Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 26. In that Sleep

How long has it been since you got some sleep? she asked. He raised his eyebrows, grinned. Let's see, he said, how old am I now? She didn't smile back. You need sleep, she said, I'm worried about you. I'm fine, he said, and I can sleep later. When things are not so busy. Let's finish this and then I need to run a few errands before we make dinner. She shook her head, held out her hand. You are going to get sick, she said. Come here, come with me, she said, leading him to the bed. Here, she said, and it was a command. Lie down and sleep. He opened his mouth to protest, to fight her on this, but she shook her head. When he saw she wouldn't budge, he lay down obediently, but then he opened his arms to her and waited, just as stubborn. She grinned then, climbed into his embrace, and he shut her up tight. Don't panic, he told her in her ear, I'm sure I'll loosen my grip once I'm unconscious. Pleasant dreams, she said, settling in to him. Is that a guarantee? he asked, and she said, If you like. Yes. Yes, it is. I'll insure all your dreams are pleasant, she said, while you do the sleeping. Lovely, he said, and closed his eyes.

She must have slept too, she must have though she did not remember falling asleep or dreaming or being awakened. She knew only that when she looked again, the light in the room had changed, had deepened and softened, and that he was fast asleep with his arms still about her. She watched him breathing, watched his face, soft and relaxed. She leaned toward him to kiss him as softly as a breath, more softly even than that, but she stopped to listen. To listen to a sound from under the bed. A scratching, a scuttling. She froze, she strained her ears. Scrambling, hissing. Mice, she thought. They had never seen any in this house, but certainly one or some would come sometime. She hated mice, hated them. Cautiously she looked over the edge of the bed, looked down, looked under. It wasn't mice. Not mice at all.

Hands coming from under the floor, from between the floorboards, hands reaching out of an impossible crack and long fingers feeling for purchase on the wooden floor. Not mice, hands. She thought it was a mistake, that she was dreaming, that the soft golden light had confused her eyes. She knew it wasn't hands because it couldn't be hands. And it wasn't a shoulder coming up and arms and eyes and tangled, twisted hair. It wasn't a demon. It wasn't. The eyes were only looking at him, fastened on him while he slept, and she watched from within his arms while the little thing clambered and scrabbled across the floor toward the bed, toward the leg of the bed. This is a dream, she thought. This is a bad dream. This is why he's not sleeping. Oh, she thought in horror and panic as the bad dream felt for the bottom of the quilt, how do I do this? She moved so slowly, so carefully, but it never took its eyes off him. Can't it see me? she wondered. Maybe not, it's not mine. Not my dream. The ugly little dream was on the quilt now, climbing hand over hand, clinging with its feet. She was very, very sick. She could feel the small tug of its weight on the quilt, could mark its progress without having to look. She needed not to look, found it turned her stomach to look. She listened to it climb. She listened to it breathe. He stirred in his sleep, murmured something, tightened his arms around her. I love you, she whispered to him and the bad dream jumped and she put herself right in its path and it hit her squarely in the chest.

After, after it was over and she lay by him, trying to stop shaking, trying to steady herself, to slow her breathing, she thought, this is why he never said anything. She did not look at the torn and huddled dream on the floor. She didn't need to. This is why he never told me. This is why he hasn't been sleeping, and she was grateful, so grateful to have done it, done what she said she would do. Sleep, baby, she thought, sleep. She lay back against him, drew a deep breath and heard it again. Heard that sound on the floor, that sound under the bed.

They were everywhere, there were hundreds of them. Climbing and snaking out through the floorboards, scuttling toward the bed, hissing and clicking. She pulled back against him, warm in his arms, reaching for the quilt to hide them, to pull over their heads. Then she was angry. Furious. She jumped out of bed and right over them. They paused, they had seen that. They hesitated, turned to see what she would do, waited to watch her pick up his big work boots. Okay, she said to them, okay.

He opened his eyes to see her looking at him, smiling as his eyes opened. Hey, she said. How did you sleep? His eyes widened, happy, surprised. Great, he said, like I was a little kid again. You did it, he said, you insured me pleasant dreams. Yes, she said, yes I did. She turned a little, turned them so he would not see the broom leaning against the wall where she had left it when he stirred, when she quickly came back to him. You know what? he asked. What? she said. It's been my life long dream to wake from sweet, clean sleep with the woman I love in my arms. Yeah? she said, kissing him under the chin, really? Life long dream? And how was it? As good as you hoped? Better, he said, tightening his arms, much, much better. It's a nice life long dream, she said. That's a very good dream.