the loneliness of night part 1 of 2 a lover's triangle, and one partner deceased
and say to you: ‘This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live
once more and innumerable times more?
—Friedrich Nietzsche
I’ve tried, but can’t comprehend Emma’s loss—I keep expecting her to come back and walk in the door.
We both turned thirty just the week before.
But a drunk driver, a rainstorm and a head-on crash and suddenly I’m left a dangling man—disconnected, unplugged and functionless.
“I miss her too, Mark,” Brooke consoles, “but she’d want us to go on.”
Brooke works with me at Carrington Law Associates—she was also Emma’s best friend.
“I know what you’re saying—it’s just going to take time.”
We’re sitting in downtown Toronto in the lounge of the Park Hotel.
“We should take all the time we need—the law firm can go on—but knowing Emma, she’d be distraught to see us now.”
I touch her arm in sympathy and a fire passes through me. I recoil as if touching a flame.
Brooke’s always done that to me—even when Emma was alive.
She stands to leave. “Keep in touch, Mark,” she whispers, and leans in to hug me.
I inhale the fragrance of her hair, squeezing eyes tight as if that alone could stop the longing and shut out the thought of her.
She looks deeply into my eyes and smiles reassuringly.
Then, I watch her gracefully navigate the tight maze of tables—her auburn hair burnished by overhead lights.
She’s lovely.
Emma was beautiful in a different way—dark hair mysterious as rain at night.
She and Brooke were soul mates and inseparable—until that fatal crash—and now, both of us hang suspended, severed from our source.
I shut off the light and fall into bed and, within minutes, my breathing slows and falls into a steady rhythm.
And then, as if expected, Emma walks into the room.
She sits at the foot of my bed—I see the mattress compress as she folds her legs beneath her lotus-style.
“I miss you, Mark,” she says.
The tears are running down my cheeks. She shakes her head as if to chide me, but reaches out and brushes the tear trails aside with her fingers.
“Musn’t cry,” she whispers in her matter-of-fact tone, “can’t be helped. Brooke’s right—life must go on.”
“I can’t,” I moan.
“You will, in time—and for now, I’ll stay with you and help you through.”
We talk like that throughout the night. Sometime, before dawn, I fall asleep. When I awaken, she’s gone.
It goes on like this, night after night—a waking dream where she visits and we talk.
I want to tell Brooke, but can’t—it’s far too intimate and she wouldn’t understand.
“It’s called a lucid dream, Mark—your subconscious isn’t in control—your conscious mind is.”
Martin Wallace leans back in his chair and studies me.
He’s an excellent psychiatrist and he’s at least convinced me I’m not demonized or crazy.
“So, you think I’m manipulating the experience?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “You’re in control, but not to the extent you’re putting words in Emma’s mouth—there’s increased activity in the parietal lobes and your brainwaves exhibit higher amounts of beta waves—we can actually measure that.”
“But is it real?”
“Lucid dreams can be very realistic and vivid—but is your dead wife talking to you? I don’t think so.”
“But it seems so real as if it’s happening.”
He smiles sympathetically. “These dreams are in a different category from ordinary dreams—they’re associated with REM sleep and your eyes actually move and follow people and motion in the visual field. In rare cases, the objects and people may persist for a brief time after waking up.”
I’m still not convinced. “But I’ve never experienced anything remotely like this before—so why now?”
“Lucid dreaming is often precipitated by real life stress. Something is oppressing you or confusing you and the mind tries to figure it out.”
I turn pale and he picks up on it.
“Is something else bothering you, Mark, besides Emma’s death?”
I sigh and take a deep breath. “I’m attracted Brooke Madison, Emma’s best friend.”
“When did the attraction begin?”
“It’s always been there,” I whisper, “right from the start.”
“So, you’ve been conflicted about this desire for Brooke, and it’s been an on-going tension even when Emma was alive?”
I feel miserable. All I can do is nod.
“Well, at least you’ve got that out into the open—Oh, by the way, does Brooke know?”
“No!” I reply horrified, “at least, I don’t think she knows—I mean, I’m not sure if she suspects.”
He looks at me compassionately.
“I guess I’m not sure of anything right now.”
The grandfather clock in the corner of the office softly chimes.
“Well, I think we accomplished quite a bit today. I’m going to prescribe a mild benzodiazepine to help you sleep.”
He hands me a scrip. “This prescription is for a drug called Immovane. I’m giving you a very mild dose. We’ll start you off with 7.5 mg tablet and see how that works.”
I shake his hand. “I’ll see you in two weeks, Doc.”
I drop by the pharmacy on the way home.
That night, despite the pill, Emma shows up as usual.
The beat goes on.
One night, a month later, we’re all at a company function. Brooke’s there and I have to drown her out by drinking far too much.
A friend sends me home in a cab.
I make it as far as the living room couch and that’s where I crash.
Emma, of course, disapproves. She covers me with a blanket and scolds me for my recklessness.
I awake hung over. She makes me breakfast.
She sets our places at the table and I sit down opposite her. As I sip my coffee, I wake up, staring at two plates of eggs and bacon.
It makes no sense.
I have no explanation how life interrupted continues on in another dimension.
And then, of course, there’s still the problem of Brooke—I can't resolve that.
I'm caught in a tangle of conflicting desires and needs—a lover's triangle, with one partner deceased.
Okay - I finished reading part 2 and came back to give a little comment love. :)
Thank you for your wonderful stories.