“Wrob Barney doesn’t know my mother’s friends, man.”
“Well, um . . . he could’ve gotten it from the Web, I guess. Like, the news.”
“What, ’cause I’m so famous? Please. Former Film Critic Lois Cairns Falls Down in Assfuck Nowhere, Ontario, a.k.a. slowest news day ever.” I shook my head. “Roger Ebert was the last name-brand movie reviewer, Simon. And he’s dead.”
“How’d Mattheuis know, then?”
I shrugged. “Wrob told him, I assume. Or Chris Coulby.”
“Why would Chris—”
“Because Wrob paid him to? I already saw him out on the street today, following me around. Mom was there, she’ll tell you . . . tell you she saw me see him, anyhow . . .” I stopped, sighing. “Okay, maybe don’t ask her; probably thinks that was just me being crazy, actually. Considering she also thinks I should still be in hospital.”
Simon shot me a concerned look. “Lo, you really do look wiped—just go to bed, okay? Like we said. It’ll all look different tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I said. Not necessarily agreeing.
Sleep was blessedly dreamless. I woke gradually, already feeling “better” just for being home, if not in much less physical discomfort. I had no idea what time it was, but it felt late; the apartment was dark, blinds drawn, and I could feel Simon all pressed up against me in that permanent dip in the mattress’s centre, a sort of second bed, sheets tangled and hot as an oven. My arm was already under his neck, slightly numb from the weight; I used it as a pivot to hug him closer and kissed down his sweaty face, forehead, nose, lips. “Hey,” I whispered. “You awake?”
“Am now.”
“Forgot to ask whether or not they gave you shit at work, when the long weekend got longer.”
“No, I said you were sick, and they were fine with it. They’re good people.” A beat. “Plus, it’s not quarter-end yet, so there’s that—something goes wrong with the system, they can afford to let it set a day. Best thing for it, sometimes.”
“Switch it off, wait thirty seconds, switch it back on?”
“The time-honoured method.” He nestled back into me, kissed my cheek, deliberately shifted to let me free my arm after a few seconds, which I did, gratefully; I moved onto my back, made the mistake of stretching slightly, and groaned. At the sound, I felt Simon stiffen.
“Back?” he asked, without surprise.
“Uhhh, no. Shoulder.” I resisted the urge to shrug, adding: “Same as always.”
“That bad, huh?” He rolled up onto one elbow, facing me. “You need Robax?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. I mean, normally, yes, I would, but the doctor said that I should try to cut back. Stick to herbal stuff, Melatonin and—” I stopped. “Hear that?”
We both stopped, listening hard. At first there was nothing, and I found it difficult to even remember what had attracted my attention. But then it came again, that distant twang of mattress-springs shifting, a clump of toys falling, clattering across Clark’s floor. And a thin, bitter wail, followed by the sound of weeping.
Clark used to wake himself up all the time, crying inconsolably. I never understood why, though it often occurred to me how the only thing worse than a nightmare would be one you not only couldn’t distinguish from waking life, but also couldn’t communicate to others. What little language he’d gained from echolalia was a fairly recent thing, and like I’ve said before, trauma tended to wipe it away like window fog—gone in an instant, nothing left behind but smears and tears.
Simon and I looked at each other. “I’ll run the bath,” I said. He nodded.
So I went to do that, and a few minutes later Simon brought Clark in, hiccupping, his pants sodden, clinging miserably fast to his Daddy’s torso like a monkey. We put him in the tub and I ran the showerhead over his equally wet hair until it ran flat and clean while he moaned in protest. Meanwhile, Simon loaded almost everything on his bed into the washing machine, except the fold-up fire engine he slept inside. I didn’t even have my glasses on, so Clark’s face was just a blur with eyes, a pale tragedy mask; he sat there hunched up, bubbles to his chest, humid air ripe with lavender and ammonia.
“No fun, huh, bunny?” I asked.
“No fun,” he repeated, eyes still spilling.
“No, I know. You have a bad dream?” No answer; I waited then leaned closer, a bit less patiently. “Clark, listen—Mommy asked you a question. Bad dream yes, or bad dream no?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No bad dream. Good dream.”
“That seems . . . pretty freakin’ unlikely, man.” Again, no reply followed, so I sighed, sitting back. “Well, okay. You want to get out or stay in?”