When I’d checked our savings to pay for Jeff’s casket and had seen our money was gone, when a collection service had come for a staggering credit card debt and I’d discovered his gambling addiction, I’d felt shock, disbelief, and a swift liberation. People would not question my ability to go back to work without missing a beat. I had to! We were broke. But to me it meant no guilt. I wouldn’t have to get my baby out of a miserable family, the type of family I had already survived once and had been anxiously problem-solving an exit from. We were out! We’d paid the price. Brutal yes, but there it was.

If people wondered about my ability to carry on, I often said, “We miss him terribly,” which had some truth in it. I wasn’t a monster. I would add, “It’s good I have to keep very busy to make up what was lost gambling.” I leaked information about Jeff’s gambling as a way to explain not totally falling apart. And it had worked for the most part.

Inch by inch I pulled my arm out from under Katie’s shoulder. If I pushed against the mattress, a channel for my arm could be made. I slipped off the bed and wriggled my fingers, then stretched. Quietly, I moved the side rail up and snapped it into place, made sure the call light was where Katie could reach it.

What I’d come to understand was that I wasn’t the greatest judge when bringing people into my life. I’d been wrong about Jeff. I’d been wrong about Holly. Maddie and Katie were my family; I kept the numbers small for this reason.

In that way, I guess Holly and I weren’t that different. Holly had stayed angry, I had stayed fearful—two strong sisters in isolation.

CHAPTER SIX

I HAVE AN APP FOR THAT

Flying was heaven for the sleepiest people in the world: the hypersomniacs, the narcoleptics, and those of us plagued with what the medical community called excessive daytime sleepiness. Nothing more ironic than attaching the prefix hyper to sleepiness in my mind, but I was too tired to take on the medical terminology field.

When held in the clouds by a Delta Airlines jet, a person had no place to go and virtually nothing to do but sit, doze off, and not feel embarrassed or guilty about it. The airline provided Wi-Fi, but I didn’t let wireless get in my way of my sleeping skills.

I wouldn’t normally sleep for hours in the middle of the day, but I hadn’t been sleeping much at night. Getting Maddie ready for Colorado, answering questions about internships and babysitting, Katie’s hospitalization, googling empty nest. Advice ranged from what to do if you found a robin’s nest (leave it alone) to a page on Mayo Clinic’s website diagnosing a syndrome. Mayo said I should accept the timing of my child leaving, keep in touch, seek support, and stay positive. This seemed like good advice for, say, when your lawn guy moves to Arizona. Not for the syndrome where you lose your cellular equivalent, the person who fed off your breast for a year, the one person you could always call your own, my daughter. Even if it was to finish the sentence with “My daughter is annoyed by me.”

Maddie had insisted that she would drive to Colorado and had her bags packed for a summer in the mountains. I’d stuffed a quilted cooler with Diet Pepsi and baggies of carrots, jicama, sugar peas, crackers, pretzels, cheese, and Swedish Fish. Her expression had resembled, I supposed, a sailor about to shove off for uncharted waters, buried treasure, and cute boys. I’d hugged her too hard and kissed her hair too many times, and stood too long in the driveway after her car had rounded the corner out of sight. Then I’d taken to my bed and cried like a high school girl who didn’t get asked to prom.

I lay with my head resting against the hull of the plane even as the wheels bumped onto the runway. Someone peeled an orange, and the scent reminded me that I would soon be standing on California soil. I heard the woman in the middle seat to my left say, “She slept the entire flight.”

People were so judgmental about slumber, like sleepers had vexing needs that more motivated people did not. I almost opened my eyes and said, Sleep is the only thing we don’t let ourselves do, even though we love to do it. If I had any guts I’d add, The difference between my body and yours is that my body is well rested, and yours is sleep deprived. And if I was Holly, I’d say, Shut up.

I peered through my eyelashes at the woman in the seat next to me as she yanked a bag the size of a second grader out from under the seat. She’d been wrestling items from her carry-on like she was on a camping trip. Every time I woke to reposition, I’d watched her smooth various emollients over her face, neck, hands, and arms. She’d spritzed herself with mists, sipped from an elaborate water bottle with its own filtration system, and swallowed vitamins the size of Alka-Seltzer tablets, at least once with a white wine chaser. Now her focus was on me.

She had large, shiny lips that maybe she was born with, maybe not. Her thighs were the size of my calves, and, for perspective, my calves were proportional and within normal limits for my height and weight. This woman had a very extra-American look that seemed perfect for Movie Star California, but an odd showing in the economy class on Airbus A321. And, PS, there was no possible way her eyelashes were her own.

This woman said to whoever was listening, “Do you think she’s sick?” She bumped my elbow and sprayed something that smelled like hand sanitizer.

“Maybe she worked a night shift somewhere,” said another voice.

God bless her heroic display of empathy, I thought.

“Maybe,” said California Girl.

I wasn’t going to explain my hypersomnia to anyone this trip. I was going to remain quiet, invisible, justify nothing, and try to face Holly as equals.

We’d made plans to meet at the gate after I’d realized she’d booked herself in first class while placing me in economy. You’d think I’d be pissed by the slight, but I was so grateful to not be stuck next to her. It was a dick move, but I knew this was just the opening act; now that we had landed, the main event would start. My phone vibrated in my jacket pocket—no doubt Holly nudging me along.

I opened my eyes wide, and just like that I became visible.

“Wow,” the woman said to me. “You must have been tired. You slept the whole way.”

“I have the gift of sleep,” I said.

“I never sleep,” she said, and I believed her. She looked fat-free and wired. Like her internal motor burned on high all day long, leaving her skin looking like softly glazed, sculpted pottery. Her eyes were round with alertness or surgery. It was hard to tell.

Now that I was awake, it was time to take my medication. I fished inside my bag, a navy North Face backpack with a broken side zipper that had been Maddie’s in middle school. It had multiple storage pouches filled with snacks, travel documents, personal items, and writing materials. An old, free Clinique bag held medication, a small sewing kit, a Tide pen, a lint brush, and enough tissues to wipe up a nuclear spill.

Except, after quite a lot of searching, I couldn’t locate my sleep medication. I took 37.5 milligrams of Concerta extended-release formula to keep my sleep fog at bay during the day. I always carried the original amber pill bottle plus a backup smaller stash in case of emergencies. One by one, passengers moved to the center aisle while I frantically checked every single pouch, sack, bag, and purse, dumping each one into my lap. I found earplugs, hairpins, one hoop earring, and oddly a magnet, but no medication. I hoped I had slipped them into my luggage. Before panicking, mentioning it to Holly, or admitting my error, I would kneel on the floor in baggage claim and search for my amphetamines.

With a sinking feeling, I knew I wouldn’t find my meds. I knew because I could see them in my mind’s eye, right where I’d left them on the bathroom counter. I’d been counting out the pills needed for two weeks. I’d carefully placed each oblong red tablet into a small plastic box for my backpack; the larger bottle would go into my luggage. Katie had called, and I’d rushed to answer. I’d scribbled down Tom’s address in California along with his phone number. She had called five shelters, and one of them had a Great Pyrenees. They would not let her pay to hold him—who knows why. We’d talked about how she was feeling; then I’d zipped my luggage and gotten into the car to go to the airport.

The medicine that kept me from passing out sat waiting to be called into action in my bathroom many, many, many miles away. I rubbed my eyes.

“Still tired?” said the woman next to me. “That’s why I don’t nap. I can’t wake up even after just a short snooze.”

I resisted saying, Stop talking! Just because I’m sitting next to you doesn’t mean I want to hear your opinions on sleep. Instead, I raised my eyebrows hoping they communicated my disinterest.

“I always have an iced coffee before I get on the plane. Then I can work the whole four hours.” The woman delivered this tip over her shoulder as she lifted a mammoth carry-on from an overhead bin, her upper-body strength on impressive display.

I motioned for the man across the aisle to proceed. He gestured with irritation and said, “Go with your friend.”