Todd Revisited: Sleepless (Chapter 12)

After a tiring day, he wondered if he could sleep.  Being shot at on the dock, Tea, being in the apartment for a near miss (what was it McBain had said, he was baking a pie?) and trying to adjust to his new surroundings in a small, humble flat left him feeling as if he should sleep.  He was, as always, not certain he could.  


Sleep was something that he had alternately chased and run from most of his life, or at least, most of it.  He settled himself onto the couch in McBain's living room, and set his head back against the armrest.  It was dark, McBain had turned in hours ago, and he went over the events of the day with slides flashing through his mind.  He knew what he heard in Tea's voice; she was afraid, but also curious, and clearly in love with the impostor.  He turned his thoughts to the docks, and the shooting; how the sound of the bullets punctuated the air with reminders; how he had escaped unscathed and somehow made a connection with this McBain character.  For a cop, he really wasn't a bad guy.  A far cry from Bozo Buchanan, or the Irish police.  


The glow from the computer was not a distraction; somehow a bit of light was a comfort.  The scene from the docks earlier in the day continually played through his mind, and he made himself  focus on the sound of the water lapping the pier, and before he knew it, he found himself back near the ocean in his mind.  Except, this ocean was not as calm or controlled.  This ocean was the gripping, frigid Irish sea.  He allowed himself to drift back to that time, when, like today, he was being protected in someone's home from forces he didn't have full understanding of.  Somehow, even his painful time in Ireland felt like a relief to him now.


"You've not slept, Son."

Lilly made her way into the kitchen in a long, flannel nightgown, furry slippers and a bathrobe. She rushed to put a kettle on and threw wood on the fire. He had recognized how cold it was, but ignored it. He'd been up since last night, and she was right, he did not sleep a wink.


He turned slowly to her.  "How did you know that?"


Lilly banged a few pots and pans before answering.  He saw her taking eggs from the refrigerator.  Everything in the cabin was modest, nothing seemed new.  Heck, the fridge looked like it was from the 50s - boxy and a weird mint green.


"I knew because you have not moved even an inch.  And, I checked on ya during the night.  Can't have something bad happenin' to ya on my watch."  She puttered around more.  "Are you all right, lad?"


"I can't move.  I'm in a lot of pain.  I could use some more pain medication, if we have it."  He thought for a minute and said, "I can't feel my legs.  Everything else hurts."  He stopped.  "Bad."  He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up the pretense that he was not in the most intense pain of his life.


She approached the bed, holding a glass of water to his lips, and placing two pills on his lower lips, which he had found an interesting way to move into his mouth using the tip of his tongue and some good, old-fashioned leverage.  She put her hand on his forehead and paused.  "Nope.  No fever.  That's a good sign.  The Good Lord has brought you down from the levels of hell."


He looked up at her from his lying position with an eyeful of disdain.  One arm was scarred and had been roughly stitched.    The other was bruised and still cast.  His good ear felt plugged with water.  His legs were like empty, hollow things he couldn't even detect.  His head hurt badly when it was still, and pounded and pained intensely when he moved.  He was having a hard time breathing, which meant he probably had ribs that were broken or worse.  He didn't know his name.  And, he was having horror-films for bedtime stories.  He hadn't even seen himself in a mirror.  "Are you sure, Lilly?"


The woman smiled, in spite of herself.  "Yes, I am sure, lad."


"Is my face . . ."


"No.  Your face is all right.  Despite that scar you already had, looking at your face, you'd never know what happened to you."


"What did happen to me?"


"A lot." She walked away, headed back to the stove to make breakfast.  "We can talk about this later."


"How did you keep me alive all this time?  How did I eat?"


Lilly kept working.  She wanted to make this discussion matter-of-fact, as not to plague him with any more emotional stress.  "That IV right there, that the doctor set up.  Gave you all your nutrients."


"What did the doctor say about my . . . my injuries?"


"You've broken almost every bone in your body, just not your neck, not your skull, and not your fingers.  Son, you were very fortunate to live through this.  Thank God and Mary."


"What happened to me?"  


She could tell by his tone that he was being as demanding as he possibly could.  She continued to fix the meal.  "Son, later.  Let me do my work."


He could smell morning smells.  Thankful for that, he closed his eyes, not giving up on finding out.  "I'll find out, you know.  Aman will tell me.  Us guys understand each other."  


"I will tell you, just not now.  I want you to eat a good breakfast, for the first time in a while, and then we can discuss it.  Agreed, lad?"  She turned to him, hand on hip.  In an odd way, she reminded him of someone.  He didn't know who or how to even classify the feeling.


"Agreed."


"And, if I tell you, you're going to tell me why you scream like a banshee sometimes in your sleep, right, Son?"  She feigned a pleasant, teasing exterior, but he could tell she was more than concerned.  A black veil seemed to fall over her eyes.


"Not sure, Lilly.  I don't remember much about my dreams after I wake up."  He flashed on the man's leering face.  "I hardly remember any of it."


She turned back to the stove.  He knew the smell of eggs and bacon, and it connected with him in ways he couldn't really decipher.  He was hungry, for real food and he knew it.  Coffee noises were happening now, in an old silver percolator type of pot.  He closed his eyes and soaked in the aromas.  


At this, Lilly came to the bedside rather quickly.  "Hey, Son, hey now?"


He popped his eyes open with alarm.  "I'm not going anywhere, Lilly.  It's okay."  He wanted to lift his arm and reach her, but he couldn't mobilize it.  "Besides, I gotta stick around for that breakfast and the story of my death."


He said aloud, "My death.  Guess one was not enough."  He turned over, and tired from the strain of memory, he closed his eyes, and of course, he dreamed.


He was seated in a chair unlike those he'd ever seen, metallic bulbs on each side of his head.   Panic filled his chest and it was almost impossible to breathe.  He wanted to call out, but words would not come.  In all white, his hands and legs were strapped to the chair arms and rungs, and the smells and sites were familiar.  Bare walls, overhead lights, sterile environment, a small bunk, no air, no light, no escape.  A hand-reader was on the wall in front of him.  He couldn't place where the panic was coming from, but it was strong.  As footsteps neared the door, he became more and more agitated.  He could feel his heart race more, and lift, as if in his throat.  His breathing quickened, and his brow became speckled with sweat.  This was terror and what was worse was knowing it was some horror that he was going to face, but not know exactly what that horror was.  


As the door opened, he strained to see who it was.  Try as he might, the face was shrouded in a black cape, not unlike the one that a figure had worn in his dreams all his life.
"Who are you?" he heard himself cry out.  His voice sounded small, young, lost.  "Who are you and what do you want from me?"


The figure approached slowly, and he cursed it and fought against the bonds holding him still.  His head whipped side to side, and all his strength was mustered in his attempt to break free.  "If I can just get my hands around his neck. . ."


What did this tormentor want?  What did he hold, shrouded under his long cape sleeves?  A gun?  A belt with a bright glazed buckle?  A shining cigarette lighter?  A needle?  Some electrical device that brought insurmountable pain?  A ragged, bony hand . . .


He sat up and gasped for air.  Realizing where he was, he controlled himself.  McBain, parked at the computer behind him, simply said, without turning around, "Bad dreams?"     


"Yeah," he was undoubtedly more unsteady than he was ready to show.  "I dreamed someone stole my entire life and I lost everyone that I ever loved."  And then, "Oh wait, that's real.  What are we going to do about that?"


"This."  McBain held out a DNA test kit.  


After a few quips and some discussion, he found himself acknowledging his own self-doubt.  What if I am crazy?  What if the impostor is right about me?


McBain was matter-of-fact and ignored his emotions with a business-like, professional air.  He liked the guy.  McBain just assured him that this was the only way to find out, and he left the apartment.


Todd sat down, still confused.  He still had all of these memories flowing in and out of his mind's eye.  But he also had dreams like this recent one, and they talked to him about what was in him; his darkness.  He had no way of knowing, not truly, that he was not some crazed maniac who wanted to be this rich guy from Llanview.  Not truly.  He had no way of knowing, not truly, which of the things in the dream were real and which were not.  Not truly.  He could take a guess, or try and deduce the truth, but he was apprehensive about trusting himself.  And the doubt was because of his inability to remember more recent things, while being able to picture, recite and relive older things.  


All of it scared him.  Why couldn't he remember the last time he was in Llanview?  In his experience, if he tried, it hurt so badly he'd not be able to keep going.  His mind would shut off.  He recalled a time when he pushed himself so much that his Dark Mass completely ingested him, and he woke up weeks later.  He told himself that he would try again later, but first, a shower, hot, comforting water, was all he could think of exploring.