The Wrong Side of the Bed

“The bed comprehends our whole life, for we were born in it, we live in it, and we shall die in it”

~Guy de Maupassant

There is only one sure way to prevent getting up on the wrong side of the bed: don’t get out of bed.

Sunday, after all, and raining hard, no chores awaiting that couldn’t be put off for another day or even the one after. Gwinny decided to stay in bed.

She may never get out of bed again.

Why should she? What was out there that so required her presence today? Or any day? Gwendolyn was a writer, a poet, an accomplished scribe and an efficient businesswoman, had been freelancing for half a dozen years and had a solid base of loyal clients, all of whom were connected to her by the filmy but durable thread of the Ethernet. She could write to them, and for them, from the laptop in her pillowed lap. She could research, she could conduct interviews, she could gather photos, crop and enhance them, and e-mail her files and illustrated documents, footnoted and annotated, to any given point across the globe. She could collect her paycheck, do her banking, pay her bills, all from her laptop, all from the downy comfort of her bed. And never miss out on the sound of the rain.

Her bed was as good as an office. Better. She could write an entire novel from this bed. A trilogy. She could plump her pillows and write epic poems.

Work, however, was the last thing on Gwinny’s mind. There were better things to think about on a Sunday. Or not think about. Sunday, especially a rainy one, was a good day to think about nothing. Nothing but beds and staying in one.

As if beds were nothing. Beds were everything. That place where we are conceived in paroxysms of pleasure—or writhing in agony of those forced and defiled. That place where we are born, heaving upon waves of warm amniotic waters, muscled into bright light, thrust in among the living, like it or not. Beds are that place where we sleep, or cannot, sweet bassinets edged with pastel ribbons and cradles rocked with gentle lullaby, safe and warm, quiet and secure—or to lie there, stiff as a board, in eternal unrest as if on a bed of nails. Beds—where we dream, the dreams of childhood when waking life is not much different than dream, lush with possibilities, one long hallway of open doors and the wonderful unknown on the other side.

From bed we move from that wispy dream toward the open door, refreshed and hungry for the day, weary from it all again at night. We toss in our beds, we rest, we sleep, we sputter, we snore, we dream, we sweat in nightmares or rock on heated fantasy, or fly unhindered through starry skies and through plump white clouds. We hold our cherished and most protected secrets in bed, our stolen hours, flashlights shining white, dusty beams under covers to read one last page. We discover ourselves, our inner selves, our hidden hearts. We discover our bodies, warm hands reaching to taste, to touch, to caress and explore. We lie gazing at the ceiling, painting wild panoramas there in the night when inhibitions fall away. We dot it with stars, swirl it with reeling planets, and enter faraway galaxies.

We rise from our beds, again and again, and again return to our beds, each time a little changed, and sometimes ever after transformed, by the day between. Even more by the night. Marinated in the mysteries of the dark.

We spoon and hold our bedfellow, our passing partner, the stranger, or the love of our life. We hold close, we turn away, we cuddle, we turn a cold shoulder. We whisper in the dark, forehead pressed to forehead, nose to nose and pillow against pillow, we gossip, we giggle, we tease, we share, we hum. We cross limbs and rub up cold feet. We tangle fingers and arms and then bodies and breath. We roll in furious appetite, wanting to swallow each other whole, or little by little, a nibble, a bite, a lick at a time. Or we sleep alone. Straight as sticks, as rigid, or sprawled in luxurious abandon.

We coil. Like snakes, like vines. We coil again and unwind. We lie loose-limbed and exhausted and smiling into the dark, by last sputter of candlelight.

We sleep. We sleep. Years of our lives we spend in sleep, deep sleep, soothing sleep.

We come to bed again. We come to bed to weep into our pillows, wail at the full or crescent or slivered moon outside, curse our bad fortune, pray for a kinder morning, a final reprieve. We coax forgiveness, and cannot sleep when denied, tormented by conscience, or not, and sleep the sleep of the already dead deep inside.

We come to bed to nurse new life, or nurse ourselves back to health, or to finally give it up.

We come to bed for revelation. Our minds sink to that other place, the mind place hidden behind the conscious, warehouse of all things ever seen, heard, felt, considered, where all answers are sunk in subconscious labyrinth, only in sleep sometimes retrieved and surfaced again. In sleep, we become genius, and saint, and demon. We plot the end of the earth, we barter with the devil, we negotiate with the gods, we wander among angels, swearing oaths to never, ever do it again. If only.

We come to bed to attend our greatest events: the beginning of life, the discovery of life, the celebration of life, the grieving over life, and the end of life. We come to bed for all the times between.

Gwinny came to bed and did not want to ever leave that safe haven. Alone in bed, there was no problem she couldn’t solve from this floating island on a sea of unforgiving days.  

Bedding Down for the Long Haul

“Don’t take tomorrow to bed with you.”

~ Norman Vincent Peale

There was one other way to prevent getting up on the wrong side of bed. Sleep alone. One side becomes no more right or wrong than the other. It was a slap of realization when Gwinny’s son, then just a pale and willowy boy, standing in her bedroom door with his head cocked to one side, his freckled upturned nose twitching a little, like that of a small animal, pointed out that she always slept on the left side, and why? Not as if anyone was taking up the other side.

            “Mama, who are you leaving room for?”

            She had blinked, had thought, had come up with no reasonable answer, and ever after—sprawled. What newfound joy. To sprawl limbs loose and long and unfettered and sleep on the diagonal. To roll from one steamy side to the other on a hot summer night and find it cool and smooth.  To pull the covers over her in winter and wrap herself in a cocoon. This was luxury.  This was hedonism. This was something somehow decadent, as if to spread her body out across the mattress meant for two was to claim her place in the world, plant the flag with heels dug into the mattress, one heel at either corner, and stake her independence. If she so pleased, if she so wished, she would never have to share this bed again.

            Her son was grown and gone. Freckles faded, first shadowing of beard along his roughened cheeks, now angled more sharply by new manhood, he held an unzipped backpack from one hand, containing his entire life to be carried out into the yonder, and then was gone.

Still her bed remained empty but for her. For her, and her wandering mind. She had long ago abandoned all hope of filling the other side, so long ago that she could no longer tell if it had been a hope at all, or a growing sense of relief. Chilled sheets in summer and covers for cocoons in winter were much better.

            Abandon all hope, ye single-again women, aged beyond the vintage of a half-century mark, flesh grown a little more soft, a little more loose, a little more comfortable for the wear. Her body like an empty bed all her own and herself sprawled, a little sloppily, inside. The more the years, the fewer opportunities, or was it the more the years, the lesser her willingness to compromise. Her need had not diminished; her ability to give selflessly, however, had.

            Gwinny lay in bed on her back, straight as a board, face up and eyes wide open, considering the beds behind her, the bed beneath her, what possible beds before her.

The Birthing Bed, That Boat on a First Sea

“All men are children, and of one family. The same tale sends them all to bed, and wakes them in the morning.”

~Henry David Thoreau

Of course, no memory of it. That bed where she had been born. Only fantasy, or perhaps something deep and dark and primal, could fill in the empty shapes with color. Her mother, legs apart, body clenched into one great and heaving muscle, pushing her OUT. If she could not remember it, perhaps her own body did, on some level of chromosome and blood vessel and heart muscle, some sudden and inexplicable spasm, some creak in a joint, some sudden rush of blood to her brain that left her for a moment reeling, an unnamed memory of that day 53 years ago when she was spewed into the world. Sink or swim.

            What greater moment rocks a bed? Perhaps all in the perspective? Birth as death? But since she had not experienced the other, this one would do—her own as well as that of herself giving birth. The bed, whether mattress or manger, nest or hole in the ground, canopy or hammock, tented or open to sky—cradle to all humankind. And if not, if birth happened elsewhere, back of a taxi cab or in a stalled elevator, it was an oddity, maybe even a tragedy, a quirk in the good plan.

            Her mother, she’d been told, birthed reluctantly. She was the second child of two, but not entirely planned. Not unwanted, no, but the circumstances … her father was holding down two jobs and still going to school. She had heard the stories, heard them so often that she could almost see the scenes as witnessed: her mother leaning into the open door to the street, watching for her father at a trot from the subway station—in Chicago, it was called the EL for elevated train—with just enough time to give her mother a quick buss on the cheek or on her damp forehead, damp from kitchen heat and steam from boiling pots, the plate held up in one hand, fork in the other, feeding her father like a tall and gangly bird while he changed his clothes, work clothes stained with sweat, a faint reek of the day’s toil, grease from the factory machinery, and into a clean pair of khakis, and off, off, one more thrust of warm food into his open mouth, and off, trotting back to the EL to catch it toward school.

            When did they even have the time? The energy? For that nighttime embrace, that sweet coiling of limbs that produced her. But he found the time to pace the hallway, the sterile tiled waiting room, as Mama pushed and contracted and pushed, pushed, pushed with all her might, sweat pouring down her face and pasting dark tendrils of her hair to her flushed skin.

            Where was her sister? In her own bed? The hour was late. Her grandmother may have sat beside her that night, telling her tales of dark forests and trolls and princes doing battle for the maiden’s hand, tucking her into bed, into sleep, into a night that would wake on a morning when she would no longer rule the heart of the household alone.

            Gwinny never doubted she was loved. Wanted. Even if circumstances were barren. Even with her mother’s reluctance. Wallets thin and pantries light and clothes closets filled with plenty of air. Wanted, even though she never saw her mother’s lips shape the words, or her father’s. Never said, I love you. Not until they had all changed places, Gwinny the mature and adult child, her parents the elderly, growing juvenile in mind, thoughts slowing, taking sideways turns, edging in backwards or sometimes not at all. Minds like sweet mush, back to children, expectant, looking to their child to solve all problems for them now. Yes, then, as they circled back to being children again, all discipline done, then at last they could smile sweetly and say, “We love you, Gwinny.” And by golly, Gwinny had blushed.

            Even more stunning: “Gwinny, sorry. We made a mistake. We didn’t mean it, really, we didn’t.”

            Such wonders. Gwinny considered the power of words, words said aloud, words walking into the room like persons and standing on their own stubby feet. Words like breathing and living things, flexing muscle, taking up space in the room, taking up air. Better late than never, yes. She said the words back to them, to their upturned little bird faces. “I love you, too, Mama. I love you, Papa.”

            So it was that birthing was a lifelong process.

The Cradle, Rocking Softly Until the Cradle Will Fall

“If you think you’re too small to be effective, you have never been in bed with a mosquito.”

~Betty Reese

Gwinny would someday sing the same lullaby to her own children. The one her mama would sing, leaning over the cradle, her face the sun in Gwinny’s sky, the orb that filled the space above, rimmed with dark curls like dark flames. Gwinny would watch her mother’s mouth as she sang, watch the movements of her mother’s thin but delicately shaped lips, that slight overbite of her teeth. Gwinny wanted to have an overbite just like it, just like her mama. She never looked at her mother’s eyes, just her mouth, and the way her lips shaped the words of the lullaby, about the little bear, about the pot of honey and how father bear would bring the pot of honey to the little bear if she was very, very good …

            Gwinny moved her lips silently to mimic the words she saw more than heard. It made her mother laugh.

            “Look! Look, honey, she’s trying to sing. She’s moving her lips and trying to sing along, see? Watch … “

            Her father would appear, another great orb just behind the sun, a circling moon, and then fall away again. Rise and fall. There would come a time when the sun and the moon would trade places, but for now, Gwinny’s eyes were forever drawn to this sun, with its soft dark curls edging its face, falling so softly along her mother’s throat, just touching her shoulders, where sometimes Gwinny would settle her own pudgy little face in like a mewling kitten and smell, draw in the smell, and know her sun by the sun’s scent of perfume, something like violets. She would love violets ever after, long into adulthood, never quite realizing why the scent of violets made her feel safe.

            She wasn’t held often. Mama was too busy. Or not so inclined. Gwinny nuzzled her nose into her mama’s dark curls while her father brought the bassinet out in the yard, and then Mama put her inside again, on her back, flowered bassinet sides rising like walls around her and open to the sky, and the sun Gwinny saw then made her squint and wave her fists in the air at it. Papa scooted the bassinet into the shade under the maple tree. Gwinny dropped her fists and gazed up, mesmerized. The light had withdrawn behind a ceiling of moving green. Green hands, green palms waved down at her, moved like green waves across her at the bottom of her green ocean, and the light shone like gold glitter between, rippled over her, over the bassinet, made the tiny flower print on the walls of the bassinet come to shimmering life, and Gwinny lay wide-eyed, rocking softly side to side, with the movement of the green hands, green leaves, green waves rippling over her. The world was such a wonder.

            What did she dream back then? What thoughts took shape in that tiny mind, still ungrooved, still a smooth orb inside that soft skull, a gray sponge taking all in, a ticking computer storing data, an empty warehouse gradually filling with more and more and more, stuff, useless or useful, a contained universe as yet unbound by limitation or inhibition, perfect in its smooth and uncharted newness. Waiting for impression.

             Her mother would later tell her, marveling: “You never cried. I would have to check on you to make sure you were still breathing. I would forget you were out there, hours would go by, and nothing, not a sound, nothing, and so I would have to go out there and poke you. To be sure you were still alive.”

            Still alive. Still breathing. Forgotten. Staring silent up into the moving green and golden sky, waving her fists like tight pink rosebuds at the sky, and gold coins of light dancing across her rounded baby belly. Her tiny pink mouth shaping words she did not yet understand. Content as she was, almost as if in a state of childlike meditation.

            Why was it then, that at night, lying in the dark, back in her cradle, the child would dream of dark and lurking shadows, coming to swallow her up whole?

Cradle and Cot, Side by Side

“Remember how you used to be able to feel your bed breathing and the walls spinning when you were a kid?”

~Lynda Barry

Another face that would peer over the side of the cradle, a smaller one, pigtails trailing to either side: Colleen. When Gwinny’s lips shaping unfathomable words finally began to voice them, they would shape “Collie.” That would come later. For the first year of Gwinny’s life, she didn’t voice much of anything. An occasional coo. Now and then, a gurgle. When particularly lost in thought, a bit of spit.

            “Bubbles.”

            Collie’s face neared hers. Closer, closer, until her mouth matched Gwinny’s, only juicier, and burbled bubbles of its own. Gwinny’s eyes were glued. She spurted in reply.

            “There you go. Bub… bulls. Bubbles. Pffffffffffffffft.”

            “Pfut.”

            Collie laughed and Gwinny grinned back, sticking the tip of her pink tongue out.

            Four years between the sisters; it was an eternity. There was a chasm of the ages between them, but Colleen liked to breech it now and then, an early maternal instinct stirring in her at this living doll placed in her bedroom. She didn’t mind sharing. Not really. When Mama took the baby out of her cradle and placed her in her playpen, Collie would often climb right in after her. Hold out toys to the baby girl, encourage her to reach for them, tease her a little when she did, pull the toy back, then fly it in close again.

            “Can I hold her, Mama?”

            “Not yet. Wait until her neck is stronger.”

            “Then? I can hold her when her head’s not all wobbly?”

            “Then.”

            Colleen would jiggle the baby a little when Mama wasn’t looking. Tug on a foot. Tickle under the double chin.

            “Hurry up,” she’d whisper when Mama wasn’t listening. “Grow up.”

                       
            And Gwinny did. She hurried up. She grew. Her limbs stretched straight, the downy fuzz on her pink skull thickened and waved, her rosebud fists opened into hands, fingers outstretched, and her lips that shaped soundless words made sounds, sounds that sometimes matched those of the grownups. Or something like them. But not many. She stayed silent, mostly, watching the light in the window, tracing the patterns in the ceiling when she lay in bed, dreaming awake, dreaming asleep, daydreaming. That warehouse inside her little fuzzy head was beginning to fill, and from nonsense, sometimes, puzzle pieces fell into place to make sense.

            She hurried up. She grew. At night, the sisters would sometimes burble more sounds at each other before they fell asleep. Colleen would tell stories and Gwinny would listen, sometimes turning to her side to face her sister in her little bed, a shadowy being wrapped in baby blue sheets, white face shining like a pale moon in the dark, talking softly. She would watch her sister through the bars of her bed. She would uncurl her fingers and stretch her hand between the bars toward her sister. She would wave her fingers, move them like insect legs, wave her hands up and down like little night birds, and Collie would sometimes wave back, giggling into her pillow.

            “Gweeeeeeny. Gwinny Gwinny Gwinny, Gweeeeeny, good night! Night night!”

            “Night night, night night.” Gwinny sang, night night, hummm, and turn back to face the ceiling where the night show would go on, long after Collie’s breath came deep and in puffs. The dark was magic. The dark was her own. In the dark, shadows came alive, and some of them would frighten her, but that was all right, that was okay, that was even a little bit delicious, that shiver that would run through her, that bit of fire, nipping at her, those shadows and all their possibilities, it was all right.

            One night, then, with the shadows moving in dance, lines and swirls and soft shapes moving across the ceilings and walls, Gwinny rolled to her tummy, pulled her knees up beneath her, and crept up against the bars. Only the shadows knew. Only the shadows watched, as she gripped her fists on the top bar and pulled herself up. Closer, she wanted to be closer, let that one hand go and reach, reach that shadow and pull it close. Look it right in the eye.

            In the morning, they found her sitting in bed. Gwinny sat legs outspread, with the flexible ease of a child, when bones are yet part rubber, not yet rigid with determination, but undecided as to becoming bird bones, capable of flight, or the bones of tiny rodents, squeezing through narrow tunnels and deep into dank earth, or the bones of a little girl crowding the corners of her bed and into the world to battle shadows in her own shining if dented armor. Gwinny was, still, all these things, and would be, all these things. At the brink of becoming any and all things. In her mind, gaining grooves, she sometimes imagined herself a mouse, whiskers twitching, tail lashed out straight behind her like an arrow to where she had been, as gray as dust and just as invisible. Soft. Like velvet, like Mama’s cheek, that soft.

            They found her sitting, bent forward a bit, just enough to reach pink fingers to pink toes, and studying with great interest the pink of her rounded heels.

            “Don’t want up yet, Gwinny?”

            “No.”

            Collie could go. Wherever big sisters go. And Mama and Papa with her. She had no use for them. Gwinny looked at her heels, pink rounds, smooth big half globes, unmarred by stone or pebble or gravel or grass or floor or mud or cobblestone. Perfect pink mounds. To be dug in. Gwinny reached for her heels, cupping pink palms over pink heels, and gripped hard. 

            “Want up, Gwinn-Gwinn?”

            “Yah.”

            Gwinny raised her hands to the heavens, where Colleen stood, and allowed herself to be lifted from bed.