thirty-five

A shadow shifted along Nathan’s bedroom wall. It slithered just within taunting range at the edge of Nathan’s peripheral vision. His lungs heaved on a silent gasp, and the space around him resolved into grey light seeping in around the edges of closed curtains. Something hung from the curtain rod. A coat. He didn’t own a proper wool coat. Then he remembered. Zoe had bought it for him. On sale, she’d said.

He sank back onto his mattress. His hand throbbed. Blood dotted his bandage. He tried making a fist, but his fingers refused to close all the way.

A shush of breath froze him. A shift, a glint in the half light.

“Dad?” Zoe said.

“Jesus, what are you about?” he said with his voice higher, more tremulous, than he’d have liked. He pulled the blankets around himself.

“I wasn’t sure whether to wake you or not. They say you’re not supposed to.” Zoe sat on a chair in the corner of the room. “You’ve slept the afternoon away. It’s gone five already.”

Earlier he’d decided to lie down for a while. She must have pulled the curtains shut. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been monitoring him while he slept. Or a dream figment had been watching him. He glanced at the coat that hung on the curtain rod.

It was all in his mind. He hoped it was. He wasn’t sure anymore.

“I was asleep?”

“What else? If you can call that sleep.” She rolled her eyes and made as if to pat his head. Something glinted again. A knife. Nathan jumped out of bed and stumbled as a wave of pain shot up his leg.

“Stay back,” he said.

Zoe retreated from the bed. She held up a paring knife. “I didn’t mean to spook you. Dinner is almost ready, that’s all.”

Nathan limped to the opposite side of the room from his daughter. He couldn’t think straight when she was nearby. She hugged him, hung on his arm, patted him. Always touching him. Her touch made him want to shed his skin.

His voice shook as he said, “Remove that thing.”

Her expression wilted, but he’d worry about her hurt feelings later. She knew the rules. No sharp objects in his bedroom, not even cuticle clippers. He’d have thought this was obvious.

Zoe tossed the knife into the hallway. It skidded on the floorboards and bumped up against the wall.

“You can’t come in when I’m sleeping,” he said. “You know that, too.”

“You’re being ridiculous. I’m not some silly girl testing boundaries anymore.”

This was exactly what she did. All the time, with a new coat, with everything. Nathan unslung the coat from the curtain rod and slipped it over his arm. This was the last place he wanted it hanging, lurking over him like a headless fiend.

“Chicken Florentine for dinner,” Zoe said as she closed the door. “Ten minutes.”

Nathan limped back to his bed and fell onto it. He dragged the coat over himself. Zoe had good taste; the coat warmed him up. His big toe throbbed and after a few minutes he sat up to examine the swelling. Pain shot up his foot when he tried to bend the toe using his fingers.

He surveyed the room in search of a sign that he’d kicked the wall while fighting shadows in his sleep. He didn’t see anything amiss and sank back onto the bed. The trouble with reality was that it felt too dreamlike, while his dreams seemed too real. And the past hovered somewhere in between.