Miss, Do I Know You?

45 - Sunday, July 4

It was only under the silver watch of the moon in the night sky that I stirred back to awareness, peering into the inky blackness and back at the boy beside me. We were still nestled under the downy blankets, his head tucked softly against my torso. And though my arm had turned to stone beneath his body, I was the most content and peaceful.

Underneath the faint moonlight slipping through blinds I had not closed, I could just make out the lines of his face; his mouth was slightly parted, and his lashes fluttered ever so lightly with every breath. Afraid to disrupt, I stayed unmoving and with a heavy tug within my chest, not of sadness but of deep affection and the realization of just how empty space this boy would leave in my life if ever he left. Seized by this anxious thought and oblivious to the time that had slipped by, I carefully disentangled my arm from the kid and bid a silent goodbye to his slumbered thoughts with a soft kiss on the forehead. He didn't even move.

Wooden floorboards creaked beneath every footfall and echoed through the nocturnal quietness of the house as I moved toward Alex's room at the other end of the hallway. All I could think about was sharing what had happened that evening. I wanted to share half of my peace with her, that unfamiliar sense of consolation and thankfulness I felt. That lightness in my heart. But not wishing to disrupt her sleep at such an ungodly hour, I tried to tip-toe my way across as quietly as possible.

The door yielded easily to my tug and stirred the air with a draught that skipped out of the room and greeted me, carrying a crisp chill with it. But it was the figure on the windowsill that held my attention, curled inward with her head resting on folded knees. The window behind her was flung open, inviting the outside world to come in and flirt with the edges of her hair, outlined by the bit of light streaming in from the street.

"That doesn't look like a comfortable position to sleep in," I said, but my words were swallowed by silence that planted worry in me. And as I tentatively walked up, my ears caught a subdued sniffle. It made my heart clench. "Alex?"

She raised her head to lock eyes with mine but said nothing. The moonlight shimmered on her tear-stained cheeks, the droplets catching the light. I could see her sadness so plainly, and I could suddenly feel my own.

My arms brought her close without a second thought. "It's okay," I murmured into the crook of her neck. "What's wrong?"

"A nightmare."

"The same one?"

"I hadn't had it in so long," she said, her breath hitching. "And when I woke up alone in this stupid room, for a few seconds it felt so..."

A cry broke through, a sound so raw it muted everything else. "It's okay. I'm here now," I said, tightening my hold around her and leading us to the bed where her salty tears soaked through the fabric of my shirt. "I'm sorry. I fell asleep with Benji."

"I know. I saw."

My fingers sifted through her hair and tried to offer at least a distracting touch. "Want to talk about it? Just breathe and let it out, okay?"

"I can't get that noise out of my head. It's always that stupid sound, and it brings up so many memories. And that empty feeling."

"I know it must be hard," I said softly, drawing circles against her scalp, "but it's in the past. You're not there anymore, baby."

"But I remember all of it, and it's like reliving that night," she said with a shuddering breath. "My own son wouldn't even know me, and that guilt never goes away. Because how could I even think of leaving him behind? I hate being so hung up on it still. I hate it."

Hearing her say that stirred tears. We'd never talked about that night of her life again after she'd told me about it, and I knew she used to have nightmares, but I'd never known what about until they were gone. The mere notion of it suddenly put us in the same boat. I didn't want to believe she had once thought herself unworthy of breath, but unlike her, it wasn't guilt that cut me right down to the core. It was her pain that I felt as my own. There was no compartmentalizing it with logic, just heartwrenching empathy. I knew those insidious whispers of self-doubt and hopelessness that crept stealthily into the corners of the mind, but never to such an extent. I wanted to do more, but the only thing I could offer her was my presence and comforting words.