The Edge

A string of sleepless nights leads to a road trip with a troubling destination

It's dark as I head over the mountain on Old Route 30. I've barely slept in the last few days; sick with a fever, hardly eating. The closer I get to home, in Greensburg, Pa., the more disoriented I feel. Still, I can't wait to see my mom because I know she'll take care of me. All I want is to crawl into my bed. I'm coming home on this August night to celebrate my grandmother's 89th birthday. We'll play Grandma's favorite card game, Kings in the Corner, or I'll get Grandma to play with my hair, something I always beg her to do. It's only 11 p.m., but I have that feeling of having pulled an "all-nighter" in college, studying for that final exam right up until the crack of dawn and then going directly to class. My face feels numb. My muscles ache. But once I get home I can collapse.

I have no idea I am about to lose my mind.

When Jax, my dog, and I enter the house, it is late, but my mom is still awake. And just like she always does, she makes me scrambled eggs, toast with grape jelly, and a cup of hot chocolate. We talk as I eat, and I start to relax. She asks me if I'm sleeping any better than I have been over the last few days. I tell her no, and she helps me carry my bags to the bedroom, tiptoeing past Grandma's room so we don't wake her. Jax follows. I get into bed and wait to drift off to sleep. I'm sure that this bed will do the trick. But I can't sleep. My mind isn't racing; in fact, it's blank. I toss and turn, just as I have for the last few days. Finally I give up and quietly head back downstairs.

First I peek in the family room. With its two skylights and fireplace, it reminds me of a rustic ski lodge. It's been a few months since I've been home, and the furniture is rearranged. There's a new brown leather couch, which I immediately sit on; I lie down and pull a blanket over me. The house is quiet -- it must be close to 3 a.m. I say the serenity prayer, which usually relaxes me: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Then I say it again slowly. I feel my body loosen, and I think, this is it. A dog barks in the distance. Jax barks back.

I give up and continue looking around. My grandma got a new chair, a bluish-green one that I decide does not go with the feel of the room, but it has a lot of buttons, and I'm intrigued. Press one, and the seat moves upward, makes a funny noise. Jax looks up. Press two, and the back of the chair starts leaning back farther and farther; press three, and the footrest pops out. Jax sits up. Press four, and the chair goes back to its original position. But my favorite becomes button five. When I press it, the chair moves forward, very slowly. I start laughing hysterically because this chair is so much fun. Jax runs out of the room.

The kitchen is boring. I open the pantry, searching for chocolate. My mother always has chocolate. Not this time. I open the freezer and find a Dreamsicle, which immediately whisks me back to my childhood days at the Charter Oak Pool, where I could buy a Dreamsicle or a Nutty Buddy for 25 cents. I almost eat the Dreamsicle simply for nostalgia's sake, but I'm not really hungry. I wander into the living room, the formal room. Whenever I'm home, I love falling asleep on the couch in here. Everyone seems to leave me alone in the living room. I hear the shower turn on, and the roar of it rattles the silence. The sun is coming up. Jax is at my feet. My mom comes down the stairs in a white silk robe. Her hair's a mess, and her eyes are barely open.

"Mishy," she says, with a look of disappointment on her face, "didn't you sleep at all?"

I smile, excited to finally have someone to talk to. She makes coffee while I head onto the porch to have a cigarette. It's early, 6 or so. I curl up in the white wicker chair, wearing my Tazmanian devil boxer shorts and a T-shirt ripped all the way up to my right breast. It's cold on the front porch, but almost as if on cue, my mom walks out with a cup of coffee in my favorite coffee mug. It's a blue-and-white mug with a scene of seagulls in flight. The mug belonged to my step-father, who died when I was 17. Since then, my mother always brings me coffee in the mug, and I always think of Johnny. My mother sits down on the white wicker chair next to me, and there's a tiny buzz of activity out on the street around us. A neighbor backs out of his drive-way and waves. My mom barely waves back. I know she is mortified to be sitting on the front porch in her robe at the crack of dawn.

"Mishy," she says softly, "you have to sleep." Then she goes inside the house to wake my grandmother, and I smoke another cigarette. When I walk back in, Ed, my mother's husband, is downstairs having breakfast. I sit at the table with him, drinking a second cup of coffee.

"So," he says, "you're not sleeping?"

When Mom and Grandma come back down everyone begins discussing their day. Ed is off to work; my mom is going to work for only half a day but will be home as soon as she can. The caretaker is coming to hang out with Grandma, and I am to try to sleep.

Grandma and I sit down in the family room, her in her new chair and me on the leather couch. I lay down, pull a blanket around me.