Shall Not Sleep [bxb]

Chapter Thirteen

For one exploding moment, I was sure I'd fallen through time and found my way to Alastair, but I opened my eyes to a dropped ceiling and a flickering fluorescent light.

"Oh, there you be," a soft voice said. "Max, honey? What's your name?"

"You just said it," I croaked. I closed my eyes; the light was so, so bright.

"Yes, I know, but what is it?"

"Max Callan." Maximilian. "Actually, Maximilian."

Someone's hands helped me sit up. I was in the school nurse's office, on one of those little beds covered by crinkly paper sheets. Selena sat in a chair near the end of my bed, her fists clenched and her face white as the walls.

"You fainted," the nurse said, handing me a Dixie cup of water. I down it in one gulp. "Your mother is on her way."

I almost spat the water out again.

"Mom's coming? Why?"

The nurse laughed. "We can't just let you pass out and not call your mum, silly!"

She bustled away and I'm left with just Selena. She gives an awkward smile.

"That was really scary," she said. "You just slid to the floor."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. You were obviously upset."

And now I remembered. And now I felt more and more like I want to black out again and never wake up.

"Oh, God," I breathed. "I'm just so—"

I had to stop. Mom stood in the doorway in scrubs and a sweatshirt, her eyes wide and her hands clutching her purse. She glances at Selena before she hurries to my side.

"Max!" she cries. Her frigid hand touches my forehead. "Are you okay? They said you blacked out in class!"

"I'm fine."

"You're coming home right this minute," she says. She pets my hair and kisses my cheek. "Are you okay to walk?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Come on, up you get."

Selena stands, too, and Mom says, "Who's this, Max?"

"Selena. From class."

"Oh." Mom attempted a smile. "Nice you meet you."

Selena grimaced and left the room before us.

Mom signed me out and steered me out of the school with her arm around my shoulders. When we got in the car, she says, "Selena seems... nice."

"I guess she's okay." I breathed steadily and my pulse calmed down. It felt good. I tried to keep my mind blank.

"Do you... like her?"

"No, Mom. God."

"Okay, sorry, I'm just asking." She started the car and I felt her drive us out of the parking lot and onto the street. "It's just that... never mind. I just wondered."

I didn't know what to say. So I didn't say anything. When we got home she asked if I wanted to watch a movie. I thought of what I'd be doing otherwise—sitting alone in my room, thinking too hard about the truth, with the darkness coming closer and closer—and I said yes. I picked a Disney cartoon, because bright and chirpy was exactly what I needed to fill my brain with.

It wouldn't last long.

*

Dear Alastair,

I don't know what's happening. My letters aren't getting through. I don't know what to do. I'm keeping them under my pillow for now. I end up lying awake, moving my head slightly and hearing the paper rustle underneath, and thinking about how that goddamn paper will still be there to taunt me when I wake up.

Please, please, please tell me you're okay. I'm going insane not knowing.

You're dead. You must be. It's the only answer I can come up with. Thousands and thousands of British soldiers died at The Somme and it only makes sense that you're one of them. I keep having these stupid selfish thoughts. I keep asking myself why God would take you when he could take any goddamn soldier on that battlefield. I try not to think that way, since I know you would hate it. Why should God (if there is a God) keep you in exchange for someone else, just because I love you? My love isn't worth more than any other person's.

But I'm jumping to conclusions. You might not be dead. There might just be some kind of rift. Something stopping the letters.

Please, God, let this letter get through.

Love always,

Max

*

Dear Alastair,

It's been two weeks since I last had a letter from you. Two weeks of misery. I've told myself I should just concentrate on real life. I have a new sort-of friend, Selena. We walked Douglas and her dog, Lola, in the park the other day. It was okay. And I guess I should be concentrating on school, but it's hard to care, since I'm just going to fail anyway. There's no way Mom won't be disappointed in me.

I've tried to concentrate on all that, but my thoughts keep coming back to you. I keep picturing you in the mud, bombs and guns going off all around you. I keep thinking about how many bullets must have flown and how many bombs detonated in a single day at the Somme... one of them hitting you and exploding you, YOU, perfect you, into a million pieces... it's just too likely.

I can't think about this anymore. I'm going to go crazy.

I don't know how I can live without answers, Alastair.

All my love, whatever it's worth,

Max

*

Dear Alastair,

Some teachers have noticed I've been acting strangely and now I have to go see the school psychologist. She wears a string of macademia nuts as a necklace and her shoes are made of recycled rubber. She's really nice, and as I was sitting in the chair I thought that maybe I could mention you and she might understand. So I faked some stuff and told her some bullshit about how I'm sad about my dad and she told me writing letters to him might help.

Letters. I'm not sure if writing letters to you will help me or hurt me. Writing them feels so comfortable, so on one hand it feels good. On the other hand... I know I won't see new words in your beautiful handwriting on a dirt-smudged page in return. So I just don't know.

What I do know is that, if I stop writing, the letters for sure won't come through. I have to keep trying. Maybe I can break through.

It's been a month since your last letter. It's been a month since you were here that night. I can't decide if that was the best or worst way to say goodbye.

I don't want to lose hope but I'm scared I might. If you're dead (of course you are, you've been dead for decades -- the only question is how many decades), and you're watching me, please help me. Just give me something to push me forward. Some kind of clue. Some kind of idea as to what I can do to put myself out of this misery.

Love,

Max