Between Sleep And Wake

Distractions and Coffee

She was now beginning to get too caught up in her own thoughts. And Emma certainly noticed.

Wendy did like to engage in conversation, as silence tended to be awkward, but now at dinner she spoke very little. The potatoes on her plate were only half eaten and cold; she could sense Emma's eyes on her.

All she could think about was him. And how she might have possibly seen him at the market. But had it really been him? If it was, why was he following her? Why was he here? After so many years? She had hoped he had died.

"Is something troubling you?" Emma asked, a tone of obvious concern in her voice.

Wendy breathed out, looking up. She pushed her fork into one of the potatoes. It did not look appetizing at all. It looked revolting and the smell of it was equally unappealing. Odd. She liked eating potatoes usually. It was one of her favourite foods. Clearly not tonight. She was like a fickle child -- hating a thing she liked the day before, for no true reason. "No. Why?"

"You look . . . distracted."

Glancing back down at her food, her mind attempted to grasp for a believable excuse before she spoke again. "I'm all right. I think I'm simply tired," she replied. That sounded believable enough to her.

"You do look tired," Emma said.

With a lift of her fork, she bit into a piece of the potato, chewing slowly and forcing herself to swallow. Her appetite had been weak this evening. And even with the small portion sliding down her throat, she could feel it wanting to crawl its way back up.

"I'm not all that hungry," she said.

"But you've barely eaten you food," Emma stated.

Wendy frowned. Was Emma her mother, exhibiting such worry for her small food consumption? "Well, I did just inform you that I'm not hungry." She couldn't make herself eat the roast beef or the rest of the potatoes. Her stomach couldn't endure it. She knew she wouldn't be able to keep it down for long.

"Are you certain nothing is troubling you?" Emma inquired.

"Yes," Wendy lied, raising her plate and extending it out. "Would you like it?"

Emma seemed to debate mentally whether or not to take the plate, and, thankfully, she ultimately did. "It would be a shame." She set the plate down in front of her and began eating what Wendy had abandoned.

Wendy wanted to go up to her bed, but it filled her with immense fear and trepidation. So, instead, she sat down again and remained seated, exchanging little words with Emma, who emptied the plate. Wendy then offered to wash the dishes while Emma cleared and tidied the kitchen table.

That night, Wendy, again, had trouble sleeping. She lay on her side, eyeing the window, knowing the moment slumber seized her, it would open again.

The few times she felt herself winding down, her entire body shuddered and snapped awake. As if even subconsciously, her body didn't want sleep. And it left her terribly sluggish the following morning.

But she couldn't sleep. She. Could. Not. Sleep was the enemy now. She didn't want to see that face again. Or those cruel eyes. Or hear that deranged laughter.

It became a repetition. A familiar routine. And along with it, her appetite remained limited. For every meal, she only ate a few bites and she could see Emma watching her every time. But unlike the first time, she didn't say anything.

All the better. Wendy couldn't keep fishing for false reasons explaining why she wasn't eating. Emma would normally just clear the plates for her without hesitation; as far as Wendy was concerned, that resolved the matter. It didn't need to be further discussed.

While coffee was not among the beverages in her normal diet, she began drinking it as a way of keeping herself alert. The caffeine certainly helped. And she would have at least five mugs of it a day. Although the more she drank, the more anxious she became. As if her bones wanted to jump right out of her skin and her heart palpitations were sometimes so strong that they pained her chest.

But she couldn't stop. If she stopped she would sleep and if she slept she would dream of him. She couldn't allow that to happen.

It did, at least, help her stay focused at work. She could type much faster and for a longer period of time without her fingers getting tired.

After about two weeks Emma finally asked one morning, "Have you been drinking my coffee?"

Wendy was already sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book, a cup of coffee in front of her. She glanced up when she heard Emma's voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't think it would upset you," she admitted. "But I'm sorry I didn't ask."

"It's all right. It's just rather odd."

"Why do you find it odd?"

"You don't seem fond of coffee," Emma said.

"I am fond of it now," Wendy pointed out. "I've developed a strong affinity for it. It's greatly improved my concentration level."

"And you've barely slept at all."

Wendy felt a sudden lump in her throat, her consternation growing rapidly.

"Did you assume I wouldn't notice?" Emma inquired with raised eyebrows. "It's unlike you."

"I think it's best that you fret over your own affairs and not let mine trouble you. I have never questioned your behaviour, have I?"

"No, but--"

"Then cease these meaningless interrogations!" Wendy snapped, impatiently interjecting.

Emma's demeanour remained calm but her words were cutting. "You are acting like a child. Perhaps you should return to your parents' home and allow them to teach you to be respectful. I do not have to tolerate it."

As she spoke, Wendy tried do recompose herself. She was tempted to retaliate but she knew it would only escalate the situation. She looked down guiltily. Emma had done nothing wrong; Wendy knew her attitude was out of line.

"I'm sorry," Wendy said. "I've been knackered by . . . my employment. The hours are debilitating. You are right. I've been acting like a child and I apologize. I hope you can forgive me."

The excuse made Emma's anger subside. "I do understand. The children I care for are extraordinarily petulant. Just awful. They weren't taught manners by their parents. The mother has spoiled them; they scream when I don't listen to them. Oh, it's a headache!"

"That sounds dreadful." Wendy hated lying, but it was better than her being seen as unhinged and as someone possibly suffering from delusions.

"But I think it would help to sleep," Emma said. "It does help me. I don't think about those terrible children when I'm sleeping... dreaming of nicer things."

"Yes," Wendy agreed. "That's precisely what is needed."