He woke up, and immediately caught himself, trying to breathe slowly and barely move. He didn't want to wake her, and didn't want her to know that he was still having the nightmares. She'd been through enough, and with the recent developments with the baby . . .
He stared at the ceiling but couldn't shake it. Peter was by the bed. By THIS bed. Looking at us. He said it again. He wants everything I ever loved. Everything.
He closed his eyes, and said in his mind, "He's not going to hurt anyone. He's dead, and that's that. Let's go. Get it together."
Still, after a few minutes passed, he couldn't get the image of Peter at the foot of the bed from his mind. He slowly got out of the bed, and felt her move. She touched his back, and groggily said, "Todd?"
He said, "I didn't eat enough. Going to get some food."
She turned over to her other side, and became quiet again. He touched her hair gently, and got up to make his way downstairs.
He was tired. Nightmares interfered with his rest, and he was feeling it. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, when he was going for days and days without rest, but it was starting to catch up. He sat, outside the bedroom door, and attempted to get his bearings. His knees up, he lowered his head and concentrated on clearing his mind. I have a wife, her name is Blair. I have a family, I have a home. He repeated his mantra, and variations of it, over and over to try and clean the images and, hopefully, go back to sleep.
His concentration was broken by soft footsteps next to him, and he looked up. It was Bitsy. She was in a long, floral flannel nightie with a high ruffle collar and little pink socks. He lifted his face until his eyes caught hers, and she tilted her head, as if questioning. She crouched beside him, and put her hand on his head. He whispered, "Momma."
She nodded. She touched his mouth, and then motioned as if she wanted him to tell her. Somehow he knew what she was asking. "Peter. He's . . . in my dreams. I can't make it stop."
She opened her mouth, as if she wanted to speak. And try as she might, she could not form words. Instead, she nodded, as if prodding him on. He said, "I can't wake Blair. The baby."
She nodded again, in understanding. At this point, she was sitting next to him, on the floor, looking into his face. He whispered, "He wants to take everything from me."
She shook her head, violently, "no." She got up, in the dark and left him, scurrying in her stocking feet, and came back with a pad. She wrote:
No. He can't. He's not alive. He's dead. No one can take everything from you, except you.
He read it, and looked to the ceiling, eyes moist with tears. "He won't go."
You must let him go. You tell him to go.
"I tried. He won't. He comes back. This has been all my life, Momma. I hid it from everyone, from you, from Blair, from Tea, from myself. All my life."
He's dead, Todd.
"He's only as dead as he is in my head."
You can stop that. Dr. Ray. And Blair, she loves you.
"I can't stop the dreams about him. Since I went back to the clinic, in Switzerland."
I don't really understand, but tell me, My Angel. I'm here.
"I was there, in the 90s. Some men tried to kill me, shot me in the back, threw me over a cliff in the trunk of a car. I was shattered, physically, and emotionally. Blair was pregnant with Starr. She thought . . . she thought I died. After a while, I was sent to a Swiss clinic. While I was there, I . . . thought I saw Peter."
When was this?
"Like 1996." He looked at her puzzled expression, and he said, "No, he was dead. I know, it couldn't have been him. But . . ."
But, you saw him?
"I did. He was by my bed. He took out . . . he flashed his lighter."
Oh, the lighter. He loved that thing, and what it could do. I know. I remember. In your dream, he burned you?
"He grabbed my arm. It was so real. He burned my arm, and I have a scar where it was."
Bitsy didn't say anything, she just looked at where he pointed, and then she swallowed. She thought, and then wrote: How did Peter die?
"Heart attack. I was in the room when he died. He died with me there."
She pursed her lips. I'm sorry you saw that. But he was dead, if you saw him die. He couldn't have burned you. Could you be confused?
"Yeah. Hell, yeah. The men who kidnapped me . . ." he stopped, looking at her face. He seemed to be searching for something.
Don't be afraid to tell me, Todd. It's all right. Go ahead, the truth. It's the best thing.
"The men who kidnapped me used it against me. They burned me, too, and cut me, did other things. Even Blair was confused by it. She thought she remembered the burn, but she's not sure either. Anyone could have done it, it could have happened anywhere. In the car crash off the cliff, for God's sake."
She didn't respond, she just brushed his hair with her hand. He continued, "I don't know, Momma. He just won't let go."
Todd, it's you who won't let go. I know what he did. I lived it with you. Sometimes, it invades my heart, and my mind. It's horrible, all of it. I know, and I'm sorry.
He wasn't quite sure what happened, but he suddenly was overwhelmed by her words, and hung his head. When she heard the rasps of his own weeping, she pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around him the best she could. He grabbed the edge of her sleeve and gripped it. "Momma," he said, "I should have stopped him."
No. No. She scribbled on her pad, while he still leaned against her shoulder. You were a little baby, and then a little boy. You couldn't save us. You have to let go of that, too.
He closed his eyes and felt his mother's arms around him. For a moment, he felt like a foolish man, being coddled like a child. But the next moment, he could do nothing but accept her comfort and resign himself to trying to move on.
"Momma," he said, softly, and she made the only sound she could.
"Shhh," and lightly kissed the top of his head.
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