doubt passengers on the Titanic were happy before they hit that iceberg, too.
Back at the townhouse, I called Robbie. I thought he’d ask why I hadn’t phoned the day before, but that was just my own guilt talking. He said he was happy to keep Wolf until I returned on Saturday afternoon.
‘He misses you,’ he said. ‘And I do too.’
I heard the grin, pictured it, too, and felt myself grinning back. ‘Yeah, well, don’t you go chewing up the furniture now.’
There was a pause before he spoke. ‘Have you thought about my suggestion?’ I swallowed. ‘About us moving in together?’ In case I was confusing it with some other suggestion he’d made.
‘I’ve been really busy.’
Stupid and evasive. The truth was that I hadn’t thought about it at all. Not because I was too busy or had other things on my mind. I hadn’t thought about Robbie’s suggestion we move in together because I was a big fat squawking chicken in big fat squawking chicken denial.
Chapter 8
T HURSDAY 22 N OVEMBER 2012
I ’m blessed with being able to fall asleep anywhere. Planes, trains and automobiles, friends’ sofas, back seats of cars, motel rooms — it makes no difference to me. I put my head down and I’m out like the proverbial. No shallow sleep states for me. I’ve never experienced a stage one myoclonic jerk in my life; though I’ve had plenty of experience with the other kind. With only a brief pause at stage four, I plummet straight into stage five: REM deep dream mode. According to Sean I start sleep-talking in under thirty seconds.
Started, I mean. Sean is past tense. Present tense Robbie hasn’t mentioned my odd sleep behaviour yet. Maybe that’s the kind of conversation we’ll have if we move in together, and whether the lawns need cutting and the fridge defrosting. Ormaybe not. Most people, normal people, rotate from deep stage five sleep back up to stage two and then slowly back down again throughout the night. Not me. Once asleep, I pretty much stay there, way down the hole with only the occasional holiday up to stage four for a couple of minutes’ light relief. When my brain decides it’s time to wake up I rise to the surface like an abyssal diver in need of air, straight up and awake. Just like that. But try and wake me before my brain says it’s ready — well, that’s not easy.
The reason I know all this is because when I was a kid specialists studied the hell out of me. The end result of all their prodding and probing and sleep-wave monitoring was to be told my condition has no adverse effects — on me, anyway; in fact, it apparently gives me all sorts of health benefits I’m supposed to be thankful for. When I’m dreaming of flying or winning lotto it’s an enviable little trick, alright.
But there is a downside: nightmares. When I’m in a nightmare I’m there for the long haul. I can be forced awake, jolted back to consciousness, but it takes a concerted effort. Meanwhile, until my brain says it’s time to wake up, I’m stuck in nightmare-ville. Believe me, that’s no fun place to be.
The dream started off just fine. I’m swimming through clear, lucid water. Fingers stretching ahead in long easy breaststrokes. Forehead breaching like a ship’s prow. My timing is perfect, rhythmical. I take a deep breath in, my forehead dips into the iciness. I lift my chin and breathe out as the stroke comes around again, weightless, like flying; blissful. I fill my lungs with air, flip and kick down into the deep cold. Hands claspedtogether, arms out in front, I dolphin kick down further and further, undulating my body through the liquid. The water parts in front of me and then folds back as I slice through. It’s spectacularly easy. No drag. No effort. No struggle for breath. It’s like I have gills.
Then I glimpse something below. Something in the murky depths. Something falling. Bubbles nibble my skin as they rise past me to the surface. One hard kick and I’m closer. It’s a car. A car is
Back at the townhouse, I called Robbie. I thought he’d ask why I hadn’t phoned the day before, but that was just my own guilt talking. He said he was happy to keep Wolf until I returned on Saturday afternoon.
‘He misses you,’ he said. ‘And I do too.’
I heard the grin, pictured it, too, and felt myself grinning back. ‘Yeah, well, don’t you go chewing up the furniture now.’
There was a pause before he spoke. ‘Have you thought about my suggestion?’ I swallowed. ‘About us moving in together?’ In case I was confusing it with some other suggestion he’d made.
‘I’ve been really busy.’
Stupid and evasive. The truth was that I hadn’t thought about it at all. Not because I was too busy or had other things on my mind. I hadn’t thought about Robbie’s suggestion we move in together because I was a big fat squawking chicken in big fat squawking chicken denial.
Chapter 8
T HURSDAY 22 N OVEMBER 2012
I ’m blessed with being able to fall asleep anywhere. Planes, trains and automobiles, friends’ sofas, back seats of cars, motel rooms — it makes no difference to me. I put my head down and I’m out like the proverbial. No shallow sleep states for me. I’ve never experienced a stage one myoclonic jerk in my life; though I’ve had plenty of experience with the other kind. With only a brief pause at stage four, I plummet straight into stage five: REM deep dream mode. According to Sean I start sleep-talking in under thirty seconds.
Started, I mean. Sean is past tense. Present tense Robbie hasn’t mentioned my odd sleep behaviour yet. Maybe that’s the kind of conversation we’ll have if we move in together, and whether the lawns need cutting and the fridge defrosting. Ormaybe not. Most people, normal people, rotate from deep stage five sleep back up to stage two and then slowly back down again throughout the night. Not me. Once asleep, I pretty much stay there, way down the hole with only the occasional holiday up to stage four for a couple of minutes’ light relief. When my brain decides it’s time to wake up I rise to the surface like an abyssal diver in need of air, straight up and awake. Just like that. But try and wake me before my brain says it’s ready — well, that’s not easy.
The reason I know all this is because when I was a kid specialists studied the hell out of me. The end result of all their prodding and probing and sleep-wave monitoring was to be told my condition has no adverse effects — on me, anyway; in fact, it apparently gives me all sorts of health benefits I’m supposed to be thankful for. When I’m dreaming of flying or winning lotto it’s an enviable little trick, alright.
But there is a downside: nightmares. When I’m in a nightmare I’m there for the long haul. I can be forced awake, jolted back to consciousness, but it takes a concerted effort. Meanwhile, until my brain says it’s time to wake up, I’m stuck in nightmare-ville. Believe me, that’s no fun place to be.
The dream started off just fine. I’m swimming through clear, lucid water. Fingers stretching ahead in long easy breaststrokes. Forehead breaching like a ship’s prow. My timing is perfect, rhythmical. I take a deep breath in, my forehead dips into the iciness. I lift my chin and breathe out as the stroke comes around again, weightless, like flying; blissful. I fill my lungs with air, flip and kick down into the deep cold. Hands claspedtogether, arms out in front, I dolphin kick down further and further, undulating my body through the liquid. The water parts in front of me and then folds back as I slice through. It’s spectacularly easy. No drag. No effort. No struggle for breath. It’s like I have gills.
Then I glimpse something below. Something in the murky depths. Something falling. Bubbles nibble my skin as they rise past me to the surface. One hard kick and I’m closer. It’s a car. A car is