***Copyright Jessica Wolfe Reifsnyder, 2014***
Sleep, Sweet Angels
A
study in 2010 showed a spike in SIDS deaths at New Year's, nearly tripled over
any other time of the year. While it is suspected that this indicates an
impaired awareness on the part of parents due to excessive alcohol consumption,
there is no way to prove the direct cause of this phenomenon.
"I
told you - I don't want to have a New Year's Eve party." Kayla won't let
up about it. I'm getting so anxious I feel a panic attack coming on. I haven't
had one in a while, but the hard-on she's got for this thing has got me so
stressed out. "But this is our first New Year's as a family, Adam"
she keeps insisting. Sophia's not even two months old, we haven't slept in
weeks, and all she can think about is throwing a damn party. The more insistent
she gets, the more upset I get. I start to feel numb, dizzy; I can't breathe.
Fuck. I'll have to see if my shrink can fit me in this week.
* * *
The
waiting room seems unearthly quiet and still today. Every sound, every movement
seems heightened, exaggerated. It's like a torture chamber. Others in the room
shift uncomfortably. The rub of cloth against skin, the scratching of breath
against the stagnant air is deafening, garish. Maybe my nerves are just raw. It
figures Dr. Wessler couldn't see me until today. (Of all goddamn days.) I glance at the ancient face looking down at
me. The jagged scar splitting the glass in two gives it a warped quality.
11:45. I already feel like I'm going to implode. Just over twelve hours and
I'll have gotten through another one, I think. Every tick of the fucking
clock seems to claw at my brain. I feel like I'm slowly going crazy.
I look
at a boy sitting across from me, hands fidgety in his lap, feet bouncing at the
ends of legs sticking out from couch cushions too deep for his small frame. He
stares back at me silently. I look at the door to Wessler's office, anxious for
it to open. The boy's feet stop bobbing. I am suddenly aware of how nerve-racking
the repetitive movement was. I breathe out; look at him; try to offer a polite
smile. I can't help but think he's why I'm here. I shake my head a little. What
a weird thought. I also feel like I should know who he is. But I don't. At
least, I don't think I do. . .
I look
at the door again; this time willing it to open. I clear my throat and loosen
my tie a bit. Leaning forward slightly, I whisper, "What's your name,
kid?" His eyes glance down at the planner sitting in my lap. It lays open
at December 31 / January 1. He stares at the red ribbon. Place-keeper, marker
of time. It runs down the crease between days like a trickle of blood. He
shrugs. "I don't know." I raise my eyebrows, sit back in surprise.
Well, I guess that's as good a reason as any to be here.
11:52.
The boy is still staring at the ribbon, eyes tracing it methodically, almost
obsessively - up and down, up and down, up and down. "Do you want to hold
it?" I ask. His eyes finally break away from the little stream of red long
enough to lift his gaze; to see if I'm serious. His face holds curiosity,
doubt, hope, mistrust. Fear. He has shadows in his look far too dark for his
young age. I set the book down on the low table between us and push it gently
closer to him, then retreat again to settle against the back of my chair.
The
chime makes me jump. I glance at the clock. The face glowers above me with
hands converged at due-north. 12:00. Twelve hours 'til the end, I think.
I just gotta' get through this night. The door opens. My shrink appears and
invites me in. I turn to tell the boy I need my book now, but he's gone. The
planner still sits open on the table.
* * *
I settle
onto the leather couch. My palms are sweaty. Dr. Wessler sits across from me,
stoic, as always. He waits for me to begin. I wait for him to start. I feel too
nervous to speak.
"You
said your wife wanted to throw a New Year's Eve party and it was making you
extremely anxious and upset." Pause. "You seemed severely worried
when I spoke to you on the phone." Silence. "Why does the idea of the
party bother you?" I think; pick at the seam of my jeans absently; stare
at the grain of the carpet. "I don't know. It just always has."
"What
do you mean, always? Does she insist on a party every year?" I
frown. "No. I mean. . .just New Year's Eve parties in general. They always
make me feel nervous. Frightened, actually." I look up at him,
embarrassed. "To be honest, Doc, they scare the shit out of me."
"Do
parties at other times of the year cause the same anxiety for you, or is it
specifically New Year's Eve?" I shake my head. "Just New Year's. I
hate it. I avoid it. Always have. Stay home, keep the T.V. off, just try to act
like it's any other night."
Thoughtful
silence. He waits for me to elaborate. I'm not sure what else to say. "It
sounds like you're saying it's not just the party, but the holiday itself -
perhaps what it represents - which you try to avoid," he offers. He waits.
I say nothing.
"Has
there ever been a situation or event that you associate with New Year's which
was particularly frightening or painful for you?" I think. Frown. Pick a
little more aggressively at the seam. "I don't know." He observes me
quietly. "Maybe you experienced rejection at a party as a young
adult?" Pause. "Drank too much and had an accident?" Prod.
Press. Nudge.
"Were
you ever touched inappropriately by a guest at a New Year's Eve party as a
child?" he finally asks. I scoff. "No. Now that I can tell you never
happened. My parents never celebrated New Year's. We didn't have parties and we
never went to any." His eyebrows go up slightly. "Interesting. Do you
know why that was?" I shrug. "I don't know. I can't remember any
further back than when I was six or seven, honestly." Another shrug.
"We just never did."
He leans
forward, looks at me intently. "Is there any reason you can think
of that this day frightens you so much?" Pause. "Or any reason you
can't remember your early childhood years?" I stare at him. Blink. Why had
I never thought much of that? Was it normal for people to be able to remember
further back than that? "I. . .I don't know. . ." I falter, suddenly
feeling very vulnerable. And cold.
"How
would you feel about trying hypnosis to further explore this?" It's my
turn to raise my eyebrows. "Now, it's more an art than a science and
results are not always helpful, or even accurate," he cautions. "It's
not necessarily the most reliable method, but for some clients, it does seem to
provide some answers or relief. It's entirely up to you."
* * *
"I
want you to go wherever your inner mind wants to take you. Whatever it is your
subconscious needs to you to see or feel, we'll just let you be the guide. .
." His voice seems to grow more and more distant as he quietly ushers me
into deeper levels of consciousness, as I drift further under.
I wake
up on the floor. I'm cold. (“Do you know
where you are?”) For a minute, I don't lift my head; just lie there, watching
the flashes and flickers of light from the muted T.V. bouncing around the room.
“I’m in my living room.”
I sit up. (“Can you tell me what you see? What you
hear?”) I’m wearing Christmas dinosaur Pajamas. The kitchen faucet - it
wasn’t turned off all the way; I hear a hollow drip-drip-drip-drip. “I’m
wearing my favorite PJs. I hear water dripping.”
I see
movement, out of the corner of my eye. . .a shadow pass across the doorway to
the hall. “Mom?” I hear myself call out. It’s a strange, distant, echoing
sound. I look around. (“Adam, how old are
you?”) There are empty glasses and bottles scattered across the floor. On
the T.V. a crowded Times Square is getting ready for the big countdown. Mom is
splayed across the couch, asleep; drool spilling from her half-open mouth. “I’m
five.”
Another
shadow. “Dad. . .?” I get up. My feet are cold on the hardwood. I hear the
floor above me creak. The baby’s crying. Mom stirs but doesn’t rouse. “Dad??” I
walk to Mom and Dad’s bedroom. The light is still on. Dad’s on the bed. He’s
snoring. Another groaning creak upstairs. My chest tightens. (“Is something frightening you?”) The
baby stops crying. I walk to the stairs and begin ascending. “Someone’s
upstairs. Someone’s upstairs.”
The hall is
dark, but the small lamp in the nursery is on and a wedge of dim light cuts
across the carpet. I hear talking. I slowly push the door open. There’s a woman
standing over the crib, speaking gently to the baby. The baby is babbling and
cooing at her. “Who are you?” I ask, my voice small in this room. (“Who is it? Who’s there with you?”) She
turns to me. She smiles, but her eyes are pale, like moons, and she scares me. There’s
a long, scarlet ribbon hanging from the front of her dress. I can’t seem to
stop my eyes from following it up and down, up and down. . . My breath gets
shallow. “I don’t know.”
I want to
call for Dad, but I can’t seem to move or speak. The woman lifts a finger to
her lips. They are a deep red, like her ribbon. “Shhh. . .”
“Are you an
angel?” I press. A tear slides down her cheek. Her soft, white dress shifts and
wavers slowly around her, like it’s floating in water. The ribbon is shocking
and hypnotic against the white. I can’t seem to pull my eyes away. “No,” she
says, “but my baby is.” She holds her arms in front of her, as though she were
cradling an invisible newborn. (“Adam,
who do you see?”) She begins to sway and sing quietly to her empty arms,
then stops abruptly.
The room is
suddenly cold. Freezing. I shiver. I feel an overwhelming anguish; anger and
grief flooding my head, my chest, my gut. It’s radiating from the woman. The
baby is crying again. “Go now,” she says. “My baby needs me. All my babies need
me. It’s time for them to sleep.” I begin to cry uncontrollably, though I don’t
understand why. She turns back to the baby and reaches down, stroking her head
softly. “Sleep, sweet angel,” she whispers.
The sound on the T.V. suddenly blares to life. “TEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN,
SIX, FIVE. . .”
(“four, three. . .”)
“Two, one; wake up.”
Wessler sits
watching me. My face is wet; I’m weeping. “Her name was Evelyn,” I choke out. “My
sister. My baby sister.” He listens. He waits. “I didn’t even remember that I had a sister.”
* * *
I get
home late. Went to the bar after my session. Couldn’t bring myself to face
Kayla; to hold Sophia. It’s dark and quiet. I go to the bedroom and pull off my
tie. I sit next to Kayla. She’s sound asleep. The monitor crackles as Sophia
starts to cry. I reach over to turn it down so it doesn’t wake Kayla. I hear a
whisper and freeze. “Sleep, sweet angel.”
Then
silence.
***Copyright Jessica Wolfe Reifsnyder, 2014***
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