I lay in my bed unable to get comfortable. Anxiety is winning this war inside me. I wish I could say this insomnia had to do with my car, but it doesn’t.
Sleep has never been easy for me.
Even as a child, I lay in bed staring at my ceiling wishing the sleep to come. Some nights I would count the popcorn bubbles above me and still not find a dreamland. I don’t know how many mattresses, pillows, bedding, and more my parents bought to try to help me sleep. Nothing works. I’ve learned to cope.
Being older I understand myself better.
The lump in my throat. The tension in my belly. The overwhelming dread that nothing is wrong but nothing is right consumes me.
It’s irrational for me to have this worry, this stress.
Yet, here I am at two in the morning unable to get comfortable and sleep.
I toss the comforter back thinking I’m hot.
The cool air hits my skin … now I’m cold.
I lay on my side.
I fluff my pillow. I flip the pillow.
Still, I’m not comfortable.
Flipping to my stomach, I turn my head to the right, then the left. Nothing feels right.
The same battle I have regularly plagues me. I tell myself over and over it’s just anxiety. There is no real fear of going to sleep. I’m safe. My family is safe. I need sleep. It’s part of life.
It’s natural to sleep. The circadian rhythm of my body is all out of whack. I have tried everything to no avail and tonight it feels even worse to not be able to relax.
On my back, I force my eyes to stay shut, and still, the tension in my body won’t leave. Struggling to find slumber, I get up and head to the kitchen. If I can’t sleep on my own, it’s time to take something. I have class this morning, so I need to get some kind of rest.
As I enter the space I’m surprised to find my mother awake. My mom sits at the island staring at the wall. This is unusual and has me curious as to why she isn’t in bed.
She’s always put together, even as she sits in her pajamas at the counter. Her hair pulled back in a neat bun, and I can still see the glow of her skin reflecting off the soft light over the oven. Her makeup is on and flawless as usual.
I begin to think back, and I can’t remember a time I have ever seen my mother without makeup. I’ve never thought about it before, but really she’s never not put together. Maybe it’s that deep south persona or simply who she is. I once read Dolly Parton goes to bed in full makeup only to wake up in the morning wash her face and doll up all over again. Maybe that’s what my mother does. I don’t know, but the more I ponder it, the more I realize my mom is always this picture perfect woman. I’ve never seen her frazzled or frustrated. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t laugh loudly. Adrianne Reigns is pretty much exactly like this all the time, sitting still without a hair out of place.
Interesting.
Studying the woman in front of me, I don’t know why, but I begin to wonder thoughts I have often wondered through the years. Again, I let the irrational side of me win.
My mother’s hair is so blonde it’s almost white. I know she gets it dyed, but I find myself curious as to what she would look like if she had my hair. My father’s hair, when he had it, was brown, but I have deep black hair that is dry, brittle, and curly. My mother’s hair is nothing like mine. Nor is her complexion. Where I am naturally tan, my mother is pale. What would she look like if she had more of my features? I study her and think back to all the pictures. I mean, I guess I have her nose if I really look hard for it, and we both have a round face. Then again, maybe she had a nose job or some sort of other plastic surgery. I’ve never asked her, but since we don’t really look alike, I assume she has. I guess I’m one of those people where certain traits skipped over me or something.
Sleep deprivation.
It must be getting to me.
This is ridiculous to even pick apart. My mom is my mom and what we look like doesn’t change a damn thing.
I move into the kitchen, instead of remaining in place watching my mother like a creeper. Maybe she needs to talk or maybe she will have some wisdom to help me sleep. Either way we are both wide awake in the middle of the night together, might as well be together. She turns to me, and her face softens.
“Diem, precious, why are you up?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Came down for a melatonin. Can’t sleep tonight.”
She smiles just enough to show her white teeth. “Do you want me to tuck you in?”
I laugh. “Mom, I’m not ten, and I didn’t have a bad dream.”
She gives a soft sigh before sipping the cup of coffee in front of her. “Those were the days,” she trails off pleasantly.
“Mom, you’re not supposed to miss your daughter having nightmares.”
“No, not that. The cuddles. The times you would call out because you would hear a noise. I’d come running to your room.”
It’s my turn to smile. “You would sit on the side of the bed and run your fingers through my hair, telling me to sleep because you’d never let anything happen to me.”
She doesn’t reply, but I can tell she’s getting emotional. The thing is even though she’s always put together, in her eyes when I watch her closely, I can see she does feel. She is somehow a master at keeping herself together.
My parents aren’t the overly sweet kind of people. While I live a good life, a life of privilege, I don’t really remember my parents spending a whole bunch of time together. It’s kind of like my mom does her thing and my dad does his, occasionally we are all together, but it’s not a regular occurrence.
Deciding not to dwell, I move to the cabinet by the fridge and retrieve the sleep aid I originally came for. After all, the clock is still ticking by, and the new day is coming upon me quickly. With a kiss to my mother’s cheek, I wish her a goodnight and head back to bed.
The older I get, the more I wonder how I ever came to be. Emmalee’s parents are always together in the house. They take vacations just the two of them leaving Emmalee to stay with us. They constantly openly discuss needing to reconnect.
My parents are more like roommates. Not that I have been shortchanged in any way, because I haven’t. My mother takes me shopping, talks to me throughout the day. I know there is nothing I can’t share with her.
My father may be a businessman by day, but when he comes home and we spend time together, he gives into the normal things like watching television, playing a board game, or whatever else we decide to do together. He doesn’t get much time off, but when he does, he always makes it count with me.
I just never see the two of them do things together. I don’t even remember a vacation we’ve taken as a family together.
As I lay in bed, I can’t shake the sadness I feel, and I can’t explain it. My mother felt off tonight, but maybe she’s lonely. Deciding to take her for a spa day tomorrow, I finally think I can sleep as the medication kicks in.
In time, my breathing evens out, and I’m taken somewhere else in my dreams.
At first, I’m in a large bed with red sheets. A thick arm draped around my waist holds me to a rock-hard body. “Damn, spitfire,” he whispers, and my body is alive. It’s him, Kick is with me.
Before I can turn over to kiss the biker in my bed, there is a sound from another room. My mind goes to a different place.
A different time altogether comes through in my dream.
I’m in a small twin-size bed. The room is filled with bright colors and teddy bears. “Momma!” I cry out.
It’s hard to breathe. The room, the walls, they’re closing in. I hear a noise. Someone’s coming.
“Momma!” I scream.
My mother comes in, not the mother I know in my life, but this is like my dream mother. She’s a beautiful woman with dark hair and skin. The whites of her eyes are all I can see as she comes to the bed.
“Momma, I heard something,” I whisper into the night.
She brushes my hair back from my forehead. “Sleep, my baby girl. I promise I’ll never let anything happen to you.”
Immediately, I jolt awake crying out for my mom. Every breath I take is heavy like someone is sitting on my chest. My skin is clammy and my heartbeat is racing. Looking around, I expect to see my mom.
Only, she doesn’t come.
I sit up in bed and listen for noises. There are none.
Who was the woman in my dream? She wasn’t my mom, the woman who has tucked me into bed for my whole life. Why am I so wound up?
“Momma, I heard something,” I whisper into the night.
There is no reply. There is no one to tell me they will watch over me until I can rest. No, I only have myself in the darkness of the night.
Eventually, I fall back asleep, but I don’t find real rest. Instead, my mind and my body seem to be on edge. Only, I don’t know why.
Morning comes, and as the daylight peeks through my window, I want nothing more than to remain in bed.
Except, I have an obligation to go to class. Eventually, I’m going to have to get a degree in something. Eventually, my dad is going to make me figure out what I want in life.
Eventually is not today.
Today is go to class because that’s what is expected of me.
Getting out of bed, I dress and find it strange my father is home when I get down to the kitchen. He’s always in the office by now. This is highly unusual.
“Morning, Diem,” he greets.
“Hi Dad,” I return as I make my way to the espresso machine. Thank goodness my mother had to have this. She loves her morning cup of coffee. I’ve learned I like specialty coffee much better than the plain, black mud my dad drinks.
“Take the Benz today, Diem.” He slides a set of keys across the island to me. “Pick Emmalee up.”
This has me wanting to check his temperature. He must have a fever. He’s delirious. My dad never lets anyone drive his Mercedes.
Ever.
There are less than two thousand of this particular model in production. My dad had his name on a waiting list for two years to get the Benz, and now he wants me to drive it. “Is everything okay, Dad?”
“Yeah, just want you to be alert, Diem. Don’t stick to usual patterns. In fact, you and Emmalee need to drive different cars every day for a while.”
I raise my eyebrow in question. “You’re scaring me.” First, someone messes up my car, and now, my dad is telling me to be alert. What is he not telling me?
He looks around, and then his eyes land on mine. “Diem, I don’t know how to say this.”
“Dad, I’m an adult, just tell me what the hell is going on. First, mom is acting weird, and now, you are being all cryptic. I don’t know who keyed my car or painted on it. I’m not a whore, though!”
My dad’s face darkens. “Diem, honey, that wasn’t for you. I didn’t want to tell you, but I don’t see any other way.” He pauses like he’s struggling to find the words to tell me whatever is on his mind.
I feel my pulse quicken as my mind races. “Again, I’m an adult. There is nothing you can say that I can’t handle. Is it money? Is it a jealous business person? Is it a disgruntled employee? Did you fire someone, and they are mad?” The questions tumble out of my mouth as my mind conjures all the troubles that could be plaguing our family.
“Diem, your mother is having an affair. The people who did that to your car did it as a message to our family.”
I was absolutely wrong. There is something I can’t handle. I can’t catch my breath. I feel like I have been kicked in my teeth.
This.
I can’t believe the words he’s speaking. This can’t be true. It has to be a lie.
My mother cheated! I just don’t see it. Even if they aren’t overly affectionate, she wouldn’t cheat. Would she?
“Dad, are you sure about this? Maybe it’s a misunderstanding. Maybe it’s a set up. I’ve watched those shows, ya know. People are crazy.”
He gives me a sad smile. Before he can reply or share anything more, his phone rings. This is typical. He’s always getting calls and working. Maybe that’s why she had the affair. I hate to think it could be true, but my parents are an unusual couple.
“I have to take this, but Diem, be alert.”
An uneasiness washes over me. Why would someone want to hurt me because of something my mother did? I’m more confused now than I was. He moves over to me, gives me a soft kiss on the cheek, and heads off in the direction of his home office while answering the call.
Unsure of what to think, I pick up my own phone and call my mom. It’s Tuesday so she’s at her sunrise Pilates class. I need answers. Who is she sleeping with? Does this mean they are getting a divorce? Why did they pick my car? Why Emmalee’s?
Oh no! Don’t tell me she’s cheating with Emmalee’s dad. That would be world shattering for both of us. The more the seconds pass on, the less I understand about anything around me.
My mind runs wild with so many scenarios as the phone rings and rings.
She doesn’t answer.
Sometimes she doesn’t answer when she’s doing her exercises so I’ll just catch up with her later. There has to be a simple explanation. Yes, this is a misunderstanding. They all have it wrong.
My mom wouldn’t cheat. And even if she did, no one would be angry enough to come after our family.
Knowing I have to get to class, I send Emmalee a quick text that I’ll be picking her up in my dad’s car, and I head out. I’ll talk to my mom later. This is all going to get sorted, and it’s a misunderstanding, I keep telling myself over and over. Otherwise, what does this mean for my parents’ future?
Swallowing it all down, I focus on school. The world doesn’t stop turning just because I’m having a bad day.