For the third time since she'd put herself to bed, Liz felt the defeat of her restless toes on the carpet and then the labored creak of her tired knees as she stood up. She padded down the hallway in the empty house and felt the tile turn to marble under her feet at the staircase. On her first trip out of bed, she had simply walked into the bathroom; she thought that maybe looking in the mirror for a moment might help her gain a foothold of where she was but the familiarity she looked for, even within herself, wouldn't come back. On her second outing, she made it to the top of the stairs, entertaining the idea of sleeping on the overstuffed couch in the living room, even if it was just to have new artwork to stare at while lying awake. She thought better of it, not willing just yet to accept that she might be that close to the edge of rationality.
This time, she was determined that she was going to go downstairs and give in to the insomnia once and for all. There wouldn't be any books or magazines to occupy her but maybe she could read the labels on the food in the pantry, anything except lying awake alone. Tomorrow they would be in a different house, together but entirely alone. Two people who had no one but each other but still had never truly shared companionable space. Not for long, anyway. The thought made her mouth dry with a fresh anxiety, bitter and heavy.
In the dark she navigated the stairs, slipping her hand along the rail, tacky from the many aged coats of varnish. As she rounded the corner into the kitchen for a glass of water she was startled to find that she wasn't alone. Dembe was sitting at the glossy bar, deep in concentration over a book, a pint of ice cream with a spoon sitting next to him.
"You're still awake?" Liz whispered, crossing the kitchen so he could hear.
"I like the late hours; it's the only time I get to read without Raymond interrupting me."
"What are you reading?" she asked. He flipped his book up so she could see the cover. Crime and Punishment.
"Dostoyevsky was always hard for me," she said. "I'm sorry, I won't bother you. I know you probably don't get much time to yourself."
"I don't mind. It's hard in the beginning, I remember that," he said. The kindness in his eyes seeped into her and she felt warmed by the feeling that she wasn't really alone. How had she forgotten about Dembe? He had been in her position before, starting a whole new life with only Red as a touchstone. She felt her eyes well up with tears, the exhaustion and the gesture of his kindness making her emotions whirl. The thought of him awake downstairs reading and eating ice cream comforted her. She reached out and touched his arm, hoping to return his subtle kindness.
"I really should get some sleep. It was nice to talk to someone even if just for a few minutes. I think that's really all I needed."
"More ice cream for me," he said with a wry smile.
She turned to leave and she felt something unspoken hang in the air but she was too tired to acknowledge it. Then, through the empty stillness of the house, Dembe's voice reached her in a gravelly hum.
"He feels the way you do."
The words stopped her in her tracks.
"What do you mean?"
"He feels alone. Most nights he lies awake, worried. He doesn't sleep well either."
Neither of them looked at the other; they both knew why it was this way. He was a man haunted by a life lived before this one. She had tried to picture it many times, Red as a father, a career man, a man with a home and a purpose. Those things were a mystery to her. She wondered if they were a mystery to Dembe.
"Do you sleep well, Dembe?" she asked.
"Not always. I do now, but it takes time. Until then, I'll keep an extra spoon out for you. Just in case you need it."
They smiled at each other through the dark.
"Goodnight," she said, as she made her way back up the stairs.
She got back to her door and peeked inside. Her bedding told the story of a restless woman, unable to find comfort, raking her nerves desperately across the sheets. Uncertainty crept through her again like muted venom; this wasn't home. She may never have one again.
She tried to walk quietly with the floor creaking sorrowfully beneath her feet as they led her down the hall. She wondered if Dembe would be able to hear her as she stopped in front of Red's room. Hesitation grasped her as she lifted her hand to turn his doorknob. Her fingertips grazed the cold brass and it felt like an alarm, warning her that this was a point from which she could not return. The air around her felt ashen and heavy with the realization that she might be making a grave mistake. And as quickly as the thought occurred to her, it vanished. She pushed the unlatched door open silently.
She realized then that she had no idea what she was going to do once she opened the door. She stroked the raised, hardened skin of her scar as she worked up the nerve to peer around the corner.
The bed was bathed in the moonlight coming in through the window, casting an eerie grey glow across the room. In the pale light she could see the rising arch and dip of Red's back, bare as it lifted and fell with languishing breath. The light cast a strange pattern on his skin, a web of intricate textures. She stepped forward in a haze, forgetting for a moment that she didn't want to disturb him. She stood by his bed now, close enough to hear his soft sighing as he slept. The web pattern on his back pulled and stretched along his skin with each breath.
They were scars.
Burns.
Without a thought, she reached out her hand, kneeling on the edge of the bed. She caught a glimpse of her own scar, pink from rubbing it. The crêpe paper crinkle and weave of his scars closely resembled hers – the telltale pattern of licking flame. She covered her mouth though she made no sound.
There were times that she tried so hard to remember the details of that night, trying to lift the fog of time and sentimentality to get to the truth. She was never able to reconcile two dueling memories. First, the leaden, black burden of knowing that her father had died in front of her as she watched him become engulfed in flames. Second there was the memory of a young man, his clothes still smoldering, picking her up and carrying her. The walk was long enough to remember as she was taken to a nearby house… then there were the frantic words exchanged… and then one day it became home. The house and the man who occupied it became her world and her salvation.
But even then she knew in the most fluid and opaque sense that there was a man out there who had lived. Who brought her to Sam and then vanished from her life before she could even make sure he was real. He seemed too much like a character in a story, one that a girl would make up in a fevered panic to understand her origins.
And here he was in front of her.
He'd been there all along.
Gently, she lay next to him, careful not to disturb the bedsprings. How little he must have slept all these years. She was sure their nightmares were mirrored. She gently ran her fingers over his warm skin, following the pattern the way she did with her own. Every inch of the story etched into his skin was familiar yet entirely new.
She felt him stir. Unable to account for why she was there, she instead pretended to be asleep, breathing softly by his side. She felt him place his arm around her, not sure that he was even awake. He moaned peacefully as he settled in against her, pulling her in tight.
"Do they hurt?" she whispered on the slim chance that he would hear her.
"Not anymore."