blah, blah?”
“You know it.”
I hadn’t expected him to come with me. He rarely could. His work was as all-consuming as mine was erratic. Later, I came out of the bathroom from my shower expecting to find Michael waiting in bed. He wasn’t there. I went silently down a few of the stairs thinking he had probably fallen asleep reading. But when I saw him I knew immediately that Michael was in trouble. Whether it was a headache or heartbreak over his mother’s condition, Michael was sitting at the dining-room table holding his head. His shoulders shook. He was crying. Frightened, I went back upstairs without a word.
CHAPTER FOUR
D ARWINIA /S ARDINIA
A t around four in the morning, I was fully alert; but that was how it always was with me. If I went to bed worried about the slightest thing, any noise or movement would wake me and I would never go back to sleep. The devil of it was that I would drag myself through the next day like an old hag.
As quietly as I could, I untangled myself from the sheets and got up. Michael was there sleeping as though everything was right in the world. I knew the peaceful look on his face was a midnight illusion, but I made a conscious effort to tell myself that we were fine. He was fine, I was fine, we were fine—if I kept conjugating our status it would become true.
My first steps on the cool bare floor felt good. Small things could bring such pleasure, especially when stealing time from the deep hours of night. Without leaving the house, I knew what it would feel and look like outdoors. Silent streets lit in soft angles of blue light, air thick with dew, the low hum of the transformers that swept the streets of Charleston with enough light to pass from a car to a porch. You would hear the murmuring of a window-unit air conditioner somewhere in the neighborhood. The changing gears of a few cars would be well off in the distance, background music to the dreams of thousands. The parks would be empty, the skies silent for another hour or so, the sanitation department had yet to begin its rounds, and the only things moving aroundwould be cockroaches, moody cats and a patrolman looking for coffee and a doughnut.
I pulled the sheets and coverlet over Michael’s shoulders, and kissing the tips of my fingers, I transferred the kiss to the edges of his hair.
We had thick area rugs, unmatched kilim runners on each side of our queen-size bed. I had brought them home from a trip to Turkey two years ago. Many people preferred the quiet muffle of wall-to-wall broadloom carpeting for their bedrooms—something to match the curtains, something that didn’t cause static shock, tasteful but reasonably priced. But I loved the uneven slope of the ancient floors and the patina of the heart pine, lovingly buffed over the decades to a glossy shade of coffee. I never thought of covering them with anything that would detract from their integrity.
The geometric Anatolian motif of the kilims reminded me of Native American rugs. I always marveled to discover that all over the world, similar designs appeared in arts and crafts, no matter how disparate the cultures and how far-flung one might have been from the other. Sand paintings in New Mexico resembled sand paintings in Tibet. And rugs from here were like rugs from there.
Without turning on any lights, I used the bathroom and filled a glass with water, drinking it straight down. My mouth was dry from sleep and the water seemed especially cool and crisp. I refilled my glass and drank again until my thirst was finally quenched. Returning to our bed, I stood over Michael, watching him breathe, looking for any sign of discomfort. He seemed fine and so I quietly slipped between the sheets, concentrating on not disturbing him. But my best sleeping hours were finished for the night and I lay awake for a long time before drifting off into a kind of half-dream, half-waking state.
In the hour or so between waking and drifting through nonsensical dreams and
“You know it.”
I hadn’t expected him to come with me. He rarely could. His work was as all-consuming as mine was erratic. Later, I came out of the bathroom from my shower expecting to find Michael waiting in bed. He wasn’t there. I went silently down a few of the stairs thinking he had probably fallen asleep reading. But when I saw him I knew immediately that Michael was in trouble. Whether it was a headache or heartbreak over his mother’s condition, Michael was sitting at the dining-room table holding his head. His shoulders shook. He was crying. Frightened, I went back upstairs without a word.
CHAPTER FOUR
D ARWINIA /S ARDINIA
A t around four in the morning, I was fully alert; but that was how it always was with me. If I went to bed worried about the slightest thing, any noise or movement would wake me and I would never go back to sleep. The devil of it was that I would drag myself through the next day like an old hag.
As quietly as I could, I untangled myself from the sheets and got up. Michael was there sleeping as though everything was right in the world. I knew the peaceful look on his face was a midnight illusion, but I made a conscious effort to tell myself that we were fine. He was fine, I was fine, we were fine—if I kept conjugating our status it would become true.
My first steps on the cool bare floor felt good. Small things could bring such pleasure, especially when stealing time from the deep hours of night. Without leaving the house, I knew what it would feel and look like outdoors. Silent streets lit in soft angles of blue light, air thick with dew, the low hum of the transformers that swept the streets of Charleston with enough light to pass from a car to a porch. You would hear the murmuring of a window-unit air conditioner somewhere in the neighborhood. The changing gears of a few cars would be well off in the distance, background music to the dreams of thousands. The parks would be empty, the skies silent for another hour or so, the sanitation department had yet to begin its rounds, and the only things moving aroundwould be cockroaches, moody cats and a patrolman looking for coffee and a doughnut.
I pulled the sheets and coverlet over Michael’s shoulders, and kissing the tips of my fingers, I transferred the kiss to the edges of his hair.
We had thick area rugs, unmatched kilim runners on each side of our queen-size bed. I had brought them home from a trip to Turkey two years ago. Many people preferred the quiet muffle of wall-to-wall broadloom carpeting for their bedrooms—something to match the curtains, something that didn’t cause static shock, tasteful but reasonably priced. But I loved the uneven slope of the ancient floors and the patina of the heart pine, lovingly buffed over the decades to a glossy shade of coffee. I never thought of covering them with anything that would detract from their integrity.
The geometric Anatolian motif of the kilims reminded me of Native American rugs. I always marveled to discover that all over the world, similar designs appeared in arts and crafts, no matter how disparate the cultures and how far-flung one might have been from the other. Sand paintings in New Mexico resembled sand paintings in Tibet. And rugs from here were like rugs from there.
Without turning on any lights, I used the bathroom and filled a glass with water, drinking it straight down. My mouth was dry from sleep and the water seemed especially cool and crisp. I refilled my glass and drank again until my thirst was finally quenched. Returning to our bed, I stood over Michael, watching him breathe, looking for any sign of discomfort. He seemed fine and so I quietly slipped between the sheets, concentrating on not disturbing him. But my best sleeping hours were finished for the night and I lay awake for a long time before drifting off into a kind of half-dream, half-waking state.
In the hour or so between waking and drifting through nonsensical dreams and
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