The voice is always the same: a kind of a barely controlled rage. It doesn’t frighten me. I hear it, and know, and I’m with her again.
This most recent time she shouted, “What the fuck is your problem!” It’s always something like this. I put my arm around her, to wake her.
“I had a bad dream,” she said.
“I know. It’s okay.”
“You were there. My mom was in the basement screaming at us to get downstairs. She would always scream like that. I don’t think she had any idea. I felt embarrassed because you were there.”
I pulled her closer and fixed the blanket.
“She doesn’t know what happened,” she said. “She’s forgotten everything.”
“I have too,” I said. “It’s easier that way.”
Her cheek was resting against my chest. I felt her tilt her head back to look at me, not that she would have seen anything in the dark.
“That’s true,” she said, “you have.”