Night, Forgotten

Original Edition - Chapter 22: Now

New, cold sunlight saturates the air in the parlor and I tuck the afghan more tightly under my chin. I must have spent the night down here on the davenport, alone. Gray, flakey powder is piled in the hearth. If a fire burned there last night, it has long been extinguished.

Owen's footsteps come sleepily padding down the staircase. Daisy's toenails scrape the floor as she clamors eagerly behind him. I sit up, trying to remember why I came down here last night and how I ended up in the parlor.

Did I wake up hungry and come down to the kitchen for a snack? No. I haven't had an appetite in months.

Maybe I was sleepwalking.

Through the fireplace, I hear the coffee machine percolate in the kitchen. Cabinet doors open and close.

"Why don't you hang out in your crib while I warm you up a breakfast bottle?" Owen cheerfully says to Thomas, who is making small, hungry noises. Hurried footsteps approach the doorway to the parlor and soon my husband appears in his favorite grey sweat suit, Thomas's soft body curled over his shoulder.

"Good morning," I greet Owen as pleasantly as I can.

As I rise from the davenport, a knife-like spasm radiates from somewhere in my lower belly. I press my hands against it and my fingers mash wetly into an open wound. I look down at them in horror. They stick together with reddish brown gunk.

Last night comes back to me all at once. I tripped over that fallen log and landed, somehow, on top of the grilling fork I'd grabbed to use as a weapon. The wound doesn't seem to be as bad as I feared last night, but it's started to leak.

I look up at Owen to see what his reaction is. His lips are forming words, but no sound comes out. Then he stops trying to speak and just stares.

I start talking without thinking, harshly aware of how I must look to him. "Don't be upset – I'm bleeding, but it's not that bad. I can just run upstairs and clean this up quick. There was someone in the Dolans' shed last night and I saw a light out there so I grabbed the first thing I saw, the grilling fork, in case I had to defend myself, but what ended up happening..." I trail off. I'm not sure how to finish.

What did end up happening? And why am I standing here rambling like a maniac?

Owen hasn't moved. He's staring at my bloody abdomen, his expression a mix of fear and disgust. Thomas squirms slightly in his arms, but his little neck is not yet strong enough to swivel in my direction.

In this case, that's for the best.

I plow onward. "Maybe I had a nightmare, or something, because it doesn't make any sense, but it was like the shed out there – it was like it screamed at me. The doors knocked me over, or maybe it was just the force of the sound. But it just seemed like the whole shed was, I don't know."

Like it was suffering, I want to say. But sheds don't suffer, nor do they scream.

A screaming shed makes even less sense than a man's sinister laughter coming from Thomas's crib. Owen already thinks I'm completely insane and here I am, giving him even more fodder for that theory.

I just keep talking, stupidly, as if by denying him the time to ask me any questions, I can convince him to believe me. "I know it sounds bonkers. But I really think there was someone out in that shed. Or there's something else going on with it."

Owen looks over his shoulder in the direction of the backyard, as if he'll be able to see the shed from here. As if that way, he'll be able to confirm my convoluted story.

When he turns back, his eyes widen as they focus on mine. "Julie..." he whispers. His face crumbles around my name.

He thinks I've lost my mind.

"Okay," I say quickly, before he can quote Perinatal Mood Disorders at me. "Okay. We don't have to talk about this right now." I don't think I'll be able to stand it if Owen thinks I'm crazy.

"Let's... let's talk about our anniversary plans, if you feel like making any." I force hopefulness into my voice. "First let me go shower and clean up." In just over a week, we'll have been married for five years. Neither of us has had the energy to bring up a conversation about celebrating, but right now it might be a convenient distraction.

I slide past my husband where he remains, still frozen, holding my son in the parlor doorway. Once I dress this wound and make myself presentable, we can plan our anniversary. Then maybe Owen can help me figure out what the hell could be going on.

My mind must be playing tricks on me. That can happen when people are malnourished, and I haven't had much of an appetite since Thomas was born. My sleep habits haven't been the best recently, either. The most likely explanation is that I was sleepwalking through a nightmare last night.

It's possible that I just need to change my life habits and get out of this slump, or whatever the author of Perinatal Mood Disorders would call what I'm going through. Maybe Owen can say the right things, the things I need to hear to feel comfortable with that explanation.

Then we can focus on more pleasant topics, like getting Diana to babysit so we can have a proper fifth anniversary dinner next weekend. It will be such a relief to finally leave the house together, just the two of us, the way it used to be. We could even see a show in Providence.

I head up the stairs. As I reach the landing, I look back over my shoulder.

Thomas catches my eye but turns away without recognizing me.