Rabih Alameddine - I, The Divine

Sarah wakes up, but does not wish to get out of bed. She turns over on her side, closes her eyes, in hopes of catching a little more sleep. It is too early in the morning. The sun is still not up. It is July 4. Doesn’t the sun come out at some ungodly hour in July? She turns over again, lies on her right side. Where does she put her right arm? Is it too squished? With her left arm, she reaches behind her for her Piggy, her stuffed toy. She hugs it with both arms. Closes her eyes again. She feels herself slipping, the pig pressing against her stomach, her left shoulder attempting to join her right on the mattress. This position hurts her back. She leans over with her left arm again and brings a pillow, places it between her legs. The chiropractor had said a pillow between her legs will prevent her sleeping on her stomach. The pillow feels too sexual. She takes it and puts it behind her. She lifts her head slightly, noting the time on the digital clock. Four twenty-three. Damn. It is much too early. She closes her eyes again. She must sleep, especially today.

Sarah looks at the clock again. Four forty-one. She must have dozed a bit. Try again. Closes her eyes. She curses. She should have taken Restoril. Too late now. She should have taken melatonin even though it makes her feel bad. Should she take a Xanax? This is not an anxiety attack. It may relax her though. No. She should be able to relax herself. She has survived the Fourth of July before. She goes under the covers, just like she used to do in Beirut when it got too noisy, too violent.

Sarah turns over once more. She accidentally kicks her cat, Pascal, sleeping at the bottom left corner of the bed. He jumps, lands back on the bed, and then leaps off. She sits up quickly. Sorry, she blurts; Pascal trots away from her down the corridor. She lies back down, her head on the pillow. Closes her eyes again. No use.

Sarah uncovers herself, sits up, dangles her feet off the side of the bed. Should she get up? If she does, it means she is giving up. She lies back down, fetal position, closes her eyes. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, lamb chops. She’s hungry. Maybe that’s why she’s not sleeping. She pulls the comforter up around her. She realizes she needs new sheets.

Sarah switches on her bedside lamp. She fluffs three pillows behind her and lies down, rests her head on the headboard. Maybe she can read, but she doesn’t feel like it. She looks at the books stacked on the nightstand. Too many. She picks up the top book, The Age of Innocence , and throws it in the wastebasket. She always hated that book. She feels guilty. Only last week she had wanted to reread it. She leans over and takes it out of the wastebasket, puts it back on top of the stack. No. She is not going to read it next. She puts it in the middle of the stack. The top book is now Bridget Jones’s Diary . Why did she bother picking up that one? She got it for free. She had started it and could not get past page 20. She found Bridget to be stupid, dumbed-down, neurotic, and with an uninteresting career. Worst of all, Bridget is incompetent at being an adult. Every secretary can identify. No wonder the book is a bestseller. She takes it and throws it in the wastebasket. She slides completely under the covers again.

Sarah pulls the bedclothes down. Is it five yet? Looks at the clock. It’s five past five. Five past eight in Boston. She picks up her phone and dials. A groggy voice answers.

Are you up? Sarah asks sheepishly.

I am now, Dina replies.

How come you’re still sleeping? You’re supposed to be going to work.

It’s the Fourth of July.

Oooops.

You forgot, I’m sure.

Yes. But that’s why I’m calling. It’s the Fourth of July.

What are you doing up so early?

I can’t sleep. Woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep.

Sarah turns on her side once more. She reaches out to the clock and moves it closer so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to see it.

So you thought you should wake me up? Dina asks.

I thought you’d be up.

Can this wait?

Yes. Sure. Call me when you’re ready.

Pause. Sarah does not hang up.

Are you all right? Dina asks.

Depressed.

Drive out of town, Dina says. Go somewhere far from the city where you can’t hear the fireworks. That’s what I’m doing. We’re driving to New Hampshire. It’s quiet up there.

I will. I’ll go up to Sonoma.

Why are you anxious?

I’m depressed a little. That’s all.

Are the drugs not working?

I changed. Paxil was knocking me out. My doctor prescribed Zoloft. It’ll take some time before it kicks in, but I’m not sleeping well.

You don’t sound that depressed to me.

I am too.

How come you don’t get depressed like normal people? You know, turn the lights off, draw the curtains, get under the covers and not talk to anyone.

I’m not normal. We figured that one out a long time ago. In any case, I am under the covers.

That’s progress.

Oh, shut up. Do you want to call me when you’re really up?

Will do.

Five-twenty. The clock has not moved much. Maybe she’ll run a bath.

Sarah gets out of bed, walks over to the bathroom. She looks at herself in the mirror, freaks. Dark circles under her eyes. She looks ghastly. Begins to rub a Lancôme fond de teint on her face. She is startled by Pascal rubbing against her naked legs.

Hi, sweetie.

He meows in reply.

No, no. You can’t be hungry at this hour. I’m never up at this hour.

She ignores the cat and begins to fill the tub. A hot bath will do her good. She looks at her bath paraphernalia. Should she use oils or bubbles? Oils or bubbles, oils or bubbles? Why not both? She dumps in two balls of jasmine oil, followed by some gardenia bubblebath. She sits on the toilet and waits for the tub to fill. Pascal rubs himself on her shins. She picks him up and scratches behind his ears. He gets comfortable, digs his claws gently into her skin.

Let’s hope this is not a bad day, she tells the cat. She looks at what she has on, a haggard T-shirt and satin Victoria’s Secret pajama shorts. She shakes her head in consternation.

She waits. The tub fills slowly. Pascal purrs. She wishes she had a bigger tub. It would make taking a bath more pleasurable. She’ll make do. The cat meows.

No, no. No food yet. I can’t have you getting used to eating at this hour.

Sarah puts Pascal down. The tub is almost full. She undresses, steps into the bath. Her foot almost slips from under her. Too much oil. She settles in. The water is a bit hot. Using her left foot, she turns the cold faucet a touch. When the tub is full, she turns the faucets off with both feet simultaneously. Ambidextrous feet, years of soccer. She keeps her feet up and dunks her head in the water. She rubs her face underwater and realizes she has forgotten that she had begun putting makeup on. Fuck. She lifts her head, opens her eyes, is shocked to find Pascal staring at her, his black-and-white face close to hers. His paws are on the edge of the tub and he is looking in. The minute he realizes her eyes are open, he lets loose a loud meow.

No, no. No food.

He meows louder.

No food. I will not have it.

He meows louder still. She turns her back to him, pretends to ignore him. He meows again and again. She sighs, begins to stand up.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. You run my life, you know that. I have to interrupt my bath just to feed your majesty.

She puts on her bathrobe. Pascal begins to lick her calf, always had a taste for fancy soaps. She walks to the kitchen, leaving water puddles along the hardwood floors of the corridor. Pascal follows, scampering between her feet. She decides to go down the stairs to make sure the front door is locked. Pascal whines as she comes back up. She turns on the kitchen light. Turns the small television on. CNN, maybe she can catch up on some news. Sarah stares at the screen. Pascal bites her calf.