A Nighttime Call

It hadn’t been that long since I was up in the middle of the night on a regular basis. Quite recently, my preschooler was still waking up at least once every night and calling for me. I had been up with her just last night, but it had been the first time in a couple of weeks. Being roused from sleep by a phone call, though, was rather different and unexpected.

I was being summoned.

He greeted me at the door, in his pajamas and barefoot, as if he had been waiting there for some time. Wringing his hands nervously, he seemed relieved to see me, though his concern was not completely gone. His hair was dishevelled, as if he might have been asleep at one point.

Shutting the door on the silent blackness out there, beyond the porch, I turned the lock to secure it. At this hour of the night, and at this time of the year, there weren’t even any crickets chirping. The stillness and quiet were eerie and unsettling. It was the sort of setup you’d expect for a murder mystery or a horror movie.

“Oh, good, I'm glad you're here,” he said, shuffling down the corridor sideways, never turning his back to me. “I'm not sure what's going on. They are telling me I have to stay here, but I don't know who's in charge and where the men's dormitories are.”

“Who's they?” I checked with him as I toed off my sneakers and hung up my jacket on the doorknob. “Where are your slippers?” I followed with a second question, feeling the frigid tile floor beneath my socked feet. I took in the familiar space - everything was neat and in its place, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A floor lamp in the corner cast shadows around the room, but it certainly felt like adequate lighting for the hour. It likely served more like a nightlight, guiding the way towards the bathroom.

“The people who live here. Or work here,” he replied, looking down at his feet. A lump formed in my throat as my brain raced for ideas of what to say. I wasn’t good at thinking on the spot, especially not after only a few hours of sleep. “I'm not sure. There was this woman, I don't know where she went,” he continued as he looked around, confused. I couldn’t tell whether he was looking for his slippers or the woman he claimed to have been there. He wasn’t doubting that he'd seen her, though; he knew he did. I got the impression that he was disoriented, unsure of which way to go.

“It was me,” a woman’s voice called from the adjacent room, startling him slightly. “I told you that you just need to go to sleep.” There was a hint of annoyance in her tone, but mostly she just sounded tired. A deeper sort of tired than a few missed hours of sleep that night, it had a weary quality of someone at the end of their patience.

He pointed a thin finger towards the voice, his claim confirmed.

“That woman. She was telling me to go to bed, but I don't know where that is! I've never been here before, and I don't know where the men's dormitories are,” he repeated his problem to me.

Letting out a long sigh, I calculated my reaction. I didn’t want to amp up his anxiety, but where would I start explaining everything to him? Trying to usher the octogenarian towards the room from which the voice came, I flipped the wall switch, hoping to shed some light on the whole situation. But he showed no reaction, no sudden recognition.

“In here?” He asked me as he tentatively stepped inside. I nodded, leading him towards the bed.

“Yeah. Let’s just try to get to sleep, okay?” I followed him to the side of the bed closest to the window.

“Where am I supposed to lie down? On the floor here?” He asked in complete seriousness, gesturing at the bedside rug in the narrow space.

“No. Right on the bed,” I flipped the covers open for him and patted the mattress.

“But there’s just this one bed, and she’s in it!” He protested. The expression on his face wasn’t disgust, no, it looked more like he was scandalized by the whole notion of sharing a bed with someone. “Is she going to leave?”

“It’s ok. This is your bed,” I assured him. Before I was able to explain anything else, he started wringing his hands once again, shaking his head.

“I cannot get into bed with this woman. This is inappropriate. I need to find the men's dormitories,” he implored me, trying to step back towards the door. But I had blocked his way.

“There are no men’s dormitories. This is your house, Dad. This is your bed. It’s ok. Just get in, and I’ll help you cover up.” I tried to keep my voice calm and even, hoping not to incite a panic in him. At the same time, I barely contained my own agitation at this situation. Of being here in the middle of the night, trying to tuck my dad into bed.

“Is she going to leave? This woman,” he pointed towards the other side of the bed.

“No, she’s not going to leave. This is her bed, too. That’s Mom, Dad.”

“Whose mom? My mom?” His eyebrows drew together in confusion as he looked back and forth between us.

“No, my mom. That’s my mom, your wife. This is your house, your bedroom, your bed. You are safe here. There’s no one else here,” I tried to reassure him. Inside me, a storm gathered, churning with fear and uncertainty. What else could I possibly tell him? How could I comfort him or convince him?

“This is my wife?” His eyes widened as if he had no idea that he was even married. Telling him now that he had shared a bed with this particular woman for over fifty years would likely make him more distrustful, though.

“Yes, Dad. Trust me. Let’s get into bed. Let’s try to get some sleep.”

He nodded, conceding to my promise. Sitting down gingerly on the edge, he lay down, letting me pull the covers over him. I hated just how much this had resembled tucking in my kids.

“Good night, Dad,” I called to him, stepping away and turning off the light.

“Good night, Jordan,” he replied, using my name.