Chapter II: And The Angels Sang A Whiskey Lullaby...

She finally drank her pain away, a little at a time, but she never could get drunk enough to get him off her mind, until the night...She put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger, and finally drank away his memory. Life is short, but this time, it was bigger than the strength she had to get up off her knees. We found her with her face down in the pillow, clinging to his picture for dear life. -Brad Paisley and Allison Krauss

Last night, I dreamt that I was swimming in the lake our cabin overlooks. Very strange, because it's an activity I have never had interest in. I don't really have much of an interest in venturing outside the house, and I haven't set foot outdoors since I arrived here. But in the dream, I was happy to be away from the confinements of a house and out in the open air. The sky was sepia-toned, like what you see in old photographs, and filled to the brim with clouds. And it was so warm, not at all like the New York climate. I felt like I was back home again. The lake, like the sky, was no longer blue. Instead, I found myself soaking in an amber sea. It burned my skin, but it didn't hurt. It was a pleasurable, comforting sort of burn. I can't really explain it…but I let myself sink into the lake, wanting every part of me to feel so warm and safe. As I sank into the water, the surface drifting further and further away from me, I felt like one of those insects trapped in the amber sap. However, I welcomed this new imprisonment.

When I woke up, the feeling of the warmth leaving me was almost more than I could bear. And the first thing I saw, on the bedside table, was a bottle of Jack Daniels, half-empty of its amber fluid.

Layla paused in her writing to take a bite of her Belgian pancakes, followed by a deep inhale on her cigarette. She sighed as she slowly exhaled, allowing a few wisps of smoke to escape her lips, watching them drift up to the ceiling and vanish, before replacing her cigarette in the ashtray. It was a pity, she thought, that smoking didn't kill a person sooner.

She herself didn't know why dreams fascinated her so. Maybe because it was a short, sometimes blissful, vacation from the nightmare that had engulfed her life…if you could even describe what she was living as 'a life'. Finishing up today's page, she found herself flipping backwards in the journal, which she had been keeping ever since she had moved in with Mort. Or at least, she thought she had been keeping. Just now, Layla realized that maybe she had forgotten about this journal for quite some time. There were pages upon blank pages, starting a few weeks after she had first begun writing. In the upper right hand corner, there was a date, written by her own hand, but no entry.

Puzzled, Layla begun flipping forward again, searching for the time when she had rediscovered this journal and begun writing again. It wasn't as though she hadn't had dreams all that time. It was in that span of three months that the torment of her waking hours seeped into her dreams. They were horribly violent and realistic. Some of them involved Frank. Upon waking, she would have to remain in bed for a few hours, unable to get over the fact that it didn't really happen. She was positive she would have written down something like that, to help rid her of the negative feelings they gave her. But her journal told her otherwise.

Just as she was beginning to panic, she happened upon the page that documented when she had decided to pick up her pen and resume journaling. It was today's entry.

Layla stared blankly down at the page, her Belgian pancakes as cold as she felt just then.

...

A few hours, two bags of Doritos, and a Mountain Dew later, Mort wrapped up his latest short story. He was surprised to find the corners of his mouth upturning in a smile, albeit a feeble one. It was the best thing he had written since, well…

(What if Layla finds it? She's not gonna be happy.)

Mort froze, just as he was about to close out the document window. "She won't. Find it, I mean. She's never even laid a finger on this thing. I…I doubt she knows how to operate a computer."

(Oh, you should never, never doubt what nobody is sure about. How do you know that while you're gone from the house, she doesn't get curious as to what Cousin Morty has been writing all these long hours?)

He scowled at the word processor, as though it, not his inner voice, was the one gnawing at his confidence. Grabbing one of his Doritos bags, Mort scrunched it down to a ball in his hands, the few crumbs left in the bag crunching into chip dust. He suddenly realized how badly he wanted a cigarette. "You make an…interesting point…" he managed to choke out. He hated admitting that the voice was right. "So what do you want ME to do about it?"

(Password protect the document.)

Mort rolled his eyes, pretending to be stunned at his psyche's once-again simple solution, "Why didn't I think of that?" He zipped around on his keyboard, arranging for the password protection. When the menu popped up, asking for the password he wanted to designate for the document, he found himself at a bit of a loss. A cigarette would help him decide…

(Just pick a damn password. First thing that pops into your brain.)

Running a hand through his blonde-streaked hair, Mort sighed. He didn't want to type the first thing that popped into his brain. It was on his mind so much, it didn't have to pop into his brain; it was already there. Rather, she was already there.

(It's too obvious anyway. 'Amy' would be the first one she'd try.)

He automatically cracked his jaw at the sound of his ex-wife's name. Even if he himself was the one bringing it up.

(Come on, she's plenty aware you've got a one-track mind. She knows you all too well. You have to make it something she would never think you'd come up with. Something shocking, maybe.)

Mort pondered this over. Something she would never suspect. Shock her. So Mort typed in the most shocking password he could imagine, 'ifuckanimals', and left it at that. He could practically hear his psyche snickering at his choice as he closed the document window and shut down the computer. Now seemed like a good time to head downstairs and have a catnap on the couch. Unfortunately, there were more pressing matters at hand: he was out of Doritos. Shopping time.

He shrugged out of his ratty old bathrobe, reluctant to leave behind his security blanket. Once, he had considered walking about town wearing the bathrobe, but he looked morose enough as it was. People wouldn't know what to think. He already couldn't deal with all the looks people gave him. He pulled on a pair of shoes and, to hide his bedhead, slipped on a tuque.

"Layla?" he called out as he headed downstairs. She always had a list for him whenever he went to the store. Sometimes, he had no idea what some of the items she had written down were, and would have to ask the shopkeeper where to find them. Of course, it would be a lot more convenient if Layla went to the store with him, but even him begging on his knees wouldn't bring her outside the house. He'd certainly tried. He'd even threatened to forget about her list and just get the things he needed himself, but in the end, he couldn't bring himself to deprive her of her one amusement. In a way, Layla's cooking was what Mort's writing was to him. It was something to keep her busy, from descending completely down the spiral. Though Layla was having far better luck at retaining her kitchen talents than he was with his literary talents.

"Layla?" he called out again, the living room empty. He peered into the kitchen, which still smelled sweetly of pancakes and cinnamon rolls, but was devoid of human life. There was only one other logical place she would be. Sure enough, the door to her bedroom, located next to the kitchen, was closed. Mort knocked softly.

"Layla? Are you decent?"

Finally, she answered back, her voice a soft, groggy murmur. "Yeah, come in…"

Mort turned the knob and peered inside. She was lying in bed, on top of the covers, curled slightly on her side. Her eyes were still closed, even as she spoke. "What is it?"

"Just wanted to let you know I'm headed to the store."

At this, Layla opened her eyes, the irises gray and steely as a morgue slab. "Okay. Made the list just last night." She lazily flung her arm in the direction of her nightstand, fingers clasping around a small sheet of paper, which had been scribed upon in her spidery handwriting. Mort stepped forward to the bed, so she wouldn't have to get up, and took the list from her, having to squint at it to read it. There was no window in Layla's room, so it was always very dark. But that was the way she liked it. Only in complete darkness could she get to sleep, and she certainly did plenty of that.

Mort almost smirked at one ingredient that caught his eye, "Dill weed, huh?"

She nodded, "It's a seasoning. Why?"

He was almost exasperated that Layla failed to see the humor in buying something called 'dill weed'. "Nothing. It's just…funny...to me."

"I'm using it to cook up some catfish tonight. Does that sound alright?" She moved her hair out from under her head before lying it down again, the auburn waves spreading across the pillowcase.

"Well…I was going to…" Mort looked down at her, bearing a pained expression. He found himself saying no, yet again. He felt like such a dick for doing this. When he invited Layla to stay, he had told her that they could be each other's remedy. They could help one another cope. But they had been living together for months, and every time she tried to get close to him, have a serious talk, all he wanted to do was be alone and brood.

Sensing his internal battle, Layla continued, "Or shall I make you a PB and J?"

He slowly nodded, relieved that this was something he could say yes to. "I would love one of your PB and J's. Much better than Mrs. Garvey's."

Layla mustered a smile, but it felt almost foreign on her face. Just once, she wanted to have a nice dinner with Mort, just to sit down and talk awhile. Nothing brought people together like mealtime. Except in this house. They had been so close when they were kids, and she missed that kinship. Still, she understood that he wanted to have his space, and she respected that as best she could.

"So…" Mort attempted to be casual, trying to conjure up conversational material, "How was breakfast?" He folded her list and slipped it into his jeans pocket.

"It was fine...I think," Layla frowned, staring at the wall. She knew she had already had her first meal of the day. Of course she did. There was the whole incident with the dream journal...so why didn't she remember eating breakfast?

A trifle concerned, Mort knelt down beside the bed, "Are you feeling alright?"

"I guess so, yeah," she replied, though felt terribly sick inside. All those lost entries. She couldn't shake the feeling it gave her, the impulse to question her existence.

Not convinced by her shaky tone of voice, Mort put a hand to her forehead to check her temperature. She felt neither warm nor cold, but seeing her up close like that, he realized for the first time how pale she was getting, what with her refusing to get out into the sun.

"Your pastiness is appalling, do you know that?" he teased.

Despite his light-hearted comment, a melancholic look crossed her face. "I wouldn't know. I haven't looked in a mirror lately. Haven't wanted to," she admitted.

He slowly nodded, calm on the outside, but a rage building inside him. If Frank Tristan had been in front of him right that moment, Mort was sure he could have deftly removed his head from his body with no other weapon than his bare hands. It was infuriating how a bastard like that had transformed an attractive, once vivacious woman into a humorless recluse.

"You know Mort, there is something I want to talk to you about," Layla quietly said, wincing. God knows how many times she had tried to talk to him about this, and she hoped this time he would hear her out. She seemed to have his attention now, at least. "It was very generous of you to let me stay here. I'm indebted to you for taking me in, when you've had your own problems to deal with. But I can't help but feel like a bit of an interloper. I don't mean to be a bother to you, and I certainly don't want to keep you from your work. I imagine it's like a healing process…but sometimes, I just think that it would be better if I moved back home again…"

"Layla, stop," Mort interjected, more forcefully than he meant to. He swallowed hard, calming himself down before continuing, "You're not an interloper, and you're not a bother to me. That's the last thing you are. I do like having time to myself, but I don't think I could handle being alone up here, knowing that when things got really bad, I had nobody to turn to. I have to tell you…the first few months I stayed here, all alone…things got a little strange. I started seeing—"

"—things that weren't there," Layla finished knowingly, now sitting up on the bed, no longer tired.

"Yes, exactly. There were other things too. Like I would have these strange dreams, of drinking the last can of Mountain Dew or something, something boring and routine, and I'd believe that it had really happened. But then, when I woke up and went to the fridge, there it was, that one last can of Mountain Dew still sitting there." Mort cracked his jaw habitually, getting creeped out just thinking about it.

"God…" Layla muttered to herself, shivering a little. "I know just what you mean. This morning, I…you didn't, by any chance, go into the kitchen earlier, did you?"

Mort squinted, "Yeah. I was looking for you."

"Well, did you happen to see my dream journal sitting on the kitchen counter? See, I was writing in it this morning and I started…flipping back through the pages, you know, and they were all…blank. Like I hadn't even written in them at all."

He eyed her strangely just then, before a look of compassion settled on his face, "No, sweetie. It wasn't in the kitchen. It's been sitting on your dresser this whole time."

Layla turned to look and sure enough, there it was, looking so innocent. She had never taken it into the kitchen with her to begin with. Truth be known, she probably lay down and fell asleep after asking Mort if he wanted to join her for breakfast. She laughed dryly, only a few 'ha has'. It was terribly unfunny.

Mort nodded solemnly, "It's gotten to you too. I'm not sure if this happens to everyone who's gone through something like...what we've gone through...but who knows. We all go a little mad sometimes, eh? Seriously though, I don't want you thinking that anymore, that you're not wanted here. Sometimes I think you're all that keeps me from going over the edge."

She turned her head to the side, suddenly looking very childlike, "Do you really mean that?"

"Most definitely," he replied, giving her a warm smile. He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. While the gesture made her smile back, she was dismayed somewhat to smell a hint of whiskey on his breath. "Now, I won't be long," he told her, rising to his feet. "You just stay laying down, try to sleep some more maybe. Always makes me feel better."

"Okay." Layla watched him head out, closing the door behind him. As she listened to him walk outside, heading out through the front door, then the screen door, starting the car up, and driving away, she found herself staring at the print she had hung on the back of her bedroom door. Frank had always hated the random bits of artwork she collected, but then, he was never one for culture. It was of a painting by the Belgian artist Rene Magritte, entitled Portrait of Edward James. It portrayed a dark-haired man gazing into the mirror and instead of seeing his face, was instead met with the startling reflection of the back of his head.

It was while staring at the dual Edward James's that she fell asleep. In this dream she was in a car, in the passenger seat, gazing out the window at the beautiful countryside, fields of cotton and magnolia trees, leaves swaying in a pleasant breeze while the sun shone overhead. She couldn't be sure who was driving; she never saw their face. But she was sure it was a man. And the best part of all, it wasn't Frank. There was no comparison. She was pressed up against this stranger, and he had his arm wrapped around her shoulders protectively, possessively. She had never felt like falling asleep while she was in the middle of a dream, but in this one, the peace and tranquility was that overwhelming. Even as she napped, tears formed in her eyes, tightly shut so as to savor the moment, and cascaded down her pallid face.

She never wanted it to end.