Page 8 of Nocturnes & Nightmares

“And how do you think a mother should react to that?”

Doctor Buckly has a knack for trying to lessen my guilt, but she’s not been successful at eliminating it altogether.

“I just want to do right by my son. I want him to feel safe again. To trust the world again.”

“Then, keep doing what you’re doing. Give him time to mourn and heal. And give yourself time to do the same. Your guilt is getting in the way of what your soul needs right now.”

“My soul?” I want to laugh at that. I don’t even know if I still have one, it’s been so long since I felt anything. “No. I don’t cry for him anymore. Surely, someone who loved the other person would need more than six months to get over it.”

“We all mourn in our own ways. And you’re clearly not over it. How are you sleeping at night?”

Rolling my head against my shoulders fails to loosen the incessant knot of remorse for having brought all this up. “Like I said, Sarah. You’re not my therapist. You don’t have to do this.”

“Nola. How are you sleeping?”

“Couple hours. It’s the same every night. Sometimes, Oli wakes up screaming. Sometimes, I swear he wakes up screaming.” Two months ago, I started sleeping with a knife under my pillow, but I don’t tell her that, because only crazy, paranoid women sleep with weapons.

“If you’d like, I can refer you to a friend of mine. She’s a psychiatrist. She can prescribe something for—”

“No. No pills. I don’t need to be hopped up on prescription drugs all night. I lived with that as a teenager. I know how it feels when your mom is practically comatose.”

I wish I could say Denny’s was the only tragedy I’ve been through, but my life is a circle, and outside of the lines is a darkness that wants in so badly, it pokes at me every day. It poked at my mother, until she finally gave in and let it consume her entirely.

The fringes weren’t always so bleak, though. In fact, there was a time they were so bright, we couldn’t see past the blinding light. That was before my older sister disappeared. I was only ten, on the brink of eleven at the time—about the same age as Oliver. She left for a date with a boy I’d never met and didn’t come home. Ever. The questions she left behind morphed into a vacuous hole that’s never gone away. So I’m no stranger to tragedy, or the effect of mind-numbing drugs meant to soften the lines, to coexist with that darkness. I don’t want a single drop of it inside me.

“It doesn’t do Oli any good, if you’re running on fumes, either.”

“Lesser of two evils, as far as I’m concerned.” I am tired. Tired and frustrated with how difficult it is just getting out of bed every morning. Maybe Denny was right when he said I’d never make it without him. Maybe part of me died alongside him that night, and this is my hell.

I stare back at my son, who sits with his head in his palms, his frustration clear as he kicks at the legs of the table in a poor attempt to calm an oncoming tantrum. “Just tell me this much, Sarah. Will he ever forgive me?”

“For what?”

“For lying to him. For telling him monsters didn’t exist.”

* * *

I turn the car into the McDonald’s drive thru and order a chocolate milkshake and fries, just like every Friday after one of Oli’s sessions. Today, he doesn’t eat much, but picks at the small pack of fries like a bird, while we drive toward Jonah’s house. My brother’s wife, Diane, usually picks Oli up from the house after school for me, and takes him until I get home from my night shift at the diner, but as I have to work on Thanksgiving and the day after, they’ll be taking him until Sunday. Doesn’t help that Denny didn’t have a life insurance policy, so I try to grab as many hours as I can.

It’s been a while since I’ve left Oliver alone overnight, and I’m, admittedly, nervous about it.

“Hey, you won’t even miss me.” A fake chuckle escapes my lips, in a poor effort to hold back tears.

Oliver tosses his fries toward the cup holder between us, which sends a few of them bouncing onto the floor.

“Don’t be like that. Look, I know it’s hard right now, but … it’s going to get better. I promise. Just stick with me, okay, kiddo?” Tears blur my view, and I clear my throat. “I can’t do this without you.”

Despite his head being turned toward the window, I can see the scowl on his face, the permanent marks of his resentment that have added new lines.

“I was thinking maybe … in a few weeks, I’ll take a few days off, and we can go up to grandpa’s cabin. Do some fishing. I’ll let you bait the hook.” This time my chuckle is real and brimming with tears. “That sound good to you?”

His chest rises and falls with a huff, and he turns back toward the windshield. Without looking at me, he nods and nabs a fry from beside us.

A few days off will be tight, but if it brings him back to me, I’m willing to figure shit out with the bills. As if I need another reason to hate Denny, I wouldn’t owe anything more than taxes on the house if we hadn’t taken out a loan against it to pay off his debts and tools that were meant to start a new business and change our lives. My father left the house to me when he died, and Jonah inherited the cabin. Between waitressing and the small craft shows where I sell my hand-thrown pottery, I’m still not making it.

I pull up to the curb of my brother’s house, where Diane stands on the front porch. Looking far more healthy and beautiful than I feel right now, in her black turtle neck and hoop earrings, she waves, her face plastered with a bright smile, and makes her way toward the car. Unable to have children of her own, she’s practically begged to have Oliver over to stay with them, and as much as I should be comforted by the love and joy she gets from spending quality time with my son, I’m green with jealousy about it.

But I do appreciate her.