired! It’s late!”
“You never said that before, when we used to sneak out.”
“Yes, because there was a reason, then, to wake up. Now you are just talking. And you aren’t even making any sense.”
The door opened, and our mother stood before us. “What’s going on in here?” she asked. “What are you doing?”
“Sharla is going crazy, that’s what, smack in the middle of the night.” I flipped my pillow, punched it, flung myself back down onto it, sighed loudly.
“She’s so stupid,” Sharla said. “I woke her up to tell her one thing, and she starts a fight.”
“I did not!” I sat up in bed, yanked my T-shirt strap up over my shoulder. I wished I were in pajamas, which were more dignified.
“Stop your yelling,” my mother said. “You’ll wake up your father.”
“Did we wake you up?” I asked.
She sat down at the foot of Sharla’s bed. “No. I was up.”
I looked at our bedside clock: four-fifteen. I had a rush of misplaced excitement; this was like a sudden slumber party.
“How come you were up?” Sharla asked my mother.
“I was downstairs, reading.”
“Now?” I strained to see her face. She was smiling, it appeared.
“Yes, now,” she said. “It’s nice, sometimes, to read in the middle of the night. The sky is so dark and soft-looking outside the window, all the stars out. You have just one light on, you know, and it seems to pour onto the page. Makes the book seem better. You are this little island, just up alone with a book. And you hear the night sounds of the house. You hear … water sounds, and things—well, turning on and off, I guess. You hear little creaks and groans, it’s as though the whole house is sighing and moving in its sleep. Just like we do. And you know how we never notice the grandfather clock during the day? At night, you hear every little tick. It’s so interesting to me, that sound. Time. The measure of it.”
I lay still in my bed, eyes wide. I had never heard my mother go on in this way. I had never known she got up to read in the middle of the night. It was something I never would have done. Going out in the dark with Sharla was fine adventure; being