Torn from my dreams, I lunged forward in bed. My pulse pounded in my ears. The scream of my child always sent my heart racing, even if I knew he wasn't actually in danger.
It was just another nightmare.
Even so, I would get up and check on him. Everyone told me that I should just let him be, that I was teaching him bad habits. They told me that he needed to learn to comfort himself. But I just couldn't do that to him. Hearing his terrified cries broke my heart.
If my son called for me, I had to go to him.
Jacob called out for me again, but this time, it came as more of a whimper.
"I'm coming, Jacob!" I called weakly. I shuddered as I threw the covers off. The room was cold, and I was sure the floor was worse. I blindly shoved my feet into my slippers.
Next to me, Harold stirred. He turned over in bed, and his eyelids fluttered like he was about to wake up. But then his eyes slid shut again, and he sank back into the pillow. As he slipped back into sleep, he muttered something I couldn't make out.
I didn't understand how my husband could sleep through Jacob's screams. Maybe it was because he remained confident in his theory that this was only a phase. Harold assured me that once Jacob got familiar with his new room, the nightmares would stop.
Maybe so. I certainly wished it was true. But I couldn't just let him suffer through it alone. If this was just a phase, then there was no harm in going to him until it ended.
I dragged one of the blankets off the bed to shield myself from the cold. Harold wouldn't miss the one. We kept several on the bed to keep out the new house's pervading chill. The place was old and drafty, but that was all we could afford. Bundling up, I ventured from our bedroom and into the hall, heading for Jacob's room.
I found the small bedroom illuminated by the night light we had purchased for him. It was shaped like a little astronaut puffing his chest out, looking brave. When we bought it, Jacob was convinced that it would inspire him to be brave, too.
It hadn't worked.
Jacob was hidden under his covers, a small mound under a pile of quilts.
I tapped on the door to let him know I was there and that it was safe to come out.
"Mom?" His voice was muffled beneath the blankets.
"Uh-huh," I said, trying to make my voice soothing instead of weary. "Did you have another nightmare?"
Jacob poked his little head out. His hair was sticking out in every direction, but I couldn't find it funny. His face was taut with fear.
"It was the girl in the shadows!" he wailed. "In the closet!"
I only nodded. Yes, it was the same nightmare again. The 'girl in the shadows' had been a fixture in his bad dreams for the past month. I suspected he had somehow caught a glimpse of some horror movie on TV and pulled the horrible image into his imagination. They were so impressionable at this age.
"It was a dream, Jacob. Just a dream."
He didn't seem to find comfort in that, though he never did, no matter how many times I told him. He reached for me, and I went to him, sitting on the edge of his bed.
I noticed a sheen of sweat across his brow, and I touched his face to check for a fever. But his temperature was normal. In fact, if anything, he felt cold. The whole house was always drafty, but Jacob's room was definitely the worst. We would have to check the insulation once we had the money to make repairs.
"Don't go," he pleaded. His eyes were brimming with tears.
I knew that fighting it was futile, but I tried anyway. "Jacob, you can sleep on your own. It was just a dream, you know that. You're a big boy now. You can be brave."
"No!" he cried as the tears slid down his cheeks. "Please stay!"
I couldn't say no to him, not when he looked so desperate.
"Ok," I conceded. "I'll stay."
In an instant, Jacob's round little face lit up. He shimmied over to the far edge of his twin bed to make room for me.
This was what made me doubt his claims of terror: his mood would change as soon as I agreed to stay. But I still slid in next to him, beneath the covers, and added my own blanket on top.
He curled into me immediately, his head nestling beneath my jaw.
"Goodnight!" he chirped.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight!" he said again.
I repressed a sigh.
He wanted to play the Goodnight Game.
"Goodnight," I repeated, too tired to object.
I had played this game with my son ever since he was first able to say the words. It was an easy way to avoid arguments about 'one more story' and claims of not being tired. The game is dead simple in the way all good childhood games are.
The goal is to be the last person to say 'goodnight' before you fall asleep.
"Goodnight," he said again.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight," he said, but this time, I heard the first hint of sleepiness slip into his voice.
As one can imagine, I usually win The Goodnight Game.
"Goodnight," I echoed.
He tried to fight a yawn, to little success. "Goodnight..."
"Goodnight."
"Good... night..." His little voice trailed away.
I sighed. "Goodnight, Jacob."
I leaned over to kiss his cold forehead, then fell back to try and settle into the small twin bed.
Jacob tried to respond one last time but only managed an incomprehensible mumble, already too far gone into what I hoped was a peaceful dream.
The winner once again, I smiled as I let myself begin to drift away too.
As I slipped into slumber, a sound registered on the edges of my mind. Maybe it was the beginning of a dream because it sounded like a voice. Perhaps it was Jacob, dragging himself out of sleep to finally beat me at The Goodnight Game...
A cold draft caressed my cheek.
"Goodnight."
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