I slip my hands up her back and ease her out of her shirt. Somewhere between the bathroom door and the bed, we start to kiss.
It’s become our nightly routine. She stresses out. I soothe her. We make love.
I took a shower after Layla fell asleep. I still couldn’t sleep after that, so I went downstairs and crammed in an entire day’s worth of stuff in the span of two hours. I’ve shaved, washed the dishes, written some lyrics for a new song.
It’s now one o’clock in the morning, and I’m finally back in the bed with Layla, but my mind still won’t settle down.
I close my eyes and try to force myself to sleep, but my mind is racing. I thought today would be different for Layla. Stress-free. I thought maybe it would be like the first time we were here—but it hasn’t been. Today has been like all the other days since the hospital. As much as I don’t want to suggest it again, I really think she needs to start seeing a therapist. The doctor recommended it. Her mother and sister recommended it. But she insisted she would be fine. Until now, I’ve been on her side. I thought if I supported her through her recovery, the anxiety would pass. But it’s getting worse.
I’m staring at the alarm clock when I feel Layla’s side of the bed shift. I hear her stand up and walk across the hardwood floor.
At first, I think maybe she’s heading to the bathroom. But the sound of her walking ceases, and she doesn’t move for a while. I can feel that she’s not in the bed, though, so I turn over to see what she’s doing.
There’s a standup mirror on the wall a few feet away from the bed. Layla is staring at herself. It’s dark in here, other than a little light from the moon shining through the window, so I’m not sure what she’s trying to see. She turns from left to right, inspecting herself in the mirror. It’s strange how long she stares at herself. I wait another couple of minutes, thinking she’ll come back to bed, but she doesn’t.
She steps closer to the mirror, lifting a hand to the glass. She traces her index finger over the mirror as if she’s outlining her body.
“Layla?”
Her head snaps back in my direction. Her eyes are wide with embarrassment—like she got caught doing something she shouldn’t have been doing. She rushes back to the bed and slips under the covers with her back to me. “Go back to sleep,” she says in a whisper. “I’m fine.”
I stare at the back of her head for a while, but then I turn away from her. I certainly can’t sleep, though. Especially now.
I’m staring at the alarm clock when it turns over to 1:30 a.m. Layla has already fallen back asleep. She’s snoring lightly.
I can’t sleep, no matter how long I lie here.
I sneak out of bed, grab my cell phone, and go downstairs. I take a seat on the couch in the Grand Room. It’s 1:35 here, but it’s only 11:35 back in Seattle. My mother never goes to sleep before midnight, so I text her to see if she’s up. She responds with a phone call.
I lie against the arm of the couch and swipe my finger across my phone screen. “Hey.”
“You guys made it to Kansas?” she says.
“Yeah. Got here around five o’clock.”
“How’s Layla?”
“Fine. Same.”
“How are you?”
I sigh. “Fine. Same.”
My mother laughs because she can tell when I’m full of shit. But she also knows I’ll tell her what I feel like telling her when I feel like telling her.
“How’s Tim?” He’s the first guy my mother has dated since my father died. I’ve met him a couple of times. He seems all right. Meek. Gentle. Just the kind of guy I’d want for my mother.
“He’s fine. His morning class didn’t have enough students, so it got dropped. Now he has an extra free hour in the mornings. He’s really liking that.”
“Good for him,” I say. And then, before I can even think about the words coming out of my mouth, I ask her, “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“That’s random.”
“I know. I just don’t remember you ever talking about ghosts.”
“I’m kind of indifferent to the idea of them,” she says. “I don’t not believe in them, but I don’t know that I’ve ever had an experience that would make me believe in them.” She pauses for a moment, then says, “Why?