a smile every weekday morning at five thirty sharp to straighten up the house, get Ainsley ready for school, and drop her off at Brookline Academy by eight. From there Claricia went to the Garrisen’s brownstone on Beacon Hill for her regular day job. The arrangement gave her extra money to send to her five sisters in Bogotá, and it was the only way Ryan as a single dad could do a morning radio talk show at six.
“You’re going to be late,” said Claricia.
Ryan was in a daze. The last time he’d checked the clock, it was almost four A.M. He’d finally broken down and taken one of the sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed.
“I can’t do the show this morning.”
Claricia shot him a reproving look and said something in her native tongue that needed no translation.
“You’re upset,” he said.
“Upset? Why would I be upset? La muñeca —of course she needs a father who is a drunk. What little girl doesn’t? I’m not upset.”
“I wasn’t drinking,” said Ryan.
“You said that last time.”
She was right. A couple of months back, the police had stopped him on suspicion of drunk driving and taken him in. It was the lingering effect of a sleeping pill that had made his driving so erratic, but the media got wind of the situation and reported that he’d been arrested for DUI. He was eventually vindicated and the charges were dropped, but it didn’t stop people—even Claricia—from suspecting a drinking problem. Never mind the studies showing that people who stayed awake for twenty hours drove worse than people with a blood-alcohol level above the legal limit. Ryan could only imagine where he would have fallen in that study—awake for twenty hours or more every day for the past three years.
“I’m going up to bed,” he said.
Claricia was already busy straightening up the living room.
“La muñeca needs a father without a job, too,” she said, never looking up from her work.
Ryan climbed the stairs slowly. On some level he appreciated her well-intended tough love, but going to work in this condition was more likely to earn him a pink slip than not showing up at all. Upstairs, Ryan found his BlackBerry on the dresser and fired off an I’m-not-feeling-well message to his cohost. His head hit the pillow, and he hoped the sleeping pill he’d swallowed ninety minutes earlier would kick back in and carry him off to dreamland. He worried that it wouldn’t. He worried that worrying about it would keep him awake.
Just close your eyes, relax, breathe in and out, relax, think happy thoughts, relax.
This was such bullshit. Falling asleep was like hitting a baseball—the insomniac who tried to achieve sleep step by step was no better off than the hitter who tried to break out of a slump by overanalyzing his swing.
Ryan’s eyes popped open. The clock said 6:25 A.M.
Shit! Why did Claricia have to wake me?
The sleeping pill he’d taken at four was now an official waste of time.
Ryan rolled out of bed, unplugged the alarm clock, and hid it in the closet. His mattress beckoned, but he hesitated before sliding back beneath the covers. Reconditioning rule number one: never climb into bed until you are ready to go to sleep. Ryan, however, had been ready for three years. It didn’t seem to matter.
He returned to the closet. There was an assortment of pillows on the top shelf, from extra soft to extra firm, goose down to synthetic. It brought to mind Ivan’s old Dominican saying about the inverse relationship between the number of pillows on a bed and the number of times a couple used it to make love—Ivan’s way of saying, Don’t let the things you accumulate in a marriage get in the way of what’s really important.
Ryan grabbed a half-dozen pillows and tossed them onto the empty side—Chelsea’s side—of the bed. He chose one made of “memory foam” to cover his face and force his eyes shut, determined not to lose another battle to the single, tiny muscle in each eyelid. Tonight, or this
“You’re going to be late,” said Claricia.
Ryan was in a daze. The last time he’d checked the clock, it was almost four A.M. He’d finally broken down and taken one of the sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed.
“I can’t do the show this morning.”
Claricia shot him a reproving look and said something in her native tongue that needed no translation.
“You’re upset,” he said.
“Upset? Why would I be upset? La muñeca —of course she needs a father who is a drunk. What little girl doesn’t? I’m not upset.”
“I wasn’t drinking,” said Ryan.
“You said that last time.”
She was right. A couple of months back, the police had stopped him on suspicion of drunk driving and taken him in. It was the lingering effect of a sleeping pill that had made his driving so erratic, but the media got wind of the situation and reported that he’d been arrested for DUI. He was eventually vindicated and the charges were dropped, but it didn’t stop people—even Claricia—from suspecting a drinking problem. Never mind the studies showing that people who stayed awake for twenty hours drove worse than people with a blood-alcohol level above the legal limit. Ryan could only imagine where he would have fallen in that study—awake for twenty hours or more every day for the past three years.
“I’m going up to bed,” he said.
Claricia was already busy straightening up the living room.
“La muñeca needs a father without a job, too,” she said, never looking up from her work.
Ryan climbed the stairs slowly. On some level he appreciated her well-intended tough love, but going to work in this condition was more likely to earn him a pink slip than not showing up at all. Upstairs, Ryan found his BlackBerry on the dresser and fired off an I’m-not-feeling-well message to his cohost. His head hit the pillow, and he hoped the sleeping pill he’d swallowed ninety minutes earlier would kick back in and carry him off to dreamland. He worried that it wouldn’t. He worried that worrying about it would keep him awake.
Just close your eyes, relax, breathe in and out, relax, think happy thoughts, relax.
This was such bullshit. Falling asleep was like hitting a baseball—the insomniac who tried to achieve sleep step by step was no better off than the hitter who tried to break out of a slump by overanalyzing his swing.
Ryan’s eyes popped open. The clock said 6:25 A.M.
Shit! Why did Claricia have to wake me?
The sleeping pill he’d taken at four was now an official waste of time.
Ryan rolled out of bed, unplugged the alarm clock, and hid it in the closet. His mattress beckoned, but he hesitated before sliding back beneath the covers. Reconditioning rule number one: never climb into bed until you are ready to go to sleep. Ryan, however, had been ready for three years. It didn’t seem to matter.
He returned to the closet. There was an assortment of pillows on the top shelf, from extra soft to extra firm, goose down to synthetic. It brought to mind Ivan’s old Dominican saying about the inverse relationship between the number of pillows on a bed and the number of times a couple used it to make love—Ivan’s way of saying, Don’t let the things you accumulate in a marriage get in the way of what’s really important.
Ryan grabbed a half-dozen pillows and tossed them onto the empty side—Chelsea’s side—of the bed. He chose one made of “memory foam” to cover his face and force his eyes shut, determined not to lose another battle to the single, tiny muscle in each eyelid. Tonight, or this
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