Night Visions (23 page)

Frank asks if Samantha wants to stay at his hotel for the night. She says no.

He takes her home.

 

Her place feels strange. Filled with the echoes of strangers' footsteps and conversations. She looks at the closed door, too afraid to open it. Lying on the couch, she stares out into the obsidian darkness of her apartment. A clock ticks.

She can't fall asleep.

In truth, she doesn't want to.

SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH
OCTOBER 9, 2000
6:48 P.M.

Blue pendant lights hang from the ceiling, making the dark brown wood of the bar seem black. The only empty stool is next to her, and the restaurant is mostly full. She orders a gin and tonic and watches the bartender scoop ice into the glass. A rectangular mirror magnifies the bar-length row of colorful bottles behind him—bright green, azure, honey brown, red.

The front door of the restaurant opens, and she turns. A man with short black hair and small eyes enters. He glances around the room, then walks toward the bar, toward her. His body moves sluggishly, and his face seems to droop with exhaustion. He sits next to her, clasping his hands neatly, almost prayerfully, in front of him. He smells strongly of soap and aftershave.

“I'll have the same,” he calls out to the bartender, who seems unimpressed and slightly annoyed. He must see this act every night of the week,
she thinks.

The man turns to her, and she pretends to study the napkin that she has been folding into smaller and smaller triangles.

“Origami?”

She looks at him, surprised by his sarcasm, and a sudden pain from the wound on her stomach startles her. She grimaces.

“Are you all right?” He reaches out with his hand to touch her shoulder but stops halfway.

“Look, I'm not interested.”

“Interested in what?” He looks confused.

“In being picked up on or whatever it is you're doing.”

He smiles. “Nothing personal, but I'm not hitting on you.”

“Let me guess,” she says sarcastically. “You're gay.”

“Close. I'm a priest. My name is Father Gabriel Morgan.” He extends his hand and they shake. “You can call me Gabe.” His skin is soft and smooth. She notices a silver cross hanging from a chain around his neck.

“Catherine Weber.” She smiles apologetically.

The bartender places two funnel-shaped glasses in front of them, and Father Morgan reaches for his wallet. She touches his arm.

“I've got it.” Catherine hands a credit card to the bartender.

“No, I can't—”

“I insist.” She smiles. “Really.”

They toast, and the ice in their glasses rattles. She watches as he twists the lime into his drink and takes a sip.

“So,” he begins, “tell me about yourself.”

OCTOBER 10, 2000
11:25 A.M.

Catherine looks over at Father Morgan—his arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes closed. She turns down the music from
the tape deck and listens to his breathing. Its rhythm seems to keep time with Bach's music.

Part of her can't believe that she is driving him—both of them—to San Francisco. But since Max's death, nothing in her life has made sense. She can't sleep for more than two or three hours at night, and when she does, the nightmares make her wish she hadn't. Violent, hateful visions.

But they're not just visions, she thinks.

 

Andrea would never talk about what happened, but Catherine could tell that she was afraid.

They had spent the day on a hike and returned to Andrea's small one-bedroom apartment, exhausted. They drank chilled white wine while sitting on her purple couch, and through the living room window, they watched the sun set behind the mountains. In the sky, the lines of color—red, orange, yellow—looked like a rainbow on its side. Catherine was surprised by the brightness of the Boulder sun. It seemed almost white.

They talked inconsequentially, as they had been all afternoon—about weather, family, shoes, slipcovers, showerheads, long hours at work. But Andrea was too polite to ask why.
Why are you here? Why the surprise visit? Why won't you tell me what's wrong?
She would wait for Catherine to bring it up.

Catherine had never told her about Max, and she couldn't start now. She didn't have the right words for her pain. So she listened to Andrea's voice. The rise and fall in pitch. Her light, skittish laugh. The way she unconsciously ended sentences with a conjunction, which kept her talking even when she had nothing more to say.

and…but…so…

Just after two in the morning, Andrea's emerald eyes started to dim. Her white teeth seemed unnaturally straight as she smiled one last time before suggesting that they go to sleep.

They shared her queen-size bed.

Catherine closed her eyes and waited.

 

Warm fingers brushed against Catherine's thigh. An accident? No. They slid around to her stomach, avoiding the bandage, falling lower. Hot lips pressed on her shoulder. Teeth pushing lightly into the skin.

Catherine rolled onto her back and pressed her elbow into the throat beside her. Harder and more aggressively, she leaned the weight of her body into the soft skin. Then, with her right index finger, she drew a quick circle on Andrea's chest.

A muffled yelp. “Stop!”

Andrea scratched and pushed and squirmed. The side of her knee hit Catherine's stomach, and the pain jolted her. Catherine felt as if she woke abruptly. She sat up and retracted her arm without speaking. Her hands were trembling.

Andrea slipped away, crying, muttering apologies, scrambling for her clothes beside the bed.

For the rest of the night, Andrea stayed on the couch. She was silent the next morning.

Catherine wanted to talk. She wanted to understand what had happened last night. Andrea had touched her like a lover. She never knew Andrea felt that way for her, for other women.

But there was only silence between them, and Catherine could tell that she was afraid.

At that moment, Catherine realized that she needed to run. From her family and friends. Until she knew what drove Max to kill himself, until she knew what was driving her now, she wasn't safe.

 

“How are you doing?”

Catherine jumps slightly, startled to hear Father Morgan's voice. “Oh, fine. I thought you were asleep.”

“Very funny,” he says with a smile, and they both laugh.

“Sorry, I wasn't thinking.” She pauses, tapping the steering wheel repeatedly with her index finger. “Last night, I meant to ask about the guy who put you in touch with Dr. Clay. How do you know him?”

“Oh, Arty,” he says, sitting up straight. “I actually met him in an insomnia chat room.”

“On the Internet?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Most nights, when I can't sleep, I get online. There are so many people out there. On the Net, I mean. Lost. Just looking for someone to talk to. Anyway, I found this chat room for insomniacs a few months ago. I became a regular, actually. One night, this guy Arty mentioned several sleep clinics in San Francisco and a specialist named Dr. Clay. I did some research and found out that he was not just a specialist, but
the
specialist. Eventually, Arty and I started e-mailing each other. We've become friends, I guess.”

“And he's the one who told you about the treatment?”

“Yeah, about a month ago. He contacted Dr. Clay, who invited him to participate in a new study. Arty gave me the doctor's number.”

“And…you think Dr. Clay will help me?” She can hear the desperation in her voice.

Father Morgan nods encouragingly, then says, “I do.”

But Catherine isn't convinced. She can't believe that she's pinning her hopes on a man she just met and some guy from cyberspace. She and Father Morgan don't speak for the next few miles. Nothing but dry, seemingly empty fields line both
sides of the highway, and the air smells of manure. Even the road signs look tired. Faded, unfamiliar names for quiet towns. She doesn't know exactly where she is going, except that she is heading west. And for the first time, she realizes that she too is lost.

8:53 P.M.

Catherine follows Father Morgan down the steps to Arty's apartment, but before they can knock, the front door opens quickly. Yellow light fills the entryway.

“Arty?” Father Morgan asks with a smile.

Arty shakes Father Morgan's hand, then Catherine's, awkwardly.

“Come in, come in.” He mutters and doesn't look at either of them directly.

They step inside.

The light comes from a floor lamp in the corner with an old shade. A crucifix hangs on the wood-paneled wall behind the couch, and Catherine wonders if Arty is Catholic, if that too is something that Father Morgan and he share.

Several newspapers cover most of the space on the couch and coffee table. A small microwave dinner has been placed on one stack, still steaming. It is pasta sprinkled with something green, broccoli, perhaps, and Catherine thinks,
I'm glad we stopped for dinner.

“Sorry about the mess,” Arty mutters and starts collecting the papers. He looks mostly at the floor when he talks. His tall, lanky body moves clumsily as he shuffles back and forth between the living room and kitchen, removing the dinner and placing the papers in one of several large piles throughout the
apartment. He steals glances at Catherine's body with each pass, and she wonders if she is the first woman to set foot inside his apartment.

When the couch has been cleared, Arty gestures for them to sit. He pulls up a chair. Catherine notices the dark lines around his eyes, his pale white skin, and a chipped tooth.

Father Morgan starts talking. In fact, he carries the conversation for the next couple of hours, telling them about his childhood in Salt Lake City, the small Catholic community there, his church, and his forced leave of absence for participating in a gay rights parade.

 

It's getting late, Catherine thinks, and eventually, they have to rest. To turn off the lights and struggle for sleep.

“I'm a bit tired,” she says impatiently.

And Father Morgan adds with a weak smile, “Perhaps we should get to bed.”

This is the moment that they dread every night, but no one suggests an alternative. A game of cards. Watching television. More awkward chatter. None of these distractions will change the fact that they ultimately have to face their inability to sleep.

Arty brings them several pillows and blankets from the hall closet. He covers the couch with sheets, then unrolls a sleeping bag for Father Morgan. He leaves the room without saying a word and closes his door.

Father Morgan turns to Catherine. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Catherine watches as he unbuttons his shirt and drops it to the floor. “I'm just…everything is happening really fast, that's all.”

“Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad you're here.” He climbs into the sleeping bag and adjusts his pillow.

“Thanks.” She turns off the light and waits for her eyes to
adjust in the darkness. Lying on the couch, she tries to avoid thinking about Max, about the life she had hoped they would have together. When they were in love, she used to play a game with herself, imagining their wedding, where they would live, how they would greet each other after work, what they would name their children. If they had a girl, Catherine would name her Isabella. She has always loved that name. Isabella. Isabella Harris.

Stop. She has to focus on herself now. On the future.

If she is going to do this, to stay away from family and friends until she gets some answers, she will need to start over. In the morning, she'll look through some of those newspapers for a job and a place to stay. She isn't comfortable here. She doesn't trust Arty. In the last hour, he has opened the bedroom door and walked to the bathroom three times. She can tell that he is watching her.

There's nothing she can do about that right now. She reaches into her bag and takes out a portable CD player.

The
Goldberg Variations
start playing through her earphones. It's the last CD Max gave her. She plays it at night to block out the memory of the approaching train. The rattling wood. The blaring whistle. Her own silent scream.

OCTOBER 19, 2000
11:34 P.M.

Her new, unfurnished apartment is in the misty hills below Coit Tower, and she is happy to be away from Arty's probing eyes and awkward body. Father Morgan hasn't found a place of his own yet, but he isn't surprised. She was lucky to find something so quickly, he keeps reminding her.

The nights have gotten worse for Catherine, and she is anxious about meeting Dr. Clay on Monday. He isn't sure about bringing her into the study, but she hopes to convince him.

Her eyes are tired from reading, and she closes the Bible, putting it next to her copy of Kafka's
The Metamorphosis.
These are her only books; Father Morgan gave them to her a few days ago as a gift. Right now, she is reading the Book of Job for the second time. Job, the great sufferer. Job, who cannot sleep because God made a wager with the Devil.

She gets up from the mattress on the living room floor and walks to the bathroom.
Maybe a bath will relax me,
she thinks and starts running warm water. Standing at the sink, waiting for the bathtub to fill, she looks at herself. Her skin appears pale and lifeless in the fluorescent light.