As I Lay Me Down to Sleep - Chapter 4

Alex’s fifteenth birthday was quite uneventful.  We live in a very small, rural town.  By this time in her life, her classmates had grown tired of her manipulation and lies.  The charisma that had charmed them in elementary turned into resentment in middle school and high school.  So sadly, there was no one to invite to a birthday party.  I tried to divert attention away from her lack of friends by having a big family celebration.  Though I must admit, no one in the family was excited about it, except me.

Ten years of Alex ruining family gatherings would take its toll on even the most patient of people.  They aren’t aware that I know this, but it has come to the point that my grown children wager on how long it will be until Alex makes me cry or she runs off to her room slamming doors.  It’s really not callousness on their part, though it may sound like it to an outsider.  I can’t fault them, because inevitably one of the two will happen.  I think they are just trying to cope in their own way.

One fourth of July, Alex was away at camp.  No one mentioned it, but we all noticed the lack of tension.  There was genuine laughter, no sideways glances, and I was visibly more relaxed.  The youngest of my three children, Shannon, was packing up a box of leftover food when her nine-year-old son gave me the biggest hug.

“Nanny, I’m not sure why, but this was the best holiday ever!  Thank you so much.”  Silence filled the room as we all realized why.  “I wish they could all be like this one!”

My heart broke.  And at the same time I missed Alex.  What was I doing to my family?  My emotions cris-crossed like threads in the pattern of life.

So now here we were, having Alex’s birthday party at our house.  We own a farm, and the grandkids love to go exploring and hiking.  Alex got to pick the meal, the decorations, and the music.  Fifteen-year-old girls aren’t easy to buy for.  She ended up getting a plethora of gift certificates and money.  No one held back; generosity flowed from all.  Even I knew this was more out of respect for me and my feelings, than for the joy of giving to Alex.  Her attitude confirmed why someone would begrudge giving her anything.  She didn’t meet eye contact.  There wasn’t a single ‘thank you’, and as soon as she was done opening presents, she went straight to her room.  She didn’t even touch the chicken salad she had requested or the strawberry birthday cake.  Everybody was shocked - not that she went to her room, but that she did it calmly and without biting words.

I went to check on her when everyone left.  Knocking, I got no reply.  “Alex, honey, I’m coming in,” I said as I cracked the door.  Still, no response.  As the light filled the room, what I saw chilled me to the bone.  Alex was rocking back and forth on her bed; her face was red and swollen from sobbing.  “Oh my God!  What’s wrong, Alex?”

Never having seen her cry or even demonstrate any emotion vaguely resembling sadness, my mind raced with answers to what caused this misery.  I came up blank.  Grabbing her by the shoulders, I stopped the rocking.  “Alex, you have to tell me what’s wrong!  Let me help you.”

“You can’t help.  No one can.”  Her voice seemed to come from a place far away.  It was sapped of strength and hope. 

“Yes, we can.  Dad and I can help you through anything.”

“No, you can’t.  You can’t keep me from dying.”  Her face was expressionless, but her eyes were dark and full of fear.

“Alex, what are you talking about?  Have you done something?”  I was panicking now. Why hadn’t I checked on her sooner?

“I didn’t do anything.  I’ve just always known.  Even when I was a little girl.  I’m going to die this year.  I won’t live to see my sixteenth birthday.  It’s true, Jane.  It’s something I’ve always known, but now that it’s here. . .  I’m scared.  Really scared.  I don’t want to die.  At least not by myself.  Jane, when I die, will you come with me?  Please, I can’t die without you.”  Her sobs were shaking her frail body.

“Sweetheart, calm down.  Shhhhh.  You know only God knows when someone will pass on.  You’re just imagining this.  Take deep breaths.”

“God, or someone, something, told me when I was a little girl.  Jane, please, please, say you will die when I do!”

“Sweetheart, you are getting all worked up over something that isn’t going to happen.”  Hesitant, I wrapped my arms around her, anticipating her body growing frigid at my touch.  It didn’t.  She melted into my arms like a defenseless newborn.  We stayed like that for an hour.  Me, stroking her hair, finally allowed to nurture the child I had brought into our home.  Alex, finally, letting down her guard for a little bit.  Complete silence filled the room, being interrupted only by her occasional sniffle.  As heart-wrenching as the moment was, I found myself enjoying it.

I felt her pull away a little bit.  Looking down at her face, I realized she was staring at me.  It was an odd look, one I couldn’t interrupt.

“Jane, if you tell anyone about this, I will kill you.  I promise.”  The dark look I’d come to fear was back.  It was even more eerie outlined with her swollen, red eyes.

I know I should have said something.  But what?  I just saw my baby girl cry for the first time, let me hold her, and then been threatened with death.  What is the appropriate response?  My eyes welled with tears as I quickly left the room.

I didn’t tell my husband about what she said, or that she had cried.  Taking care of his family is his most important priority.  And I knew this couldn’t be taken care of.  It would be best to avoid that frustration.

It wasn’t an act.  Alex was scared to die, petrified actually.  She refused to sleep, convinced that she would never wake.  When her body finally gave out and she did drift off, she would wake up hyperventilating.  She shook violently and insisted on checking every part of the house, as if something had slipped in that would take her soul. 

Odd rituals developed.  She would unlock and lock the door fifteen times when we left the house.  Exactly fifteen.  The temperature in the house had to be at sixty-eight.  She would check it every hour on the hour.  If it was off even one degree, she would pace back and forth down the hallway until it changed back.  Suddenly, she had a fear of knives.  She hid all sharp objects in random places.  And if she was watching a movie and someone died, the tears and deep sobs would start again.  It was if all the crying she had kept inside for fifteen years was being let lose. 

The strangest new behavior was the notes she would leave me.  Sometimes she left them in the car, on my bed, or in a book I was reading.  They made no sense, at least not to me.  She wrote things like:

The butterfly wants to be the caterpillar.
Put a circle around my heart.
Pull back and I will follow.
Alone, I travel in a crowd.
An animal in a home is still a beast.

I asked her about them.  What did they mean?  Why was she leaving them for me?  She denied writing them.  I was getting increasingly worried about her mental state.  Teens can be eccentric, but this constant obsession with counting and strange habits mixed with her lies and bizarre words, was over the top. What could I do?

I discussed it with my husband, telling him more than he wanted to know.  His body language spoke volumes.  Though he didn’t want me to keep things from him, he didn’t want to hear what I was saying.  We discussed counseling again. Both of us dreaded repeating the nightmare it had been when she was eleven.  Countless hours driving her to therapy with no results and the drain it took on our finances were both discouraging thoughts.  But we had to try, for Alex . . . for us.

I was trying to figure out how and when to approach the subject to Alex, when I noticed a letter posted on the refrigerator.  It was folded in threes, and my name was on the front in Alex’s handwriting.  Taking it, I sat down prepared to read more garbled messages.  My skin crawled at each scribbled line.

Pleading fingernails scrape closed door.
Coffin, a room smelling of death,
craving space like addicts crave meth.
Release my soul from hellish war!

Bloodied skin hangs from hands that tore,
seeking release; hope flees the soul,
as strength fails and takes its dark toll.Lost, the person I was before.

Resolve becomes a pussing sore.
Ears filled with Satan's taunting voice.
Tasting failure, I have no choice.
Red-eyed demons dance at death's core.

Pleading fingernails scrape closed door.
Bloodied skin hangs dangling and tore.
Resolve becomes a pussing sore.
God, how can you love me no more?

Where had these words come from?  Surely, Alex had not written them herself.  What was she trying to tell me?  Questions toppled over each other in my head landing in a pile of bewilderment.

I was seated at the table holding the poem when Alex got home from school.  She looked at me as if she saw into my soul.

“Alex, no arguments.  Your father and I have decided to try family therapy again.”  I braced myself for the ensuing battle.  I would be strong this time.  Her actions had to be dealt with.  The situation had long past simply ‘getting out of hand’.

She smiled.  Not a smile that shares happiness, but rather one you want to look away from.  “Might as well.  I’m going to die within the year anyway.”

She put her backpack down, gave me one last look, and went to her room.  I was dumbfounded.  I couldn’t kid myself.  Though she had agreed to counseling, she was definitely still calling the shots.


wc 1730
total chapters 1 - 4:  3,957 words