Lying awake

He sipped the last of his drink. Closed his eyes momentarily to try and absorb the pleasure of the final taste slipping down his tongue and holding there for a few seconds. The first and last sips are always the best. Eyes open, he turns to his left, clicks the light off and in the darkness steps to the spiral staircase a room away. It is a trip he has made hundreds of times over the years. His hand reaches out before him and like a mid-air refueling the railing and his hand become one. In a controlled heave, his hand pulls him up onto the first step and the ascent begins, creaking and crackling as it did the first night he called it home. It doesn’t matter how many times he climbs the steps, they will still creek under his weight. The day will come when one day, he can make it up as quiet as a cat maneuvering in the night with its’ owners sleeping. Tonight is not that night. He reaches the landing, looks out the big window overlooking his driveway and yard.

The rain is pelting the window and he thinks to himself that one day the old tree that sits centered in the window will split the house in two. Turning away from the window and towards the bedroom, he somewhat hopes that this night isn’t the one.

The door opens to the bedroom, the room is nearly pitch black. The silhouettes of the bedroom and particularly his wife in their bed asleep are visible now. His eyes have adjusted now to the darkness. He prefers making his movements under the cover of darkness. It is second nature to him. Ever since he was a child, being aware of his surroundings and being able to maneuver around in darkness was something he relished. It was a challenge to move around his home semi blind. Assuming the worst as always, he thought it was best to practice a life of blindness. Morbid thoughts are easier at night, nothing can distract you from the thoughts of perishing in a way only someone like he can dream of.

The room is silent and only the breathing of his wife and son can be heard. He stands over the crib, looks down at the cherub delivered to him by someone, something more intelligent than he can even dream to know. Bends over slowly, kisses him, caresses his head and says good night. Turning around, the occasional flash of light from the traffic outside penetrates the blinds, illuminates the room briefly. The quick photograph of the lit room is processed and he makes sure to step over the space heater by the crib.

He stands for a second at the side of his bed and undresses. Heaping the day’s uniform into a semi-neat pile to be picked up tomorrow or another. Who cared really? It didn’t matter at all. He takes another large lumbering breath, exhales again and climbs in. In one swift motion he is under the covers and the glasses are on the nightstand next to the clock radio and ten year old picture of his daughter, looking innocent, wide-eyed and smiling all while holding a toy.

“Hey,” he says to her as he slides his left arm over her waist. His side of the bed and pillow are still cool from the chill in the room. The thermostat has been getting set lower and lower as his last day of work soon approaches. The pennies are being pinched. He tries to relax. The tenseness is starting to set in his body from the anxiety of not knowing when the next paycheck will come. His body is becoming a knot. The muscles can not relax, he can’t concentrate enough to read a book.

“I love you.” Brushing away her hair from his face and her cheek, he keeps his arm around her waist. Softly he is running his fingers in circles around her belly. The belly that held in a child for him. A belly that has once again become as taught as drum.

“I love you.” He says and then yet again the same thing he feels like he has been saying for the past year slides off his tongue, “I’m sorry sweetheart”. The words don’t come easy but they seem to be coming more frequently and with more pain. It is not the sort of sorry you say when you started an argument you shouldn’t have and said something you regret. It is a worse sorry. It is the kind that hurts to utter because it stings like acid on your eyes. Your sinuses build with pressure. The blood in your head begins to throb down your temples and your teeth are clenched tight. Your eyelids become Hoover dams and have to hold back millions of gallons of tears. Tears that are made up of disappointment, frustration, anger, confusion, love and of failure. He pulls himself into her and their hips are pressed against each other; the warmth of her body radiating into him. The heat loosens him up enough to provide some solace from the disappointment that has become his life. Asleep though, she doesn’t here the words he muttered softly to her. Again.

She is his buoy. As his arm stops drawing circles and clutches her hip bone he is hanging onto her hear for dear life. The vicious storm that is now his life has been punishing the buoy that is her heart. The chain, rope or whatever tendril connected to her heart cannot hold him forever. The buoy in the storm is constantly going under, deeper and deeper each time. It is being pulled under by the crashing waves that are his pain and anxiety. She is there week in and week out, but the buoy is not made for this sort of weathering. It was not meant for this abuse.

She tells him it is ok they can do this together. That she loves him. So, he continues to hang on pulling her under for longer and longer periods of time. This pounding isn’t something you get used to. It is something you tolerate for only so long. At what point, he thinks to himself, at what point does he free himself of the buoy. What point does he allow her heart to heal from the punishing storm also known as his life.

He times his breathing with hers. He feels her chest raise and lower with his. In sync,he tries to breathe with her. It is futile, his body wont allow him. It has to fight anything it can. It doesn’t want to become one with her. His problems aren’t his and they shouldn’t be.

His eyes open, he slides his arm off, rolls over and closes his eyes. He can hear the rain still hitting the windows and the occasional gust of wind blow around the corner of the house. Another deep breath in threw his nose and out his mouth. He is trying to cadence his breathing so he can just get to sleep tonight in a peaceful way for a change. Please let me get to sleep he begs to the air. Please.

Dead man walking he likes to think as he walks into work. The past couple of weeks have been nothing short of pure hell; some modern day version of one of Dante’s stages of hell. Every day, he wakes up and just lies in bed. Trying to fall back to sleep. He seems to wake up more and more often during the night now. Earlier and earlier he rises. Almost a dozen times during the night now he grabs the clock pulls it within an inch of his face and slinks back under the covers willing himself to try and Sleep. The multiple fingerprints left on the clock are now the evidence from a crime being committed on his soul mate.

Sliding out of bed this time for good, he reaches for the uniform placed in the same spot the day before. Changing into a fresher one is pointless. It would only mean more to wash and more money spent on water, detergent and electricity. He brushes his teeth in the dark of the morning. He walks downstairs and goes through the motions he has been going through for the past several weeks.

What else can he do at this point, he thinks? You aren’t alone, he thinks as he stands in the kitchen by himself scooping out coffee. “There are millions like me” he says. As if somehow that sadder thought will provide relief and comfort. The morning routine now includes this mostly pointless pep talk. There has been a subtle yet significant change though in his morning routine. The route from the bedroom to the kitchen every morning has changed. The lights stay off now to save electricity, but also to hide. He goes right to the kitchen. He is avoiding all of the Christmas decorations and the tree in the family room. He is avoiding the wooden countdown tree that his children fight over each morning to open and signify that Christmas is that much closer. He no longer cares to referee this fight. He doesn’t even hear them fight anymore. A week ago, he overheard his wife say, “you guys are slipping keeping this thing up to date”

It hurts to think about the holidays. So he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t talk about it. Twenty plus years it was a day that he looked forward too. It was a day to see his children beam with joy and take pride in the fact that he could provide a better than average standard of living for his family. Even though he may have been less than the dad he hoped he would be, this was the time of year that he might somehow be able to make up for his shortcomings, his sins. Make up for it in his mind at least. Sipping coffee on the couch, saying “you’re welcome” and “I love you too” are such small gestures that make the day worth looking forward to for 364 days.

Not anymore. The countdown Christmas tree is the executioners clock now. The inevitable day is coming and as it gets closer there is nothing anyone can do about it. Last ditch efforts can be made, friends can be called, strings can be pulled, it won’t matter. No pardons. The day is coming. The storm about to lash out on the buoy is going to test its’ strength in a way unseen for the past decade.

They agreed that when he got back on his feet that they would buy the girls something else. A decision had been made when Bill first gave the word to cut back. Without saying it, the decision had also been made to do without buying each other a gift for the first time since they had been together. Sure, over the years they each had intimated tacitly that they didn’t need anything from the other. Each one knowing there was no way in hell a gift wouldn’t be purchased. It was just a matter of how big the gift would be and the effort the other would go to in order to make sure it was something the other would cherish. This year though, it wasn’t said at all, because they both knew that this was the one year it was actually going to be carried out.

Pouring his coffee the house is still silent except for the rain. The rain hasn’t stopped pelting the windows. The wind seems stronger now. The sky feels darker than normal. He turns from the counter to put his single scoop of sugar in. The window is distorted from the rain drops. The tree is still there, wavering.

He turns to his side, his back to his wife now and with his eyes open once again is unable to get to sleep. Another half-hour passes, then forty-five minutes. It is another typical evening. Only the days are getting closer to Christmas and then New Years and there is no stopping any of it. Tossing slowly and deliberately he doesn’t want to wake her. The pain needs to be contained and cannot spread. Her sleep is too precious. Finally the darkness engulfs him. He clings to the chain and hopes he never sees the storm he fears in inevitable.