Author: seaprepignite

Regina De Villasante ‘25

           He had never been here before. Usually, he ended up in the same places. The living room sofa watching re-runs of Friends. Near the fridge with a bowl of leftover pasta by his feet. Under the old fig tree in the backyard on warm summer nights. He was never surprised by where he woke up. It was all part of his dreams. From dreaming about a date with the new girl he liked from work and waking up in his car outside her house after dropping her off, to dreaming of him and his cousin playing with their Lego sets and waking up in his aunt’s basement. His mom had always worried about it.

           “What if one day you decide you’re an Olympic swimmer in your dreams and drown in Scott Lake?” she asked agitatedly after he was found one morning near the train tracks that ran by his neighborhood. “Or you get run over crossing the road?”

           “I don’t know, Mom,” he sighed, exasperated by her constant worrying. “Nothing has happened to me yet.”

           “Maybe we should look into an institution, Victor,” his mom had whispered to his father over breakfast one morning as he walked out the door to school. “I can’t lose another child!”

           He spent one year at Ridley’s Home for the Mentally Troubled. Somehow, despite being chained to a cot, with a tracker around his ankle, in a locked cell, in a barricaded hallway, in a wing of a high-security facility, he never stayed in bed. Each morning the nurses would come to his room to find the bed empty. There were no signs of struggle. The chains lay in a pile near the foot of the bed. The ankle monitor, fully intact, sat on the dresser. The door was closed but unlocked. They would sound the alarm only to see him appear at the end of the hallway rubbing his eyes as he woke up. The nurses would sit him down and ask him questions.

           “How did you escape?” the young woman in the pink scrubs would ask.

           “I don’t know,” he told them every time. “I don’t remember.” He was lying, but he was good at that now.

           “Where did you go?” asked the man in the purple scrubs as he scribbled on his clipboard. He knew what he was writing. Patient shows no sign of recollection. Patient shows no signs of physical harm. He had seen the pages before. He had seen the thick folder in his doctor’s office titled Thomas Thatcher. For all the time they spent watching him, you would think they would know more about what he was doing. “Thomas?” the man repeated, snapping his fingers in his face.

           “I don’t know.” The man scribbled on his clipboard again. Patient is unaware of his actions during his somnambulism.

           He knew where he went. At Ridley’s, he only ever went to the same place. The graveyard. He stood there, barefooted in the soft earth, hands clenched around the thorny stems of roses as he stared down at the small granite tombstone surrounded by other dying flowers. Eliza Thatcher. 2000-2013. Loving Daughter, Sister and Friend.

           The first time he sleepwalked was October 23, 2013. Eliza had heard his footsteps on the stairs and followed him. Followed him as he put on his boots and bright blue hand-me-down jacket. Followed him as he walked out into the backyard and jumped over the fence into the wilderness beyond.

           She had been so focused on keeping up with the sight of the back of her brother’s bright blue jacket that she hadn’t noticed the rock-lined ditch in front of her. Thomas woke up the next morning on the back porch curled up against the door, covered in blood that wasn’t his own, holding his sister’s lifeless body in his arms.

           Everyone had questions. What happened? What were you doing out of the house? Why didn’t you take care of her? He couldn’t explain it to his parents. How could he tell them that he didn’t know she was there? How could he tell them that he didn’t have control?

           So now he visited her. In his dreams, he could see her playing hide and seek among the tombstones. Giggling as she kicked up the falling leaves or rolled down a hill. Some days she was the 13-year-old girl from his childhood; others she was 19, the age she would be now if she was still alive. He wanted to keep their visits to himself, so he lied. The doctors never quite figured it out.

           “It is a phenomenon,” the doctors told his parents as they watched over him on a hospital gurney the day that he was discharged from Ridley’s. “We have no way to explain it. There is nothing more that we can do for your son.” He was sad to leave Ridley’s. It meant his visits to his sister would go back to happening only once a year after morning mass on October 23^rd with his mother and father. It meant he would only visit his sister when he was awake.

           But on his first night home, he woke up somewhere different. He looked around at the pale pink walls covered in old One Direction band posters and Polaroids. Most importantly, he saw the black and white photo of the girl; he knew she had long auburn hair, brilliant green eyes and a smile to light up any room she entered. That morning, he woke up in a room no one had entered since October 23, 2013.

           Eliza’s.

Regina De Villasante ‘25

           She turned over in bed and looked at the face of the man fast asleep to her right. Soft beams of light danced across his shoulder, painting his dark curls golden. He was snoring right in her ear, but she did not mind. She checked the clock on the bedside table: 9:00 a.m. They had to meet their guests for breakfast soon. She slowly moved the man’s arm from around her waist and slipped out of bed, making sure to tiptoe over to the bathroom so she wouldn’t wake him. She looked into the mirror and was met with a face that did not reflect the five hours of sleep she had gotten. She ran a hand through her dirty blonde hair, still half curled from the night before. The rings on her finger caught the light, shining little glimmering stars on the wall. She turned her hand and admired the delicate gold bands, one carrying a small round diamond, a smile creeping across her face. She danced across the cold tile floor of the bathroom remembering the lights, the flowers, the music, the dark blue suit, and her gorgeous white dress. It felt like a fever dream, but the proof was right there on her hand.

           “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice tinged with laughter, snapping her out of the memories as he leaned against the doorframe.

           “Dancing,” she said with a grin. He swept her up in his arms and spun her around the same way he had the night before during their first dance.

           “I think we did more than enough of that last night!” he said draping his arms around her shoulders, a band glinting on his left ring finger. Her eyes met his in the mirror.

           “Well, now we get to do it forever!”

           She turned over in bed, looking at the back of the man fast asleep to her right. Gray beams of light crept in through the cracks in the window shades, giving the room the eerie feel of a foggy morning. The man’s snores sounded like a chainsaw disturbing the peace of another Sunday. She reached out her arm trying to find her phone on her bedside table. She turned it over, the light hurting her eyes. It was 6:00 a.m. She had to leave soon if she wanted to catch her flight.

            She slipped out of bed, making sure to tiptoe over to the bathroom so she would not wake him. She flicked the light switch, looking at herself in the mirror. Her face was ghostly in the glare of the white light, dark circles contrasting against her pale skin. She tied back her dark hair streaked with blonde that should have been retouched a long time ago. She turned on the tap, running her hands under the cold water and reaching up to run water across her face. The rings on her finger caught the cold light of the bathroom. She turned her hand and looked at the gold bands—one carrying a small round diamond—tears filling her eyes. She turned off the tap.

           She tiptoed back across the room watching the man’s chest rise and fall as she walked over to the closet in the far corner. She slowly pulled the door open, trying to minimize the squeaking. She had been asking him to fix the door for months. She moved the long white dress aside, revealing the suitcase and backpack tucked behind it. She dragged the bags out from behind her wedding gown. It was out of style anyway, she told herself. Only one thing left to do.

           She pulled the letter she had written from the front pocket of the backpack. She placed the letter on the dresser and took a deep breath. She reached for her left hand, pulling the rings off her finger. After wearing them for 10 years, they felt stuck. She yanked at them a little harder and one went flying clattering onto the floor.

           “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rough. She stopped in her tracks, her back turned to him. He rubbed his eyes, taking in the backpack over her shoulder and the suitcase at her side. “What is this?” she heard as the covers moved, as he got out of bed and bent to pick the ring off the floor. Her phone lit up with a notification. Her Uber was there.

           “I have to go.”

           “Where are you going? How long will you be gone? And why did you take off your ring?” She could hear the confusion and pain in his voice and couldn’t bear to look in his eyes. His hand landed on her shoulder, turning her around. Her eyes traced up his chest to his short, cropped curls, finally landing on a pair of tired hazel eyes.

           “I have to go,” she said again, grabbing her suitcase. She stood there for a minute, taking him in. What was one more, after five million, two hundred and fifty-six thousand?

           “Will you be back?”

           No.