All Through The Night

22

Sondra could no longer bear to read a newspaper or turn on the television or listen to the radio. Alvirah’s story about the baby had set off a media furor that made her cringe with shame.

On Monday night she had fished in her suitcase and found the unopened bottle of sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed, for when she had one of her occasional bouts of insomnia. She never had taken even one of them, preferring to tough it out rather than yield to the temptation to use something she considered a crutch. But by Monday, she knew she had no choice. She simply had to have some sleep.

When she awoke at eight on Tuesday morning, however, her cheeks were wet with tears, and she remembered that in her vague, troubled dreams she had been weeping.

Groggy and disoriented, she finally managed to sit up and tentatively put her feet over the side of the bed.

For several seconds, the hotel room seemed to spin around her, the flowered draperies blending with the striped fabric on the couch in a kaleidoscope of color. I would have been better off either to have stayed awake all night-or to have swallowed every pill in the bottle, she thought fleetingly. But then she shook her head. I’m not that much of a coward, she told herself.

A long, hot shower, with the water pelting her face and soaking her hair, helped to restore some sense of focus. She pulled on a terry-cloth robe, wrapped her hair in a towel and forced herself to order scrambled eggs and toast with the usual juice and coffee.

Granddad and Gary are arriving tonight, she reminded herself. If they see me like this, they’ll keep asking what’s wrong until I break down and tell them the whole story. I’ve got to practice well today. And I’ve got to practice especially well tomorrow, when Granddad will be listening. I’ve got to give the kind of performance that makes him feel that all the years of teaching me and sacrificing for me were worth it.

Sondra got up and walked to the window. Today is Tuesday the 15th of December, she thought, as she looked down at the street, already bustling with midtown traffic and pedestrians rushing to work.

“The concert is next Wednesday,” she said aloud. The day after that is Christmas Eve-that’s when we’re supposed to go back to Chicago, she thought. Only I’m not going. Instead, I’m going to ring the bell of St. Clement’s rectory, something I should have done seven years ago instead of running two blocks to a phone. I’m going to tell Monsignor Ferris that I’m the baby’s mother, and then I’ll ask him to call the police. I can’t live with this guilt for one day longer.