Sweet Dreams, Irene

“I know you are. Anyone would be.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Do you want to sleep by yourself until — well, I’ll sleep in the guest room if you need some time.”

I realized that my despair was being misread. “No, Frank,” I said, taking his hand. “I want you to sleep by me every night until the day I die.”

“Is that a proposal?”

“A proposition, maybe. Lower those eyebrows. I’m not quite up to that yet — but soon. Come on, get in here.”

He finished undressing, turned out the light, and carefully crawled in next to me. Cody jumped up and settled between us. I was weary, but I was also afraid that if I went to sleep, the nightmares would return. Frank felt my tension and gently rubbed the back of my neck, taking care with the shoulder.

“Frank? Could you turn the light back on?”

He reached over and turned it on, watching me for a moment.

“Are you in pain? Can I get you something?”

I shook my head. “I’m just scared.”

“What would help?”

“I don’t know. Hold me.”

He did. Eventually, we fell asleep. I found out that even with the light on, the nightmares came back, so I let him turn it out.

JUST AS I FINISHED awkwardly eating a huge breakfast the next morning, friends and family started coming by: Pete, Rachel, John, Mark, Barbara, Lydia, and Guy. At first I felt uneasy and embarrassed over my swollen, bruised face, but Frank apparently had not only warned them about my injuries but told them not to ask me about my ordeal.

I was grateful. Even knowing that most of my visitors were professionally curious, I didn’t want to talk about it. I had had to go over all of it during a phone call from the sheriff, which was harrowing enough. While I managed to stay fairly calm and detached during that call, I found myself shaking afterward. I was unsure of my ability to keep my emotions in check; I would be fine one moment, irritable or on the verge of tears the next.

But my friends seemed to ignore both my bruises and my moods, providing both distraction and support. Frank never strayed far from my side. Normally, I would have rebelled against that kind of protectiveness on his part. But I was not inclined to make one of my typical declarations of independence: I only wanted to feel safe.

My sister even brought a little barbering kit with her and cut my hair, evening it out. She had to cut it quite short, but I felt much less freakish when she was finished.

I wore down easily. I sometimes fell asleep while people were talking to me. I inevitably woke up in a panic, struggling, sometimes screaming; the visitors would be long gone and Frank would be there, calming me down, trying to keep me from unhinging my shoulder. Sometime in the late afternoon, the doorbell stopped ringing, and he crawled in next to me for a much needed nap. Miraculously, I was able to sleep for a few hours without having a nightmare.

We were awakened when Jack called and offered to bring dinner over. We accepted, and when he arrived, I saw that he had apparently carefully thought out the menu: a savory stew with everything in bite-sized chunks. No one would have to cut up my food for me. “Here’s to Irene’s first full day back home,” Jack said, lifting a glass.

Throughout dinner he told us stories of his life on the road, which had included more than one stint as a cook. At one point, he glanced over at me and caught me touching my hair, regretting its loss.

“Make the most of it,” he said, rubbing his smooth pate.

“Of what?” I said bitterly. “At least you had a choice about shaving your head.”

“Irene—” Frank began, his voice full of protest, but he stopped, then looked over at Jack.

Jack just smiled. “Relax, Frank. I was going to tell her sooner or later anyway. Just wanted to give her a little more time, is all.”

“Tell me what?” I said, still irritated.

Frank looked uneasy, but Jack just grinned. “That I did have a choice,” he said, “but I gave up trying to have an elaborate hairdo after chemotherapy.”

30

“CHEMOTHERAPY?” Shock won out over chagrin, but chagrin was a very close second. “Made life simpler. I don’t even have to blow-dry this cut.”

I stayed silent.

“Leukemia, currently in remission,” he said with a bow, as if he had just finished singing a little song.

I stared for a moment, still not believing it. But as I looked at him, I gradually realized that I didn’t want to believe it. I had lost both of my parents to cancer. I liked Jack, and I didn’t want to hear that he had leukemia.

“I’d prefer,” he added quietly, “that you don’t let word of it get around. I told Frank and I’ve told you. But no one else.”

I agreed to keep his confidence, but I was still shaken.

“I’m sorry,” he said, watching me. “You don’t need bad news right now, do you?”

“I had it coming,” I said.

The subject was dropped for the moment. I stayed quiet, and allowed the two of them to distract me with their