The sound of the bed frame hitting the wall makes me jolt awake as my body sways side to side with violent force.
“Stop it,please…”Zander.
He must be having a nightmare. His voice had penetrated my alcohol infused dreams. Throwing the covers from my body, I roll out of bed and make my way up the ladder.
“Zander…” I place my hand gently on his arm and give a small shake. I don’t know what to do. I think I remember reading somewhere not to wake someone in this state, but how can I leave him?
“Dad…”Oh fuck no.I don’t care if he thrashes, hits, kicks– I will not leave him alone with that man, dream or not.
“Zander!” I urge, louder this time. Making my way up the bed, I settle on my knees beside his head. “Zander, I’m here. Just listen to my voice.” His dark hair clings to his forehead as sweat trickles down the side of his face, weaving through his stubble like a maze. “It’s just a dream, you’re okay.” I shuffle to sit closer and wipe the beads of moisture from his temple with the hem of my shirt. The contact causes him to flinch, his brows drawing together and mouth twisting in pain– his tortured mind mistaking my gentle stroke for a strike. His unconscious reaction makes my stomach flip and my chest ache.It’s my turn to keep you safe.
“Jules, what’s going on?” Mom's voice comes fromthe doorway.
“He’s having a nightmare, and I can’t wake him up,” I barely manage to get the words out past the emotions flooding my voice. Placing my hands under Zander’s head, I move slowly, sitting myself behind him, resting his head back down on my lap. He doesn’t wake, not fully. The muscles in his neck strain and bulge with the intensity of his torment, as he whines and whimpers like a child. My heart is breaking piece by piece with every noise he makes. Every time his fists tighten in the sheets, my teeth clench harder. Each tear that rolls down the side of his face brings my own closer to the surface. I ignore my own grief and reach my hand to his hair, teasing the strands between my fingers and lightly scraping my nails along his scalp. I absent mindedly trace the shape of his head and the back of his neck, whispering over and over–
“I’m here.”
“You’re safe.”
“Come back to me.”
I wish that was all it took to pull him out of it; just a few reassuring words and good intentions, but that's the kind of thing reserved for movies. Instead, I hold him for what feels like hours, weighing up the cost of my silence versus the cost of his sanity. The skin on my fingertips feels raw, and my shoulder aches from the motion of comforting him, but I continue anyway. His body has given up some of the rigidity since I placed him in my lap, and his pained words are coming few and far between now. My eyes burn as I fight to stay awake, but every so often, for a few short seconds, I let it win. It's short-lived,though; Zander's random fits of movement end up startling me awake, and I start the process all over again–
“I'm still here.”
“You're safe.”
“I’ve got you.”
Mom fell asleep in the recliner chair, a blanket draped over her bony, fragile shoulders. Once the intensity of Zander’s thrashing and shouting had eased, her body gave into the exhaustion she seemed to fight most days as she let it pull her under. She looks so small and weak, not just tonight but all of the time. The doctors know nothing,weknow nothing. It's just an endless loop of appointments and blood tests, scans and physiotherapy– none of which is working against whatever is ravaging her body. Just the act of getting out of bed and going downstairs calls for rest breaks, the kind where she has to take a pause and sit down before her legs make the choice for her. She seems to have almost accepted that this is what it is now, but not me. I'm the one making sure she calls the doctors, chases results, and makes it to her next appointment. The weight of the responsibility is heavy, but the loss would be unbearable.
The sun has started to rise. The light stretching across the ceiling is a visual victory confirming that we made it. I carefully slide myself out from under Zander’s head, placing a pillow there in my absence, and climb down the ladder. He doesn’t resist, he doesn’t even stir.
Reaching the kitchen, I turn on the cold tap and stick my head underneath. I swallow gulp after gulp of water, my thirst so insatiable I think I’ll drown before my mouth feels evenremotely moist. A shuffling noise coming from behind prompts me to turn off the tap. I press the tea towel into my face and instantly feel more awake. The alcohol from last night still lingers; my movements lag three seconds behind my thoughts, and my stomach churns and bubbles in protest.
“Morning, honey,” Mom grips the doorframe with both hands, propping herself up as her knees buckle beneath her. I’m by her side quicker than I thought possible, looping my arm around her waist and sitting her at the table.
“I’ll call the doctors and chase up your latest bloods today, they’ve got to find something this time. If not, then I’ll take you up to the hospital, they can’t just leave you like this–”
“Jules…”
“I’ll tell them that we’re not leaving without answers this time. Look at you, last week you could make it downstairs in one go, but now…” I busy myself making her morning coffee just how she likes it–
Two generous spoons of coffee mate,never milk.
Two level spoons of sugar
One level spoon of coffee, three taps to remove the excess.
“Jules, let’s have a talk,” she suggests. But I’m too tired to listen to her give the doctors the benefit of the doubt today. She always excuses their incompetence with her unusually misplaced kindness–
“There are other people who need their time more than me.”
“They’re human too, Jules. Let’s give them another chance.”
“They’re trying their best, let’s not push them.”
Not today. I won’t stand by and watch both pieces of my heart suffer.
