Heat

It is the night I forget to turn down the heat. I lie in bed thinking about whether to go downstairs in my sleepy stupor or just leave it. Then I remember how hot it gets at night when I forget—as I do maybe four times a winter—to turn the heat down before bed. I am forced to sleep with no covers, and then eventually I yank my nightgown off, almost strangling myself in the process. I begin to sweat. I have dreams of damp, colorless beings with eyes like My Little Pony but with the murderous presence of Jack the Ripper. So no it isn’t really worth it, I surmise, to stay here in bed and pretend that none of this will happen.

But then what if I trip and fall down the stairs? Usually when I forget to turn the heat down, the lights are off and I’m too lazy to switch the hall light on. There’s always some light from the street coming in a side window, but it’s never quite enough to see my way. Yet because I’ve walked up and down the stairs thousands of times over nine years, I can navigate them easily with a little light. I’ve never fallen once. But what if I’m too tired this evening, which I am unbelievably so, and miss a step? My house is old and the stairs are very steep. I’ve never fallen down them but I could do so this one time.

Let’s just say I break my legs and have to go to the hospital. My mother and sister will visit me and ask what happened. When I tell them I fell down the stairs, my mother, or no probably my sister will say, “You didn’t turn the hallway light on did you. Is it because you were too lazy?” Of course, I wouldn’t answer her but she would know. Sisters always know, or at least they think they do. Just because she is older than I am. She has a family and problems at work. I love my work and that bothers her.

My mother would make a point of telling my sister that it wasn’t a good time to be blaming me. But then she would say something under her breath. As she turned away from me, I would hear her. “She surely had her reasons.”

I would spend days pouring over this one phrase. First thinking that she was a wicked woman unable to express her true feelings. How her locked up emotions held everyone in the family hostage, made us like birds with no song in our throats. But then I’d feel guilty for thinking about her that way—a woman who almost died giving birth to me. Perhaps I might also consider that my mother didn’t mean anything at all. That yes I did have my reasons, and that was enough for her.

I get up and make my way downstairs in the part darkness. I turn the heat down and run back up to my bedroom.

I sleep well that night.