Jan Burke - Sweet Dreams, Irene

He took my hand. We sat there like that for a while.

“I suppose I should tell you what happened,” I said.

“When you’re ready.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.” I looked over at him, trying to put myself in his place. Would he ever be ready to hear it?

Tentatively, I began telling him the story of my three days in the mountains. By the time I finished, he was sitting, head in hands. I knew he was upset, but still, when he spoke, the anger in his voice took me aback.

“Why the hell did you go out to that field that night?”

“I’ve asked myself that question many times, Frank.” I swallowed hard, feeling the regret rise within me like a river.

He got up and paced again, shoving his hands in his pockets, then restlessly taking them out again. “I just don’t understand it. You’re smart. But I swear to God, Irene, sometimes you do something so…” He faltered, having finally looked over at my face.

“Stupid,” I finished quietly.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It doesn’t do any good.”

“You’re right. O’Connor once said that some people would hold faster to their stupidity than to their lives, which was good, because it provided a way to get rid of idiots.”

“For Christsakes. That’s not what I was trying to say.”

I didn’t reply.

“It’s not your fault, Irene.” He stared down at his feet. “I should never have left you that night. I knew you were in danger, and I left you. I’m the idiot, and you’ve had to pay for it. If I had stayed with you-”

“That doesn’t do any good, either. Maybe if you had come with me they would have killed you.”

He was silent.

I thought of all the worry and self-recriminations my disappearance must have caused him, and at a time when he had plenty of other problems to contend with. I thought of how he had blamed himself for Mrs. Fremont’s death, for his father’s death. I had, quite obviously, put him through hell.

“Do you think,” I asked, my throat tightening, “that you could possibly come to forgive me?”

“Oh God, Irene. That’s crazy. Nothing to forgive. What happened is not your fault. None of it is your fault.”

I couldn’t speak. He came over to me then and said quietly, “Let me hold you.”

I laid my head on his shoulder. We sat like that for a long time.

“Want to try to go back to sleep?” he asked, seeing me grow drowsy.

I nodded. “Let me try to walk.”

It was slow going, and I was frustrated, but he simply said, “Be patient.”

“Frank?” I said, as we reached the bedroom.

“Hmm.”

“I haven’t seen myself yet.”

I saw his jaw tense, but he quietly walked over to the closet door. I knew there was a full-length mirror on the other side of that door.

“Wait,” I said, just as he started to open it. Deep breaths.

“You don’t have to do this now,” he said.

I shook my head. “Go ahead, I’m okay.”

He opened it and there I was. There someone was. I didn’t recognize it as me. Not entirely. My face was a mass of dark purple bruises, my right eye still swollen. My lips were puffy. There were cuts here and there. My hair was cut in clumps, some an inch long, some three inches long. Lots of lengths in between.

Frank moved up behind me, and gently encircled my waist. He looked over my left shoulder. “This isn’t how you look to me. And besides, this won’t last long. We’ve just got to let you heal.”

I’d like to report that I was a good little soldier, but the truth is, I burst into tears and started bawling like a baby. Frank rolled with it. He shut the closet door and took me back to bed, putting a pillow under my right hand to help keep it elevated.

“Sorry I’m such a pain in the ass,” I said, as he started undressing.

He moved over to me and sat down on the bed and said, “Don’t ever say that again. We’ll do whatever we have to do until you’re better.”

“I’m scared, Frank. Really scared.”

“I know you are. Anyone would be.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Do you want to sleep by yourself until – well, I’ll sleep in the guest room if you need some time.”

I realized that my despair was being misread. “No, Frank,” I said, taking his hand. “I want you to sleep by me every night until the day I die.”

“Is that a proposal?”

“A proposition, maybe. Lower those eyebrows. I’m not quite up to that yet – but soon. Come on, get in here.”

He finished undressing, turned out the light, and carefully crawled in next to me. Cody jumped up and settled between us. I was weary, but I was also afraid that if I went to sleep, the nightmares would return. Frank felt my tension and gently rubbed the back of my neck, taking care with the shoulder.

“Frank? Could you turn the light back on?”

He reached over and turned it on, watching me for a moment.

“Are you in pain? Can I get you something?”

I shook my head. “I’m just scared.”

“What would help?”

“I don’t know. Hold me.”

He did. Eventually, we fell asleep. I found out that even with the light on, the nightmares came back, so I let him turn it out.

JUST AS I FINISHED awkwardly eating a huge breakfast the next morning, friends and family started coming by: Pete, Rachel, John, Mark, Barbara, Lydia, and Guy. At first I felt uneasy and embarrassed over my swollen, bruised face, but Frank apparently had not only warned them about my injuries but told them not to ask me about my ordeal.

I was grateful. Even knowing that most of my visitors were professionally curious, I didn’t want to talk about it. I had had to go over all of it during a phone call from the sheriff, which was harrowing enough. While I managed to stay fairly calm and detached during that call, I found myself shaking afterward. I was unsure of my ability to keep my emotions in check; I would be fine one moment, irritable or on the verge of tears the next.

But my friends seemed to ignore both my bruises and my moods, providing both distraction and support. Frank never strayed far from my side. Normally, I would have rebelled against that kind of protectiveness on his part. But I was not inclined to make one of my typical declarations of independence: I only wanted to feel safe.

My sister even brought a little barbering kit with her and cut my hair, evening it out. She had to cut it quite short, but I felt much less freakish when she was finished.

I wore down easily. I sometimes fell asleep while people were talking to me. I inevitably woke up in a panic, struggling, sometimes screaming; the visitors would be long gone and Frank would be there, calming me down, trying to keep me from unhinging my shoulder. Sometime in the late afternoon, the doorbell stopped ringing, and he crawled in next to me for a much needed nap. Miraculously, I was able to sleep for a few hours without having a nightmare.

We were awakened when Jack called and offered to bring dinner over. We accepted, and when he arrived, I saw that he had apparently carefully thought out the menu: a savory stew with everything in bite-sized chunks. No one would have to cut up my food for me. “Here’s to Irene’s first full day back home,” Jack said, lifting a glass.

Throughout dinner he told us stories of his life on the road, which had included more than one stint as a cook. At one point, he glanced over at me and caught me touching my hair, regretting its loss.

“Make the most of it,” he said, rubbing his smooth pate.

“Of what?” I said bitterly. “At least you had a choice about shaving your head.”

“Irene-” Frank began, his voice full of protest, but he stopped, then looked over at Jack.