By Bettyann Moore
After rinsing her hair,
Sheila shut off the hot tap, then yelped as cold water sluiced down
her body. She began counting as she turned slowly under the shower
head. Goosebumps rose; her nipples ached as they puckered into hard,
red knots.
“Fifty!” she
yelled, then shut the tap off completely, her whole body shaking.
She pulled back the
sliding glass door and reached for a towel, noting that Clyde had set
a cup of steaming coffee on the edge of the sink.
“Bless you,” she
said aloud, stepping out of the shower and grabbing the cup.
Still dripping, she
took a big gulp and yelped again. Nonetheless, before she drew on her
face and dried her hair, she drank the hot liquid eagerly, trying to
clear her head.
Day Three, she
mused, staring into the mirror. How long, she wondered, can
a person go without sleep? She leaned her head back, pulled down
her lower lid, then dripped eye drops into her red eyes. The effort
exhausted her and she doubted it was worth it anyway. She looked like
shit. She felt like shit.
“Darling, you look
marvelous!” Clyde enthused in his oh-so-British accent as she
dragged-stepped herself into the kitchen.
“Tell me you’re
kidding,” Sheila said to her husband who was busy at the stove, one
of her frilly green aprons cinched at his waist. She dropped heavily
into a chair at the table and reached for the coffee carafe. She
loved Clyde, but his chipper morning persona was the last thing she
needed. What she needed was coffee, and lots of it.
“There, there, my
sweet,” Clyde said, bustling toward her with a plate full of food,
“another bad night?”
He plunked the plate
down on the table and her stomach lurched. Bacon. Eggs, over easy.
Hash browned potatoes.
“This will set you to
rights,” Clyde said, standing behind her. He gripped her shoulders
and started massaging them, thumbs digging deep into unyielding
knots. Sheila groaned and leaned into his fingers.
“Don’t stop,” she
said, meaning it.
“No, no, silly,” he
said, slapping her lightly on her shoulder, “the food, the food
will set you to rights. Goodness, a real massage would knock you out
and today’s a big day!”
Sheila slumped in her
chair as Clyde scurried back into the kitchen to get glasses of
juice.
It was a big day. Her
boss’s boss, Denton Hamilton (what a name!), was due to show his
face at the magazine at 10 a.m. They’d been prepping for weeks.
Rumors had been flying. Buy-out. Venture capital company. Downsizing.
Layoffs. Sheila, as publisher, had been wearing her firefighter’s
hat for far too long, putting out rumors among her young staff as
they flared up. Exhausted as she was, she still couldn’t sleep.
Sheila picked
listlessly at her breakfast, her head leaning heavily on her left
hand.
“Dear one,” Clyde
said, suddenly at her side. “I know you don’t feel like eating,
but you must keep up your strength!” He picked up her juice glass
and, as if she were a child, brought it to her lips. She drank.
Dear, dear Clyde, she
thought. Always there to save me from myself and, in truth, she did
feel better after one of his lovingly prepared meals. She smiled
gratefully up at him and scooped up a large helping of eggs.
“There’s my girl!”
he chirped. It always amazed Sheila how his accent made everything
sound so soothing. She loved his accent; she loved him. She’d met
him in Philadelphia just four years prior. A retired chemist, he was
on a month-long tour of historic spots in the U.S., and she was
playing hooky from a publisher’s meeting. He was 30-some years
older than she, but Sheila was drawn in by his courtly, Old World
manners. At the age of 30, Sheila was fed up with American men of her
age, their beer-stained sweatshirts and weekend sports TV habits.
Plus, Clyde was obviously smitten. He had been at the end of his visa
when they met, but they corresponded via Skype, email, phone and
instant message until he could get another visa. Sheila never
hesitated to help him with the fare. They were married shortly after.
They’d celebrated his new citizenship just last month.
“Love,” he said
now, “shouldn’t you be popping off to the office?”
Sheila shook her head
to clear it and glanced down at her wristwatch.
“Crap!” she said,
rising. “I’m going to be late!”
“There, there,”
Clyde soothed. “You have plenty of time. Shall I drive you? You
seem awfully tired ...” He gave her a worried look.
Sheila smiled
gratefully at him as she gathered her briefcase and keys. “No,
darling,” she said, “I’ll be okay. What are you going to do
today?” she asked, making an effort to smile brightly at him.
“Oh, this and that.”
he said, “Pottering and puttering … I also have a surprise for
you later ...” He grinned at her, his dark blue eyes twinkling.
“A surprise! After
today, I’m sure I’ll be in need of a surprise, a good one.”
He assured her it was
so and waved fondly from the porch as her red 1968 Mustang sped down
the block.
It was after 10 pm when
Sheila dragged into the house, the dark brown curls on her head as
limp and lifeless as she felt. The meeting with Denton – call me
Dent – Hamilton had been worse than they’d feared. The magazine
had indeed been sold to a venture capital company and its first move
was to get rid of the highest paid employees, with a small severance
package tacked on, of course. Her top sales woman, the art director
and editor would be gone within the week. They’d given Sheila two
weeks to clear out. Sheila had, as Clyde would say, been made
redundant.
Sheila scanned the
quiet living room, dropping her briefcase and keys onto the leather
sectional. Where is Clyde anyway, she
wondered. She cocked her head, listening for a sound, difficult in
the best of times with her tinnitus and worse with lack of sleep.
“Clyde?” she
called, heading toward the master bedroom. She thought she heard a
faint hissing sound coming from behind the door. It got louder as she
approached.
“Surprise!” Clyde
yelled when she opened the door, causing Sheila’s heart, she was
sure, to stop momentarily.
Before she could say
anything, the noise in the room went from hissing to gurgling, from
gurgling to pulsing as Clyde turned the dial on an unfamiliar black
box on her bedside table.
“What? What is that?”
Sheila had to practically yell over the cacophony.
The room suddenly fell
silent as Clyde rushed to her side.
“It’s your
surprise, Darling,” he said, pulling her across the room. “It’s
a white noise machine. There’s ever so many settings and, look,”
he said, pointing to a button, “you can program it to play for
hours and hours or for just a short time. It’s sure to drown out
your tinnitus and there has to be a setting that will lull you to
sleep. Do you like it?” He looked eagerly up at her.
Sheila sank down onto
the bed with a sigh.
“It’s a lovely
idea,” she managed, “but nothing has worked so far, Clyde,” she
said, remembering the yoga, the prescription pills, the herbal pills
and rubs, the sleep-inducing teas and concoctions. She used to fall
asleep in three seconds flat, but the insomnia, like the tinnitus,
had been plaguing her for over a year now. And over the last few
days, it’d grown worse.
Clyde barely hid his
disappointment. Sheila rallied.
“Of course I like it,
Clyde,” she said, rubbing his back. “I’m just not myself right
now. I need sleep and maybe, just maybe, your white noise machine
will do the trick.”
For the next 20 minutes
Clyde eagerly demonstrated the various sounds and settings. Sheila
couldn’t imagine trying to fall asleep to the “City” setting
with its honking horns and sirens, nor the “Train,” which, when
used in enhanced mode, included whistles. “Waterfall,” maybe.
“Babbling Brook” … possibly. “Rainfall,” definitely one
she’d try, though not enhanced with claps of thunder. “Meadow”
sounded exactly like the noises she heard in her head 24/7 …
crickets, cicadas and tree frogs with occasional high-pitched whines.
She’d skip “Meadow”.
Sheila recounted the
day’s events at the office while Clyde fixed her a vodka and tonic.
“Horrible way to
treat the person who took that magazine out of the red and into the
black!” Clyde declared as he handed her the drink.
Sheila sipped and made
a face.
“So sorry, old girl,”
Clyde said. “Had to use the cheap vodka we bought for the party
last month. We’re all out of the Ketel One. I’ve put it on my
shopping list.”
“No, no, this is
fine,” Sheila assured him and took a bigger drink. “Alcohol is
alcohol and maybe it’ll help me get to La-La-Land.”
Clyde threw back his
head and laughed heartily. “You Yanks have quaint expressions, I
must say. Now be a love and finish that drink while I see about
dinner.” He kissed the top of her head and scurried toward the
kitchen. Sheila sank back in the big leather chair and all but gulped
the cocktail.
Later, it was all
Sheila could do to keep her eyes open at the dinner table. The
homemade bread and cottage pie, one of Clyde’s specialties, smelled
and looked wonderful, though at this point Sheila was seeing double.
She smiled up at the two Clydes as they dished out the food,
determined that on this night she would finally sleep.
“There, there, dear,”
Clyde said, giving her shoulder a pat, “after dinner I’ll make
you some of my famous hot chocolate and tonight you will
sleep,” he declared, echoing her thoughts.
Sheila barely listened
as Clyde recounted all the neighborhood gossip during the meal. The
tinnitus was worse than ever. She was surprised Clyde couldn’t hear
it across the table. Not only was she seeing double, but hearing
double. She threw in a few exclamations and “uhuhs” here and
there and that seemed to suffice. Clyde understood. After all, he was
the one who’d had to put up with her tossing and turning all night
long, the poor dear.
By the time she’d
finished her hot chocolate, Sheila was near-comatose, though her
extremities tingled and her heart raced. Clyde helped her dress for
bed. As she held her arms over her head and he slipped her nightgown
over them, she vaguely recalled a time when she’d be turned on by
such a thing. She wanted to reach for Clyde and pull him close, but
recoiled at the idea of taking it any further. Sleep. She wanted
blessed sleep, that was all.
The next thing she
knew, he was tucking her into bed, the electric blanket set on high.
It felt, oh-so-good. Then he was holding out one hand; in the other
he held a glass of water.
“This will help,”
he said, his voice soothing and calm.
“What is it?” she
asked, though she really didn’t care. She struggled to pull herself
upright.
“One of the new
sleeping pills your doctor prescribed,” he said, lowering it onto
her tongue.
“I’m not sure I
need ...” He was holding the glass to her lips and she swallowed
her words and the water passively.
Clyde gently pushed her
down into the bed and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders as
she liked. He set the brown prescription bottle on the nightstand and
pushed a button on the new white noise machine. Instantly, the room
was filled with the sounds of sweet, gentle rain.
“Tonight, you will be
dead to the world, my love,” he said, stroking her hair.
Sheila’s head reeled
as her body sunk deeper into the memory foam. She felt cocooned,
weightless.
“I’m going to sleep
on the sofa tonight,” Clyde crooned, still hovering over her. “You
needn’t worry about me.”
Worrying about Clyde
was beyond Sheila at that point. As he backed away from the bed, the
lovely sound of falling rain overtook the horrible clicks and
whistles of the tinnitus. As soon as the door closed and the darkness
surrounded her, however, Sheila felt a heavy weight descend on her.
It was as if she were sinking further into the foam, that it was
enveloping her. She tried to lift her arms and head and found that
she couldn’t. Panic stabbed through her. She tried to call for
Clyde, but no sounds came. The sibilant false rain of the noise
machine seemed to grow louder.
She heard voices. Was
Clyde entertaining guests at this hour? She strained to hear. Was
that laughter? The tinkling of ice in glasses? Someone saying her
name? Yes, there it was: Sheila, Sheila, Sheila, over and over
again. More laughter, then: Sheila, Sheila, Sheila. It beat in time
with her hammering heart, filling her head.
Sheila tried to tamp
down her mounting terror. “I’m having a panic attack,” she told
herself, “brought on by lack of sleep, the stress of losing my job,
alcohol, maybe even the new sleeping pill. There are no voices, only
the ones in my head!”
As if prompted by the
last thought, the voice saying her name seemed to fill the room.
Sheila … Sheila … Ssshheila … Ssssssssssshhheila … it became
the long, drawn-out hiss of a snake, a storm of black rain falling on
her head.
When he saw the empty
prescription bottle on the nightstand, the coroner knew what he was
dealing with. He shook his head; it was a tragedy in one so young,
but not unheard of in this dog-eat-dog world. A cursory autopsy
validated his suspicions: acute myocardial infarction brought on by
an overdose of prescription sleeping pills.
After the burial,
sparsely attended due to a sudden downpour, Clyde made his way
gingerly to Sheila’s – his – red mustang. A tad gauche given
the surroundings and circumstances, but he did so love to drive it.
Beside him on the white leather seat sat a black bag weighted down
with stones and filled with various tools of his former trade:
Bunsen burner, vials and tubes, clear, colorless liquids and white
powders. His passport was in his jacket pocket, next to his heart.
After a quick stop at the aptly named Mud Lake, he had a long,
leisurely drive south, to Rio, ahead. After that, there was a widow
in Oregon he intended to meet, quite casually, outside her
well-appointed home. He’ll be walking dogs, perhaps; she did so
love dogs.
But first, he needed a
vacation.
