Stephen King - Insomnia

“Ralph!” Bill called down. “Thank God! Carolyn’s having… well, I guess it’s some sort of seizure. I just dialed 911, asked them to send an ambulance.”

Ralph discovered he could run up the rest of the stairs, after all.

She was lying half in and half out of the kitchen with her hair in her face. Ralph thought there was something particularly horrible about that; it looked sloppy, and if there was one thing Carolyn refused to be, it was sloppy. He knelt beside her and brushed the hair away from her eyes and forehead. The skin beneath his fingers felt as chilly as his feet inside his soaked sneakers.

I wanted to put her on the couch, but she’s too heavy for me,” Bill said nervously. He had taken off his Panama and was fiddling nervously with the band. “My back, you know-”

“I know, Bill, it’s okay,” Ralph said. He slid his arms under Carolyn and picked her up.

She did not feel heavy to him at all, but light-almost as light as a milkweed pod which is ready to burst open and disgorge its filaments into the wind. “Thank God you were here.”

“I almost wasn’t,” Bill replied, following Ralph into the living room and still fiddling with his hat. He made Ralph think of old Dorrance Marstellar with his book of poems. I wouldn’t touch him anymore, if I were you, old Dorrance had said. I can’t see your hands.

“I was on my way out when I heard a hell of a thud… it must have been her falling…” Bill looked around the storm-darkened living room, his face somehow distraught and avid at the same time, his eyes seeming to search for something that wasn’t there. Then they brightened. “The door!” he said. “I’ll bet it’s still open! It’ll be raining in! I’ll be right back, Ralph,” He hurried out. Ralph barely noticed; the day had taken on the surreal aspects of a nightmare. The ticking was the worst. He could hear it in the walls, so loud now that even the thunder could not blot it out.

He put Carolyn on the couch and knelt beside her. Her respiration was fast and shallow, and her breath was terrible. Ralph did not turn away from it, however. “Hang in there, sweetheart,” he said.

He picked up one of her hands-it was almost as clammy as her brow had been-and kissed it gently. “You just hang in there. It’s fine, everything’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine, the ticking sound meant that nothing was fine.

It wasn’t in the walls, either-it had never been in the walls, but only in his wife. In Carolyn. It was in his dear one, she was slipping away from him, and what would he ever do without her?

“You just hang on,” he said. “Hang on, you hear me?” He kissed her hand again, and held it against his cheek, and when he heard the warble of the approaching ambulance, he began to cry.

She came around in the ambulance as it sped across Derry (the sun was already out again, the wet streets steaming), and at first she talked such gibberish that Ralph was sure she had suffered a stroke.

Then, just as she began to clear up and speak coherently, a second convulsion struck, and it took both Ralph and one of the paramedics who had answered the call to hold her down.

It wasn’t Dr. Litchfield who came to see Ralph in the third-floor waiting room early that evening but Dr. Jamal, the neurologist. jamal talked to him in a low, soothing voice, telling him that Carolyn was now stabilized, that they were going to keep her overnight, just to be safe, but that she would be able to go home in the morning.

There were going to be some new medications-drugs that were expensive, yes, but also quite wonderful.

“We must not be losing the hope, Mr. Roberts,” Dr. Jamal said.

“No,” Ralph said, “I suppose not. Will there be more of these, Dr. Jamal?”

Dr. Jamal smiled. He spoke in a quiet voice that was rendered somehow even more comforting by his soft Indian accent. And although Dr. Jamal did not come right out and tell him that Carolyn was going to die, he came as close as anyone ever did during that long year in which she battled to stay alive. The new medications, jamal said, would probably prevent any further seizures, but things had reached a stage where all predictions had to be taken “with the grains of salt.”

The tumor was spreading in spite of everything they had tried, unfortunately.

“The motor-control problems may show up next,” Dr. jamal said in his comforting voice. “And I am seeing some deterioration in the eyesight, I am afraid.”

“Can I spend the night with her?” Ralph asked quietly. “She’ll sleep better if I do.” He Paused, then added: “So will I.”

“Of gorse!” Dr. jamal said, brightening. “That is a fine idea!”

“Yes,” Ralph said heavily. “I think so, too.”

So he sat beside his sleeping wife, and he listened to the ticking that was not in the walls, and he thought: Some day soon-maybe this fall, maybe this winter-I will be back in this room with her. It had the feel not of speculation but of prophecy, and he leaned over and Put his head on the white sheet that covered his wife’s breast. He didn)t want to cry again, but did a little anyway.

That ticking. So loud and so steady, I’d like to get hold of what’s making that sound, he thought. I’d stamp it until it divas so many Pieces scattered across the floor. With God as my witness I would.

He fell asleep in his chair a little after midnight, and when he n weeks, and Carolyn was wide awake, coherent, and bright-eyed. She seemed, in fact, hardly to be sick at all. Ralph took her home and began the not-inconsiderable job of making her last months as comfortable as possible. It was a long while before he thought of Ed Deepneau again; even after he began to see the bruises on Helen Deepneau’s face, it was a long time before he thought of Ed again.

As that summer became fall, and as that fall darkened down toward Carolyn’s final winter, Ralph’s thoughts were occupied more and more by the deathwatch, which seemed to tick louder and louder even as it slowed down.

But he had no trouble sleeping.

That came later.

About a month after the death of his wife, Ralph Roberts began to suffer from insomnia for the first time in his life.

The problem was mild to begin with, but it grew steadily worse.

Six months after the first interruptions in his heretofore unremarkable sleep cycle, Ralph had reached a state of misery he could hardly credit, let alone accept. Toward the end of the summer of 1993 he began to wonder what it would be like to spend his remaining years on earth in a starey-eyed daze of wakefulness. Of course it wouldn’t come to that, he told himself, it never does.

But was that true? He didn’t really know, that was the devil of it, and the books on the subject Mike Hanlon steered him to down at the Derry Public Library weren’t much help. There were several on sleep disorders, but they seemed to contradict one another. Some called insomnia a symptom, others called it a disease, and at least one called it a myth. The problem went further than that, however; so far as Ralph could tell from the books, no one seemed exactly sure what sleep itself was, how it worked, or what it did.

He knew he should quit playing amateur researcher and go to the doctor, but he found that surprisingly hard to do. He supposed he still bore Dr. Litchfield a grudge. It was Litchfield, after all, who had originally diagnosed Carolyn’s brain tumor as tension headaches.”

(except Ralph had an idea that Litchfield, a lifelong bachelor, might actually have believed that Carolyn was suffering from nothing but a moderate case of the vapors), and Litchfield who had made himself as scarce as medically possible once Carolyn was diagnosed. Ralph was positive that if he had asked the man about that point-blank, Litchfield would have said he had handed the case off to Jamal, the specialist… all quite proper and aboveboard. Yes. Except Ralph had made it his business to get a good look into Litchfield’s eyes on the few occasions he had seen him between Carolyn’s first convulsions last July and her death this March, and Ralph thought that what he’d seen in those eyes was a mixture of unease and guilt. It was the look of a man trying very hard to forget he has fucked up.