In the Night

She checked in while I was at dinner. When I went up to the tower room, she was in the bathroom, and it was her suitcase and coat that I stood looking at, momentarily baffled, until I heard her moving about at the sink and put two and two together. I called out a greeting, picked up my bag, and left to meet some friends. Much, much later, when I arrived back and stumbled over my bed in the dark, she was already asleep, buried deep under the blankets.

And that's how it was that the first time she spoke to me that day was just after midnight, when she began to cry out in her sleep.

I have heard people sleep-talk before. I am used to waking to urgent mutterings, my brothers holding garbled arguments with invisible opponents.

Her cries are not like that. They go straight through me.

I am frozen for a little while, lying in bed, undecided. I want to reach out and touch her. I want to release her from what I am hearing.

But I can't move, can't decide. She is crying with her mouth closed, a dreadful sound, and I can't decide what to do.

Could you hear me? she asks suddenly, her voice clear.

Yes, I say.

I knew you were there, she said. I knew you were right next to me. I was trying to ask you to help me, but something had a hand over my mouth. It was awful. I couldn't call out to you no matter how hard I tried.

She is breathing hard, the words tumbling out. She puts a hand to her lips. We talk for hours until she can sleep again, until I can forget all the things her crying sounded like.