Page 62 of Insomnia

I stare at her for a long moment and then from nowhere, I burst into laughter.Get some sleep.Oh god, that’s funny. I snort as I laugh harder. “Get some sleep,” I wheeze, my bloodstained hand covering my mouth as I laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” she says, and I know I need to get it together, because this isn’t funny and this isn’t both of us giggling together but just me, rocking backward and forward, lost in a terrible private joke.

“You make it sound so easy,” I splutter before laughing again. I can see her watching me, blurred through my watering eyes, until finally I get myself together, gasping for breath.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just. God, I wish I could sleep. Maybe I’ll sleep when tomorrow is over. The big four-oh.” I pull a jokey scary face, but she doesn’t laugh, keeps on studying me, worried and thoughtful. I can’t blame her, really.Tomorrow. It’s finally here after all these years. And here I am, turning into my mother.

I look down at my clothes. “I can’t go back to the hotel like this. I hate to ask, but could I have a shower and put these in for a quick wash and dry?”

“I was just on my way out,” she says, flustered. “I’ve got two more house calls to do.” Her face looks tight, as if she’s trying to appear natural but failing.

“Please,” I say. I’m begging and she knows it. “I won’t touch anything and it’s not like you don’t know where I live.” I try to makea joke of it, but I smack of desperation. “When all this is over, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Okay,” she says, eventually, although if I’m honest, she looks cornered rather than willing. “I’ll be back soon. The washing powder is under the sink.”

“Thank you so much.” I want to hug her but not in these clothes.

“It’s fine.” She flashes me a smile and for a moment I relax, and then I catch the way she glances back at me as she heads out the front door.

As soon as she’s gone, I head up the stairs and I want to cry. I know the way she was looking at me.

Awkward. Afraid. As if I’m somehow disturbed and dangerous.

Maybe she’s right, I think again, as I watch the pink tinge of Phoebe’s blood disappearing down the shower drain as the hot water batters my exhausted body. Miranda’s logic seems far away now. I am the common denominator, after all. God, I’m so tired. I just want to sleep.I just want to sleep.I remember my mother hissing those same words at me all those years ago, and for the first time in my life, as I start to weep, I find I have some pity for her.

Once I’m dry, I take the Ian Rankin book back to the spare room. Idly curious, I pull out one of the framed photos sticking out of another box. A woman in a wheelchair smiling in front of an old cathedral. A younger Caroline, maybe around twenty years old, standing behind the chair. The woman in the chair has to be Caroline’s mum, the resemblance is too uncanny. Caroline’s not looking at the camera but down at her mother, watching over her perhaps. She looks awkward. Maybe they’d asked a stranger to take the photo. One of them together on a mother-daughter break.

I browse a few more, mainly of Caroline, a few of a cat that must once have been a pet. At the bottom is an older family photo,judging by the clothes taken some time in the nineties. Caroline, maybe six years old, in a neat school uniform, a private school uniform maybe, old-fashioned in its look, and also slightly too big. First day of school photo maybe, her mother, slim and pretty, standing on one side of her and her father on the other, both beaming with pride. She’s never mentioned her father and I’d assumed that her mother had become infirm only with old age rather than something that happened to her earlier. We all have our family secrets, I suppose. The scars that we don’t want to tear open.

I put the picture back and head downstairs. I’ve got enough problems with my own family history to spend any time thinking about hers.

I’m finally back in my clean, dry clothes, and with my hair and skin scrubbed I feel halfway to human and sane. Sane enough to be staring at my phone and wondering how to go about checking myself in to a clinic for a few days to be assessed. I should ask Dr. Morris, but I don’t want to. I want to find out anonymously. What if I speak to someone and then that’s it, no turning back, I’m locked up and I can’t get out?What if something happens to my family?Nothing’s going to happen to my family. It’s a ridiculous thought. It’s aparanoidthought. I look up effects of insomnia on my phone and immediately wish I hadn’t.

...Going without sleep for long periods of time can produce a range of experiences, including perceptual distortions and hallucinations. Many questions, however, remain unanswered regarding whether symptoms worsen over time toward psychotic decompensation...

Perceptual distortions. Hallucinations. Psychotic decompensation.

I take a deep breath and am about to dial Dr. Morris when my phone rings. My heart almost stops with fear. I don’t know the number but it’s a landline.The hospital.Phoebe. She shouldn’tbe out of surgery yet. What’s happened? Is she . . . I stare at the screen, my mouth dry, as it keeps ringing. Eventually, I force myself to answer.

“Emma Averell speaking.” I sound surprisingly normal, even though my other fist is clenched.Please be okay, Phoebe. Please.

“Oh hello. Emma.” The voice at the other end says, “I hope this isn’t a bad time. Hartwell gave me your number and told me it was all right to call you? I’m Nina Harris. I was a friend of your mother’s.”

50.

“Emma.”

I thought Nina would be about the same age as my mother, but as soon as she opens the door I realize she’s about a decade younger, mid-sixties, and with shoulder-length gray hair and in her yoga pants and flowing Indian top she has an air of ease about her. Her face bursts into a delighted smile. “Oh, I’d recognize that beautiful dark hair anywhere. So much like Patricia’s. Please, come in.”

“Thank you. And thanks for seeing me.” I follow her inside. The house is stylish and not inexpensively decorated, and under the waft of sandalwood candles I’m pretty sure I can smell weed. She looks like a middle-class hippy and as I pass the bookshelves in the hallway, my thoughts are confirmed. There are vegan cookbooks, meditation manuals, and I’m sure I spot books on spiritualism and another titledAstral Projection and How to Do It Safely. It makes me smile. I don’t believe in all that stuff, but I like that she does.

“Oh no, it’s an absolute joy. I think about you often.” She ushers me into the kitchen and then out into the garden, where a table is ready in the gazebo with a beautiful oriental tea set. “I made Chinese tea. Is that okay? I have wine or beer or of course coffee if you’d prefer. I don’t do much caffeine myself, nor alcohol.” I see the rolled spliff in the ashtray and she shrugs. “I know I’m too old, but it’s always been my thing. It gives me my zen and keeps my joints loose. I teach yoga and Pilates and meditation. At the holistic center down by the park.” She’s chatty and lovely and I take a seat as she pours.

“I was never sure how much you remembered—or wanted to remember—about your early childhood,” she continues. “Phoebe must remember more than you do?”

I nod. “So she says. I’m not so sure how much she really remembers ofbeforeeverything that happened. That night. The few weeks before.” I have no intention of telling her about Pheobe’s accident or any of my problems. I’ve put makeup on and I’m clean and fresh from the shower and I may look slightly tired but other than that I can pass for normal, I imagine. “We don’t really talk about it much. We don’t see each other that often. Not in recent years.”

“That happens. I think I’ve seen my brother only three times since he moved to Australia forty years ago. But we were never close like you two.” Her face clouds over with sadness. “You wouldn’t let each other go that night. Clinging so tightly together. I remember a policeman trying to separate you and Phoebe screaming at him to get off. I wrapped you both in the same blanket like you were Siamese twins, then I called the ambulance for your mum.”

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