DaySleeper

I follow the crowd of people off the plane. James and his fiancée, Rebecca, stand there, staring at me as I approach. I smile weakly when I reach them and Rebecca hugs me. I am taken aback by how large she is.

“How far along are you now?” I ask her.

“Seven months,” she says. I smile. “We didn’t want to say anything at the funeral… It was still early, and we wanted everyone to be able to grieve…”

“I understand,” I say. She smiles. I turn to James.

“Cousin,” I say. He smiles weakly and we hug awkwardly.

“I’ll get your stuff,” he offers, and heads to the conveyor belts. I look at Rebecca.

“He hasn’t been the same since…”

I nod.

“Me neither.”

~~
The house is lovely. I can tell Rebecca will really be a great mom, just by the home she keeps. It looks straight out of a magazine, which is weird for me. I grew up with my mom, who trashed her own house. Then I moved out and into apartment after apartment with poor guys who took care of me. To top it off, I ended up in a domestic abuse shelter.

It hasn’t really been five stars, you know?

Despite how lovely the place seems, it kind of hurts.

It hurts lying in this lovely bed, in this lovely house, with no roommates, and no kids. It hurts. I don’t know how to say this, so I spend the first few days simply not saying anything at all.

~~
After a week of being here, and doing nothing, Rebecca comes into my room. James has gone off to work already. I think she waited for this moment.

“Hey,” she says, waddling slightly. I give her a watery smile from where I lay among my lovely blankets. She frowns a bit.

I scoot over once her intention to sit on the bed has been made clear. She slides on, and folds her hands in her lap, her fingers resting on the tops of her hands and her palms grasping her stomach. She seems to think for a few moments.

“I think, perhaps while you’re here, you should talk to someone.”

I don’t say anything.

~~
The therapist’s office is small, and crowded with books. I think it’s a screening sort of thing, to test if I have claustrophobia. I don’t.

My therapist is very pleased to meet me.

He’d like me to tell him my story when I am comfortable.

He’d like me to speak to him freely.

He’d like me try some medications.

He’d like me to try to find some purpose in my life.

He’d like me to be goddamn perfect.

~~
I discuss the medication with Rebecca. She seems worried, perhaps as worried as me.

“If you feel you’ve tried everything on your own to get better, maybe it is time you turned to medication. I mean, what could it hurt?”

It is a different pill from the one I took for only a few weeks. I am to take one of these pills once a day for six weeks and see how I feel. I can tell you right now how I feel. I feel desperately lonely, and terribly homesick.

Worst off, I am not supposed to think of the shelter as home. It’s a rest stop, not a home, as my therapist says. I want to slap him. He will go home to his wife and children and they will love him, and that will be home.

He knows nothing of my life.

~~
Alice calls me during my second week. She is living in the city still, with a few women from the shelter, who put money together for a place to share. She is mildly happy with her situation.

I begin crying the moment she says hello.

“Cade,” she sighs.

“I’m sorry—”

“No,” she says, “Don’t be. Don’t be sorry. Be happy. For once, be happy.”

“It’s hard,” I mumble.

“I know,” she soothes, and she sounds like a mother again, “It will always be hard.”

“Why?”

“Because god wants us to be the strongest goddamn people in the world, apparently.”

I laugh.