Barbara brushes my hair away from my face. A cord of snot trails from my nose along my cheek.
Apparently, I woke up talking in my sleep. “Hollering,” claims Barbara. “Loud enough to wake the whole neighbourhood.” Now I can barely speak. She suggests I make myself bacon and eggs at two in the afternoon—a proper breakfast. She suggests I draw an Avon Skin So Soft bubble bath. Songbird hops up on the bed to lick my ear, making little dog sympathy whimpering sounds. A second later, Songbird is growling feverishly at the stunt. Growling and turning in small doggie circles. Barbara picks her up.
“See! Something bad is going to happen to me. Even Songbird knows it.”
“What? Honey, you’re being dramatic. It’s a bad dream,” says Barbara, and, “You always had nightmares, ever since you were a little girl.”
“I can’t get any sleep in this bedroom.” I thrust the blankets away, then, realizing my night gown is see-through in the afternoon light, I yank them back up to my chin. “It’s not a nightmare.” Stop talking. Keep it in. Barbara is the last person to act hysterical around.
“I told you that graveyard shift would be too much. You better calm down and get a few more hours sleep before you have to go back to work again.”