It didn’t help that my daughter’s bed was only a double, and that her favorite position was on her stomach, with one arm trailing off the bed and both legs slung diagonally across it. But my micro-allotment of mattress wasn’t the problem. As long as her skin touched mine—or her toenails scratched my ankles—I knew she was there. With me and safe.
Fear of aliens beaming her up? Check. Said fear causing insomnia? Not particularly.
And I wasn’t anxious about tomorrow, when Eileen and I would return to school and work, pretending that our hurricane story was as mundane as spending the night in a motel. After Adam had left, we’d had a chat about the pressure of a secret this huge, but we’d also agreed that no one would believe us anyway, so why even tell them? We had no proof, nothing tangible—hell, we hadn’t even seen a U.F.O.—so what could we possibly accomplish by talking? More importantly, what might we accidentally accomplish if we were indiscreet? We had nothing to gain, and—frighteningly—our memories, or even each other, to lose.
Fear of alien mind wipes? Check. Trust that Sal was looking out for us since we’d been able to have—and remember—that conversation . . . ? Double-check.
Except he hadn’t helped Adam. And it was my fault.
It had all happened so quickly . . . one second Sal was telling me that Cara needed his servants’ help, and the next he was telling me about how memories could be changed. I think I’d reacted like any mother . . . ? Focused on Eileen and me out of fear that we’d . . . ?
No. I should have asked him to protect Adam’s memories, too. I should have argued that he deserved to know. That it was his right. That he was a good man. That he could keep a secret . . . But I hadn’t even thought about it.
But surely Cara had? She’d chosen his new memories as a way for him to let her go . . . hadn’t she? Rather than leave him feeling the horror of being able to do absolutely nothing? And she was his wife, so she must’ve asked for what she thought would be the kindest memory . . . ?
Except it wasn’t. It left him feeling . . . less. Like he’d failed her. Too nice. The ultimate kiss of death in a relationship. Translation: You can’t really love me; because if you loved me, then you’d know me, and then you’d know I didn’t deserve for you to be this nice.
And why make him suffer with memories of her pregnancy? It was cruel. Was she cruel? I wouldn’t have thought so . . . My sigh rebounded off the blackness and rushed back against my face.
I stiffened—truly petrified—lungs and muscles constricted and eyes stretched open so wide they ached. Was it always this dark in here? Where was the door? The outline of the windows? I felt my daughter next to me and the mattress under us, but for all I knew we could be trapped in the maw of an alien ship. Would I know if we’d been . . . transported? Oh, God.
Get a grip, Lila. You’re not afraid of the dark.
Luckily my lungs agreed, and I sucked in a breath; exhaling quickly and pulling in one after another until the rest of my muscles unlocked. Still hesitant, I stretched my left arm over the edge of the bed until my fingers found the lip of the window sill. It was cool and slick with glossy paint except . . . right . . . there. A notch from where I’d bumped it moving the dresser on Sunday.
I held in a nervous laugh and a single tear slipped into my hair as I looked up to where the bedroom ceiling must be—even though I felt as if something else was closer. This was the real reason why I couldn’t sleep. The problem was my eyes—not all the thoughts behind them. I’d been lying here in the dark for who knows how long, and yet I hadn’t seen a single angel. Without them, and especially when my regular vision was limited, my dominant sense was touch. Except, unlike . . . oh, say, normal people, I could feel the touch of energies. Only faintly, whenever my eyes were giving me most of my information; but when they weren’t . . .
I rolled towards Eileen and felt for her back, resting my palm lightly on the warm sheet twisted around her. Her breathing was peaceful and even. Drawing my hand away, I could still feel a slight static discharge, a prickly viscosity to the air closest to her; but that was okay. Everyone had that. My dad had even made up a game we’d play when my mother needed quiet.
We’d sit across from each other at that old pine table we’d had in the kitchen. The ladderback chairs were too high for me, and my legs would bob and swing—I was always full of restless energy in those days—but he knew how to get me to sit still. He’d tell me to close my eyes while he put one of his hands on the table—Sit up straight now. No peeking!—and I’d stretch my arms out, sweeping slowly, side-to-side in the air, stopping where I’d guess his hand to be. But it wasn’t guessing, so he only gave me three tries, three sweeps, to feel my way to the thicker, tingling air above his hand. Usually, I found him with the first try, but we’d always play again and again until I got bored. His crinkle-eyed smile was always waiting when I opened my eyes.
I’d forgotten all about that game until just now, but I felt better thinking about my dad. He’d had a grin like Adam’s, one that made you want to smile back. In fact, watching Eileen with Adam was probably how I’d been with my dad. Or would’ve been, if I’d still had him at thirteen.
Enough. The point was, this . . . presence . . . above the bed was merely some type
