“Sunday, March sixth.”
“That’s a long time,” he had said, glancing down at the clipboard on his desk. “Three months.”
I nodded. One thing I was starting to notice about being awake all the time was the way in which seemingly little things grew bigger by the day. Noisier, harder to ignore. The ticking of the clock in the corner was deafening, like a long nail steadily tapping against glass. The dust in the air was unusually visible, little specks of lint floating slowly across my field of vision like someone had tampered with my settings, distorting everything into high-contrast slow motion. I could smell the remnants of Dr. Harris’s lunch, little particles of canned tuna wafting through his office and into my nostrils, fishy and brackish, making my esophagus squeeze.
“Did anything extraordinary happen that night?”
Extraordinary.
Until I had woken up the next morning, there hadn’t been anything extraordinary about it. It had been painfully ordinary, in fact. I remember changing into my favorite pair of pajamas, pushing my hair back with a headband, and scrubbing the makeup from my skin. And then I had put down Mason, of course. I had read him a story, rocking him to sleep the way I always did, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember which story it was. I remember standing in his bedroom, days later, after the yellow police tape had been snipped from the doorway, the silence of his nursery somehow making the room seem to expand to triple its actual size. I remember standing there, staring at his bookshelf—at Goodnight Moon and The Very Hungry Caterpillar and Where the Wild Things Are, desperately trying to remember which one it was. What my last words to my son had been.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t remember. That’s how ordinary it was.
“Our son,” Ben had interjected, placing his hand on my knee. I looked over at my husband, remembering that he was there. “He was taken that night from his bedroom. While we were sleeping.”
Dr. Harris had to have known, of course. The entire state of Georgia had known—the entire country, even. Then he had bowed his head the way most people seemed to do when they realized their mistake and didn’t know what else to say, his neck mimicking the snap of a shutting lid. Conversation closed.
“But Izzy has always had … problems,” Ben continued. Suddenly, I felt like I was in detention. “With sleep. Even before the insomnia. Kind of the opposite problem, actually.”
Dr. Harris had looked at me then, studying me, like I was some kind of riddle to be cracked.
“About fifty percent of sleep disorder cases are related to anxiety, depression, or some kind of psychosocial distress or disorder, so this makes sense, given what you’ve been through,” he had said, clicking his pen. “Insomnia is no exception.”
I remember looking out the window, the sun high in the sky. My eyelids were feeling heavier with every passing second; my brain, cloudier, as though I were enveloped in a blanket of fog. The pen was still clicking, amplified in my ears like a ticking time bomb ready to blow.
“We’ll run some tests,” he said at last. “Maybe get you on some medication. We’ll have you back to normal in no time.”
I’m reaching for Roscoe’s leash when I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and wince. It’s an automatic reaction, like jerking your fingers away from a hot stove. I should be gentler on myself, I know. I’ve been through a lot, but the lack of sleep has become so apparent on my face it’s hard not to notice. I look like I’ve aged years within months, with the new bags hanging heavy beneath my eyes, droopy and worn. The thin swathes of skin beneath my tear ducts have morphed from a warm olive to a deep, dark purple, like a marbling bruise, while the rest of my face has taken on a grayish tone, like chicken that’s been left in the fridge too long. I’ve lost twenty pounds in twelve months, which doesn’t seem like that much, but when you’re already tall and waifish, it shows. It shows in my cheeks, my neck. My hips—or, rather, my lack thereof. My hair, usually a deep, glossy brown, looks like it’s dying, too, the ends split clean in half like a splintered tree that’s been struck by lightning. The color growing duller by the day.
I force myself to turn around and fasten Roscoe’s leash to his collar before stepping back outside, the cool night air making the skin on my arms prickle. Then I lock the door behind us and take a right, setting out on our usual path.
Isle of Hope is a tiny little spit of land, barely two square miles. I’ve walked the entire thing hundreds of times, memorized the way the Skidaway River slithers across the east side like a water moccasin, shiny and slick. The way the oak trees have formed a giant archway over the Bluff, their limbs getting mangled together in time like the lacing together of arthritic fingers. But it is amazing how completely a place changes in the dark: Roads that you’ve lived on your entire adult life look different, like instead of stepping onto smooth pavement, you’re walking straight into the murky river itself. You start to notice light poles that you used to ignore, the dimming and subsequent brightening as you work your way between each one the only way to gauge distance or depth. Shadows become shapes; every tiny movement is eye-catching, like the dance of dry leaves on the ground or the legs of phantom children pushing an empty swing, chains squeaking in the breeze. Windows are dark, curtains drawn. I try to imagine the life inside each house as I pass—the gentle stirring of a child as they sleep, a nightlight casting otherworldly shapes against the wall. Spouses in bed together, skin-to-skin, bodies tangled tight between the sheets—or perhaps pushed as far apart as humanly possible, separated by an invisible cold line drawn down the center.