CHAPTER SIX

I HAVE AN APP FOR THAT

Flying was heaven for the sleepiest people in the world: the hypersomniacs, the narcoleptics, and those of us plagued with what the medical community called excessive daytime sleepiness. Nothing more ironic than attaching the prefix hyper to sleepiness in my mind, but I was too tired to take on the medical terminology field.

When held in the clouds by a Delta Airlines jet, a person had no place to go and virtually nothing to do but sit, doze off, and not feel embarrassed or guilty about it. The airline provided Wi-Fi, but I didn’t let wireless get in my way of my sleeping skills.

I wouldn’t normally sleep for hours in the middle of the day, but I hadn’t been sleeping much at night. Getting Maddie ready for Colorado, answering questions about internships and babysitting, Katie’s hospitalization, googling empty nest . Advice ranged from what to do if you found a robin’s nest (leave it alone) to a page on Mayo Clinic’s website diagnosing a syndrome. Mayo said I should accept the timing of my child leaving, keep in touch, seek support, and stay positive. This seemed like good advice for, say, when your lawn guy moves to Arizona. Not for the syndrome where you lose your cellular equivalent, the person who fed off your breast for a year, the one person you could always call your own, my daughter. Even if it was to finish the sentence with “My daughter is annoyed by me.”

Maddie had insisted that she would drive to Colorado and had her bags packed for a summer in the mountains. I’d stuffed a quilted cooler with Diet Pepsi and baggies of carrots, jicama, sugar peas, crackers, pretzels, cheese, and Swedish Fish. Her expression had resembled, I supposed, a sailor about to shove off for uncharted waters, buried treasure, and cute boys. I’d hugged her too hard and kissed her hair too many times, and stood too long in the driveway after her car had rounded the corner out of sight. Then I’d taken to my bed and cried like a high school girl who didn’t get asked to prom.

I lay with my head resting against the hull of the plane even as the wheels bumped onto the runway. Someone peeled an orange, and the scent reminded me that I would soon be standing on California soil. I heard the woman in the middle seat to my left say, “She slept the entire flight.”

People were so judgmental about slumber, like sleepers had vexing needs that more motivated people did not. I almost opened my eyes and said, Sleep is the only thing we don’t let ourselves do, even though we love to do it. If I had any guts I’d add, The difference between my body and yours is that my body is well rested, and yours is sleep deprived. And if I was Holly, I’d say, Shut up .

I peered through my eyelashes at the woman in the seat next to me as she yanked a bag the size of a second grader out from under the seat. She’d been wrestling items from her carry-on like she was on a camping trip. Every time I woke to reposition, I’d watched her smooth various emollients over her face, neck, hands, and arms. She’d spritzed herself with mists, sipped from an elaborate water bottle with its own filtration system, and swallowed vitamins the size of Alka-Seltzer tablets, at least once with a white wine chaser. Now her focus was on me.

She had large, shiny lips that maybe she was born with, maybe not. Her thighs were the size of my calves, and, for perspective, my calves were proportional and within normal limits for my height and weight. This woman had a very extra-American look that seemed perfect for Movie Star California, but an odd showing in the economy class on Airbus A321. And, PS, there was no possible way her eyelashes were her own.

This woman said to whoever was listening, “Do you think she’s sick?” She bumped my elbow and sprayed something that smelled like hand sanitizer.

“Maybe she worked a night shift somewhere,” said another voice.

God bless her heroic display of empathy, I thought.

“Maybe,” said California Girl.

I wasn’t going to explain my hypersomnia to anyone this trip. I was going to remain quiet, invisible, justify nothing, and try to face Holly as equals.

We’d made plans to meet at the gate after I’d realized she’d booked herself in first class while placing me in economy. You’d think I’d be pissed by the slight, but I was so grateful to not be stuck next to her. It was a dick move, but I knew this was just the opening act; now that we had landed, the main event would start. My phone vibrated in my jacket pocket—no doubt Holly nudging me along.

I opened my eyes wide, and just like that I became visible.

“Wow,” the woman said to me. “You must have been tired. You slept the whole way.”

“I have the gift of sleep,” I said.

“I never sleep,” she said, and I believed her. She looked fat-free and wired. Like her internal motor burned on high all day long, leaving her skin looking like softly glazed, sculpted pottery. Her eyes were round with alertness or surgery. It was hard to tell.

Now that I was awake, it was time to take my medication. I fished inside my bag, a navy North Face backpack with a broken side zipper that had been Maddie’s in middle school. It had multiple storage pouches filled with snacks, travel documents, personal items, and writing materials. An old, free Clinique bag held medication, a small sewing kit, a Tide pen, a lint brush, and enough tissues to wipe up a nuclear spill.

Except, after quite a lot of searching, I couldn’t locate my sleep medication. I took 37.5 milligrams of Concerta extended-release formula to keep my sleep fog at bay during the day. I always carried the original amber pill bottle plus a backup smaller stash in case of emergencies. One by one, passengers moved to the center aisle while I frantically checked every single pouch, sack, bag, and purse, dumping each one into my lap. I found earplugs, hairpins, one hoop earring, and oddly a magnet, but no medication. I hoped I had slipped them into my luggage. Before panicking, mentioning it to Holly, or admitting my error, I would kneel on the floor in baggage claim and search for my amphetamines.

With a sinking feeling, I knew I wouldn’t find my meds. I knew because I could see them in my mind’s eye, right where I’d left them on the bathroom counter. I’d been counting out the pills needed for two weeks. I’d carefully placed each oblong red tablet into a small plastic box for my backpack; the larger bottle would go into my luggage. Katie had called, and I’d rushed to answer. I’d scribbled down Tom’s address in California along with his phone number. She had called five shelters, and one of them had a Great Pyrenees. They would not let her pay to hold him—who knows why. We’d talked about how she was feeling; then I’d zipped my luggage and gotten into the car to go to the airport.

The medicine that kept me from passing out sat waiting to be called into action in my bathroom many, many, many miles away. I rubbed my eyes.

“Still tired?” said the woman next to me. “That’s why I don’t nap. I can’t wake up even after just a short snooze.”

I resisted saying, Stop talking! Just because I’m sitting next to you doesn’t mean I want to hear your opinions on sleep. Instead, I raised my eyebrows hoping they communicated my disinterest.

“I always have an iced coffee before I get on the plane. Then I can work the whole four hours.” The woman delivered this tip over her shoulder as she lifted a mammoth carry-on from an overhead bin, her upper-body strength on impressive display.

I motioned for the man across the aisle to proceed. He gestured with irritation and said, “Go with your friend.”

I grabbed my pouches and backpack in a clumsy attempt to hurry while also allowing the California woman to move down the aisle, but instead she waited. “Maybe you need some vitamins. Do you eat carbs? Carbs make you sluggish. And milk. And wheat does too. I also firmly believe that humans are not meant to eat beans. Maybe you eat too many beans.”

Earlier this year I had seen a sweatshirt on Instagram with the words, I don’t give a crap about your diet, Debbie. I wanted that shirt right now. Then I could stay silent and yell at the same time.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll give up beans and see if I can stop napping on airplanes. Maybe then I’ll have time to learn Spanish instead.”

“I have a great app for that.”

She stroked the screen of her phone with a pink fingernail. I looked over her shoulder to see what the holdup was exiting the plane. I anticipated seeing Holly at the end of the gangplank, and this California woman was like a warm-up criticism band. Suddenly I experienced a full-body perspire.

“You can learn any language in three weeks.”

“Uh-huh.” I needed some quiet to figure out what to do. Yes, I could call the clinic for a new prescription. Yes, I could have them send it to a Walgreens or CVS near me, but it was a controlled substance, and I’d just had all my meds refilled. Additionally, my doctor had retired, and the new doctor had made it clear that there would be no more sleep meds until I came in for a checkup. Considering the high street-market profit for this medication, essentially what I called “good-girl uppers,” this new doctor did not cotton to the lackadaisical practices of the old doctor, who was burned out and too irreverent to pay attention to drug laws. In short, I hadn’t been for a checkup for this particular problem for ten years. My doctor had always re-upped my prescription when I called him.

Maybe my neighbor would mail them. But where would she send them? Our plan was to be on the road, sleeping in the camper, driving without stopping. I was basically screwed, and that would be fine if I was alone on this trip, but I wasn’t. I was with the intolerant Holly. The woman who never slept, didn’t medicate, and needed nothing artificial to shore her up in any way.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I found two texts on the screen. One from Holly. What’s taking you so long? And another text from Beautiful Drew. Are you there?

With a flash of irritation, I texted Holly that I was on my way. How could I possibly know why it was taking a long time for people to exit? And if she had wanted us to be synchronized and truly time efficient, why hadn’t she splurged for me to join her in first class?

My annoyance turned into anticipation as I texted Beautiful Drew. A safe man who I expected would fall in love with my best friend. Then I could write a memoir and call it The Vicarious Love Life of Samantha Arias . If Katie was with me, I would have made this joke and we’d have laughed, but I didn’t feel like laughing right now. I felt sad.

I slipped the backpack onto both of my shoulders as Maddie said I should. Apparently carrying it casually, with just one strap, was oh so very uncool.

ME: I’m here. Landed. In California. Experiencing minor irritations.

BDREW: How was your nap?

ME: You know me so well.

BDREW: Not yet.

Yet?

BDREW: Katie is in good spirits. Nothing to report.

ME: Anyone coming in to draw blood?

BDREW: Yes.

ME: THX

BDREW: NP

I knew NP was No problem from Maddie, and so I didn’t have to look foolish and reply, What? Or Nurse Practitioner? Needle Problem? Thank God for hanging out with a teen who kept me young. Just another thing I would miss when my daughter left the house for good. There it was . . . a dull thread of loneliness slid through me. I already felt her absence with so many miles between us.

I’d inhaled her scent, hugging her close before letting her go.

“Mom, are you sniffing me?” she’d said, without pulling away.

“You know I am.”

“I’m not leaving forever.” She’d squeezed and released me, knowing how hard this was going to be on me, but wanting the freedom for herself.

“I’m so excited for you,” I’d said, leaving off the next part of that sentence: My God, what will I do without you?

“I left you my shampoo in case you want to sniff me some more.”

I tried to say something funny, empowering, parental, but instead I signed, I Love You with my right hand.

“I’ll text you,” she’d said, like she hadn’t packed my heart in her suitcase and was going to be driving down the road with it.

Who would keep me from grocery shopping in my Birkenstocks and favorite soft sweater, the one with the unidentifiable stain on the sleeve and thread pulls from the neighbor’s snaggletoothed hound named Radar? Who would tell me what music to listen to so I didn’t use references from the nineties when joking with teen cashiers? Who would love me unconditionally? No one. That’s who. And if something happened to Katie, then negative one.

It was good to have this mission even as I walked off the plane, led by my new walking, talking California girl doll.

I texted Katie.

ME: We’re here all is well. Almost no cell service. Everything going as planned. Love you.

KATIE: Ok, talk to you when you get back. You have your hands full. Don’t worry about me. Love you for this.

Observing my texting conversation had not slowed my new friend’s zeal to make my life better. She had hacked my sleep issue, diagnosed it as diet related, and was set on Spanish being my second language. I wasn’t fully listening as she talked over her shoulder. But I couldn’t ignore her when she turned on her heel and proceeded to walk backward out of the plane and up the long aluminum hallway.

“I like to use a couple of different apps when I’m learning a language.”

Reading my nonverbal lack of enthusiasm, she paused for a minute, assessed me, and said, “You’re just visiting, aren’t you? Let me guess. You’re from Nebraska. No, Iowa.”

“Wisconsin,” I said, and she nodded like everything about me suddenly added up.

“Yes. I can see that now.”

If I’d felt rumpled before, this made me feel drab and in need of a full-life exfoliation. Not to kick myself when I was down, but becoming a young widow and a single mom had buffed out most of my shine over the years.

The woman stopped, and I walked right up to her extended leg and almost barreled into her collarbone. She clutched my shoulder, her fingers like well-manicured spider legs. “You should get a blowout and some cupping. I have a shaman you should see too.”

She might as well have said to me, “You should find a million dollars, eat haggis, and grow three feet.” I’d never had a blowout, cupping sounded like a bra fitting, and a shaman? Well, that was just insanity.

She saw my bewilderment, shoved her arm shoulder deep into her bag, and withdrew a card. Apparently, shamans had cards. The two of us were planted like boulders in the middle of a stream of people exiting the plane. The pint-size woman owned the space, and I had to hand it to her: she did not care that people were huffing and pissed that they were forced to dodge us. I glanced at the card.

“Marvin Shamansky? Marvin? The Shaman Shamansky?”

“Don’t judge a spiritual healer by his Marvin. He’s amazing.” At that she moved, and we joined the flow of passengers.

At the last steps up the ramp, I blinked in the bright light. I saw Holly. Tall, thin, looking as she always did, neat and pressed, while I felt frumpy and wrinkled. She spotted me, and I had to admit it was okay to see her standing there. I was about to say so when the woman said, “Is this your partner? That’s awesome. I’m so glad you two found each other after so much loss in your life.”

Holly had a complicated expression on her face. It was as if she wanted me to dispute this, but if I did, I’d offend her. Also, there was that offhanded comment about loss. I hadn’t said two words to this woman. What was she talking about?

“You’ve got to look Marvin up,” the walking doll said. “He’s out of town, but he’s worth it. He can talk to your husband or at least tell you what spirit you’re carrying around on your back. The one that keeps you so tired.”

Then she was gone. California Girl moved into the sea of people and was out of sight faster than I could process what had happened.

“She thinks we’re partners,” said Holly with a nasty smirk.

I couldn’t speak after having my dead husband mentioned by a complete stranger.

“You want to run after her and set her straight? Tell her that we aren’t a couple?” Holly’s tone mocked me.

I considered going after her, but only to ask how she knew about my loss. Was she referring to Jeff, and was he in a place a shaman could reach?