One
Ellie
My eyes flicker open suddenly, the acrid smells of smoke and gasoline filling my nostrils. Something isn’t right. I can feel it. Something is very wrong. Painful tears sting my eyes as I pull myself out of bed, my bare toes hitting the cool wood floor before another plume of gasoline fumes overcomes me. I have to fight the urge to bend over and retch. My nightgown hits the floor as I pad across the bedroom in the direction of the closed door. When I open it, my eyes struggle to adjust in the dim light. I can make out a figure standing in a cloud of smoke, the scent of gas overpowering as I blink once, twice, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.
“Mom?”
The figure doesn’t turn as she strikes a match and drops it on the chaise that sits in the corner.
“Mom?!”I cry, hot tears crashing down my cheeks.
Fire erupts, consuming the delicate fabric of the chaise in violent licks of orange and red. The flickering firelight catches her wild eyes, and then I see a serene smile curve her lips. I realize then what this is—this is her undoing. Our undoing. Thesewill be my last moments on Earth as I suck in the last gasps of fresh air in the hallway.
“Mom?!”I wail, begging for her to see me.
She finally turns to me, whispering,“You have to understand, baby. This is the only way.”
“No—” but before I can move, the room is engulfed in darkness.
I jolt awake, gasping as my eyes travel the room in search of something familiar. I’m home. In my apartment. The one I share with my husband. This is not my childhood home. My mother isn’t here. The flames aren’t about to consume everything I hold precious. It was only a nightmare—the same nightmare I’ve been having since I was a kid. It’s become such a presence in my sleeping hours that it’s come to define my waking ones.
What I still don’t know is if this is merely a dream—or is it a memory? Could something so violent, so consistent, really be pulled from the ether of my mind? I’ve been working with my therapist on exactly this—am I regressing every night to the helpless child I was back then? Or is my mind only torturing itself with fictional fears and traumas?
I turn in my bed, not at all surprised to find that the other side—the one usually occupied by my husband, Jack—is empty. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 5:40 am. I sigh, wiping the sleep from my eyes before rolling closer to the lamp to turn on the light. I grab the sleep journal that sits on the surface and begin scribbling in the details of my nightmare just like my therapist instructed me to do. I’m not sure what good it does, reliving my trauma each morning, the spike of cortisol and adrenaline that invariably takes hold as I write down the scene word for word. It’s always about the same—my mother, the gasoline, the matches—but still I record every moment because I don’tknow what else to do. It’s the only thing that makes me feel at least partially in control of my violent nighttime awakenings. At least this morning I didn’t find a kitchen knife by my bed—that morning last week really shook Jack. Have my violent nightmares turned to terrifying reality?
I think of Jack—how he’d gone out of his way to find me the best therapist on the Upper West Side last year when my sleepwalking and night terrors took a turn for the worse. The year I turned thirty-two. The same age my mother was when she was committed to Mount Sinai—just a few blocks from here—and then Greystone Park Psychiatric, across the river in New Jersey, where she lived out the last years of her life.
I finish my entry in the sleep journal, then close it and get out of bed, my feet dragging as I get ready for the day. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and take in my tousled, dishwater blond hair and hazel eyes. My cheeks are too round and my lips are too thin; my jawline is broad and my forehead too big. I am the opposite of elegant and glamorous, and on my worst days I find myself wondering what my devastatingly handsome husband sees in me. He likes to say I'm a natural beauty, but I think he only says that to make me feel more confident. I do my best to dress smartly, to mirror Jack's more refined taste and style, but I always feel like I'm falling short in some way.
As I pull a loose-fitting pencil skirt over my hips and slip the faux-pearl buttons of my blouse through their holes, I think about my husband. I wonder what time Jack left this morning. I wonder if he never came home and instead slept on his pullout at the office. I wonder how long my marriage will last if my husband spends more time at work than in our ten-thousand-dollar-a-month corner apartment with a view of Columbus Circle, just steps from Central Park and a few blocks from LincolnSquare. I wonder what makes a good marriage and if I’m asking for too much when I beg him for date nights or romantic getaways. Lately, he only shows up for me when I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown.
These thoughts are still swirling in my mind as I walk into the offices of Northrup Thomas Investment Group an hour later. The company was started by my father, Daniel Thomas, before I was even born. It was the first place I worked after graduating from Columbia with a finance and economics degree, and it will likely be my last because when my father retires, I will inherit the business. In fact, I am the sole inheritor of my father’s trust and Jack is mine.
As the elevator climbs each floor in a satisfying rush, I trace the bruise on my wrist, my eyes following the inky blue and black colors fading to a sickening shade of yellow at the edges. I wish waking up with bruises was uncommon, but lately it’s rarer for me to have unmarred flesh. The creamy shade of my skin is now always decorated with the evidence of my nighttime wanderings. Apparently, running into walls and doors and tables is par for the course when it comes to sleepwalking.
I adjust my computer bag on my shoulder as the elevator hums to a stop and the doors slide open. I step out, angling in the direction of the finance department and my corner office when my father’s voice booms through the hallway. He turns the corner, a jovial smile spreading across his face when his eyes lock on mine.
“Ellie!” He wraps me in a warm hug. “Have a good night? Sorry I kept your husband out past his bedtime again.”
“Morning, Dad.” I suck in a breath, the scent of his familiar cologne filling my nostrils and easing the tension from my muscles. He must sense that I’m having a bad morning becausehe holds me for an extra few beats, squeezing my shoulder when he finally pulls away and catches my gaze.
“Jack told me you’ve been struggling with the sleepwalking lately—are you taking the medication the doctor prescribed?”
“No, I don’t want to have to rely on Ambien just to sleep,” I confess.
“If that’s what it takes, honey—we can’t have you walking around like a zombie.” His eyes dart to my wrist, and he frowns as he takes in the bruise. “You know how I feel about this stuff, what with your mom and everything-. I worry—Jack and I are both worried.”
Then why doesn’t he come home at night?I think, but I remain silent.
“No need to worry, Dad, I’m fine,” I reassure him. If I were any other woman, I’d probably worry that my husband was having an affair, but I know Jack spends more time with my dad than with anyone else. They both find purpose in work—asking either of them to ease up would be like severing a limb, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. I can’t help but wonder if I chose Jack because he’s familiar—because he’s strong and protective, a cutthroat workaholic just like the man who raised me. But that’s neither here nor there, and despite the nightmares that dog me sometimes about walking in on Jack with other women, I know it isn’t true. I know it’s just my anxiety and overactive mind getting the best of me. I’m grateful for the opportunities my father has given both of us—the fact that he hired us right out of school with salaries above and beyond our experience level has allowed us to advance faster and afford a two-bedroom apartment with a view of the park.
“You still having the nightmares too?”
“Sometimes,” I say, in an attempt to downplay the frequencyof them.
“Maybe you should take some time off, El—maybe a week at a beach retreat somewhere would do you good. Some juicing, some yoga—whatever women do to find themselves or calm their nerves or what have you.” He delivers his words with a condescending smile. “You know these things run in the family, and this is just how it started with your mother.”
“I know, Dad. I’m fine, though. Work helps distract me.”
