Before I Go To Sleep: A Novel

And yet, I realized, one story felt real and the other did not. I realized that I did not believe that my son was dead.

looked over at him, running in the distance. Another faulty, fucked-up brain in a healthy body.

Protect me from what, though? From the truth. I thought the truth more important than anything. Maybe I am wrong.

Perhaps I was worried that she would be able to read its contents reflected in my face, and they would no longer be mine to own.

“There aren’t many photographs,” I said. “In the scrapbook, I mean. There aren’t any photos of us from our wedding.” “We had a fire,” he said. “In the last place we were living.” “A fire?” “Yes,” he said. “Our house pretty much burned down. We lost a lot of things.”

diaphanous,

Mike was too inward-looking for that, I have learned. With him, everything is a test, affection is measured, that given weighed against that which has been received, and the balance, more often than not, disappointing him.

“Okay,” she said. “But let’s sit down. I’m just gasping for a coffee.”

It might have been kinder, for all of us, if he had not taken me to the funeral at all. With a chill, I wondered if that was what he had really done.