Prerequisites for Sleep (6 page)

 

Why is it that you are always the last to know? It's two in the morning. You're thirty-six years old and you realize that your five-year relationship is in trouble. Your girlfriend stands before you in a short skirt and coordinating sleeveless tank with a low neck and a high midriff, moist as if returning from the gym, and tells you that you sometimes act like a mother. You tell her that she always acts like a child. Normally, you say that you are worried because she is unusually late. The argument is punctuated by broken glass, an exclamation mark, the smashing of your favourite photo, a cheesy picture of the two of you biting off the same slice of pizza. You used to think it reminded you of the Disney movie Lady and the Tramp. Perhaps Disney movies were the only things you ever really had in common.

You end the relationship, vowing to stay single because partnerships with other women are far too difficult for you to manage. You move into a new apartment, which you paint blue and yellow, then spend the next year immersed in your work while trying to adjust to being on your own again. You go to bed in men's boxers so you can slip your hand inside the fly front and indulge yourself when you have difficulty sleeping. Slip. Rub. Breathe. Moan. Sigh. Sleep.

At a New Year's Eve party, an acquaintance introduces you to a man who looks at you as if you are familiar. This man smiles and takes your arm to guide you to the kitchen, where he offers to open and pour the bottle of wine sticking out of your oversized purse. You are attracted to him and feel giddy inside, although you haven't dated men since high school. The two of you finish the wine and after midnight go to your place, where everything you once felt awkward about when around men now comes easy. He stays the night and you decide you could be convinced to change preferences. You spend the next day together, mostly in bed. He pleasures you with his tongue as women once did and you reciprocate. He tells you he is divorced and that his ex-wife is an artist. You tell him you're single and that you are a food photographer.

“Why food?” he asks.

“Because I don't cook,” you reply.

He cooks, rummaging through your fridge and cupboards to find the ingredients for an impromptu fettuccine Alfredo while teasing you about your lack of domestication. You are stunned and amazed that he could produce something from almost nothing, the unused samples you bring home from the job. In a cupboard above the stove, he finds an unopened bottle of Jamaican Rum, a gift your brother brought home from vacation several years ago, and makes hot chocolate liqueurs for dessert.

On your second date with this man, you meet downtown. The snow is noisy, like corrugated cardboard breaking underfoot, so you walk without words to the Italian restaurant next to the farmers' market. The restaurant is empty, other than the two of you, and commands quiet, so you talk in whispers. He tells you he has an eleven-year-old daughter who stays with him some weekends. “Don't worry, she's a great kid,” he says, before relating the details of her aquatic and music skills.

Afterwards, you spend the night at his place and he serves you an omelet filled with ham and cheese and fresh vegetables for breakfast. This man is a history professor at the university. He lives in a nineteenth-century house in the south end, the type of house portrayed in nostalgic paintings or Christmas movies — the epitome of security and happiness. He has silver strands of hair at his temples and discerning taste. He tells you that he, like most of his favourite people throughout history, has an affinity for beautiful women. You are conscious that he is trying to win you over with his charm and kitchen skills.

The first time you meet his daughter is at Swiss Chalet. “Kid food,” the man says, deliberate neutral ground. When he leaves to use the washroom, she spits in your face and says she hates you and that you are not her mother. You wipe the spit off on the red logo of your napkin and tell her you are not trying to be her mother but would like to be her friend if that's okay. She doesn't smile but says that maybe it is. When the man returns, the two of you pretend nothing happened. She snatches glances at you over her half-f Shirley Temple. You don't know whether she is daring you to tell or imploring your silence.

In the summer, the man suggests that you give up your apartment and move in with him. You remind him again that you don't cook and he laughs and says he'll help you pack. In a box of things he is clearing away to make room for your stuff, you discover a photo of his ex-wife and notice that you both wear your blonde hair in a shoulder-length bob with bangs, and have brown eyes, and freckles across the bridges of your respective noses. “I think we look somewhat alike,” you say, holding the picture up next to your face. Smiling, he takes the frame out of your hand and leads you to his study, where he undresses you and, on an antique armchair with eagle-claw casters, he reminds you why you decided to move in.

When this man goes to a conference, he asks you to allow his daughter to still come for the weekend. You do, and plan all kinds of things to fill the time. Shopping. Crafts. Disney movies. Making cookies with Pillsbury dough. On Sunday evening, you drive the daughter home. A blue
SUV
is in the driveway, curtains move, and a lamp is on upstairs. No one answers the doorbell. You bring her back to the house and try phoning, calling every fifteen minutes for several hours before her mother picks up. She tells you she was away, adds something about car trouble and being out of cellular range.

“She was lying,” you tell the man.

“It happens,” he says. “There is nothing I can do about it.”

You feel angry with him and sorry for him at the same time.

 

Sometime in September, you run into your former girlfriend at a coffee shop. She looks fabulous, flirts with you and invites you to lunch. You are flattered and accept, then spend the morning torn and unable to concentrate on the compositions of cuisine you are trying to photograph. Lunch is at a new bistro overlooking the water. You are disconcerted and feel somewhat out of touch. You used to know whenever a new place opened in town. How had you managed to miss this one? What else have you missed?

You both order orange-almond salads and seafood crêpes. “I'm moving to Vancouver,” she says, nibbling a breadstick. “Did I mention how much I still miss you?” Then she hesitates and lowers her voice. “Us. I miss us…what we had.”

The conversation is mostly memories. Afterwards, she invites you back to the old apartment one last time.

Sex with this woman is as good as it always was, as good as with the man. You are empowered by your body, believe that it is you who is in control, not her or him, you and your attitude. You think you are freer than you have ever felt in your life. At home that night, you try things with the man you have never done with anyone before.

For his birthday, you go online and order toys — mischievous things (nothing too deviant) — that arrive by mail in discreet packages. “Want to play?” you say, raising your eyebrows, when he opens the gift.

“Pick a room,” he replies.

Later you are surprised by the familiar skill with which he handles these things. He tells you it's been several years since he has enjoyed a woman like this, since sometime before his daughter was born.

“Well, then, it's been way too long,” you say. “Happy birthday.”

 

This man decides to write a book, a historical novel requiring passion and time-consuming research. You fall asleep to the sound of his fingers tapping the computer keyboard. You listen as he reads you his latest draft. His writing is good. Very good. When it is published, the launch party is held in the faculty lounge of the university. The room has the tallest windows you have ever seen in your life. Indeterminable yards of plush fabric hang in the guise of heavy draperies.

The man has many friends. They pull him in all directions, so you amble slowly around the room, admiring the pictures and the food. Somewhere between the canapés and the fruit tray, you are approached by one of his colleagues.

“Kathleen,” he says, leaning forward and kissing your cheek, “so nice to see you again.”

He smells like breath mints and aftershave. “Not Kathleen,” you say, “Joan.”

For a moment, he looks horrified, then regains his composure and offers a toothy smile. “My apologies,” he says. “For such a crass error, I should at least get you another drink.”

“Why not?” you say, handing him your empty glass.

While he makes his way to the bar, you seek out the man with your eyes, find him in a circle of people standing next to a table of books. He sees you and waves. The eyes of the circle turn to take you in and you smile and wave back.

“How long?” the colleague asks, arriving with a refill of red wine.

“At least four years,” you reply.

“Sorry,” he says again. “I honestly didn't know.”

 

When she is fifteen, his daughter runs away from home and shows up at her father's (and your) place. He tells her she can stay, and calls her mother. During her first week, she skips school and misses dinner three days out of five. The man refuses to discuss the matter, afraid to scold her for fear she will run away again. It happens several more times before you take it upon yourself to rectify the situation. You offer her a job as your assistant after school and on weekends and to pay her for her time. It's conditional, you say, on her attendance in school, but you could really use the help.

While this man works on his second novel, you convince his daughter to continue her swimming and arrange for coaches. You spend time driving her to and from practice and to and from friends' houses, getting to know other parents on a first-name basis. Some of them become friends that you organize carpools with and meet for lunch.

You take pictures of them, this man and his daughter, tonal black and whites that you hang, in pewter frames with charcoal mats, on the walls of the upstairs hall. One of these will appear on the man's website and grace the dust jacket of his future novel. Sometimes, when he is typing at night, you let your hands roam down between your legs, arch your back, curl your toes, and hold your moans and sighs behind closed lips.

One afternoon, you arrive home to find the daughter crying. Her pillows and bedspread are drenched. Tissues are tossed about like carnations after a storm. She confides in you, tells you that she has missed her period. “Don't tell Daddy,” she begs.

So you hold her and insist that everything will be fine. “Don't worry,” you say. “We can manage this.”

You make some phone calls, book a flight, plan a short trip. “Shopping” you tell the man, “a girls' vacation.” Yes, it's okay if she misses school.

You fly in the day before to make mandatory purchases, high-end fashions at obscure boutiques. Some props for show and tell. The next morning, at the hospital, you tell them you're the girl's mother but kept your own name. After signing forms and producing valid
ID
, you follow her as far as allowed, then sit and worry. The waiting room is green, the only shade of green people find depressing. You flip through magazines that are three years old, trying to find something worth reading, then root through your purse for your cell phone and look through your contacts. You keep scrolling and scrolling and scrolling through the names, releasing bleeps with every touch of the button, until the nurse informs you that cell phones are not allowed in the hospital. When it's over, his daughter wakes, groggy and pale, and asks how soon she can return to swimming. At home, you explain to the man that she has the flu and must miss a couple more days.

 

Crossing the harbour on the ferry, you see the man's ex-wife with another woman. They are standing at the side rail. You watch, unable to look away, from the corner of your eye like everyone else, as the two women hold hands and exchange kisses. When they disembark, you want to follow, perhaps rake the ex over the coals, accuse her of being an irresponsible parent. Maybe. Or is it to get a better glimpse of the other woman? A fluttering sensation travels between your navel and your thighs. Your body feels like it is naked in a round room constructed of feathers and breezes that blow inward and tease your skin. Turning towards the parking lot, you hit the remote to locate your car while they disappear down a side street before you have a chance to notice which one. That evening, you suggest to the man that the three of you go out to dinner. “My treat,” you say.

“What did I do to deserve this?” he asks.

“Cook,” you reply.

 

After his daughter leaves for university, you and this man fall into the habits of a comfortable middle-aged couple. He writes, while you read until you fall asleep most weeknights. The two of you have dinner with friends on Fridays and take walks in the park on Sunday afternoons, have sex, once, maybe twice, a month. The very life people would attribute to such a nineteenth-century residence, the tasteful home of a photographer and a successful author. Circumstances you would never have imagined settling into when you were younger but now can't imagine being without.

When the daughter announces her engagement to an English playwright, you help her plan her wedding, including offering caterers from your list of clients. You pick up invitations and stick countless stamps on envelopes. The man walks her down the aisle and you admire the two of them. He is still handsome and charming but now radiates something else. Self-fulfillment, you think. She is a beautiful, happy woman with noteworthy accomplishments and future goals, a testament to your diligence.

At the reception, you are talking to the playwright about his latest work, commenting on his witty dialogue. “Your characters poke fun at their own foibles without knowing they are doing so,” you say. “In any other circumstances, such naivety would give rise to pity.”

“Yes,“ he agrees. “How perceptive of you to notice. It's amazing how many people don't.”