Sleep Toward Heaven Read Online Free PDF

twenty-fifth is sixty-two days away. 89,280 minutes.

franny
    “ Why did you sleep on the couch?” Nat was awake first, as always, his hair unruly, his T-shirt smelling of sleep. Franny wanted to place her cheek next to his chest, to hear his heart, but something stopped her. Nat was slathering an English muffin with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. He lifted his mug to his lips and drank. The metal percolator was plugged in. They had bought it at a tag sale in Connecticut from a woman in a wheelchair. “Answer the question,” he said. He added, “Honey.”
    “Did you save me some coffee?”
    He put down his mug. “Sorry.”
    “Do you even remember waking me up?”
    “When?” He took a bite of the muffin.
    “Forget it.” Franny sat down at the kitchen table and ran a hand through her hair. Nat had come to her in the night, smelling of smoke and telling her he knew something was wrong. “What’s wrong?” he had asked her in a slurred, sad voice. “What’s wrong, Franny? What’s wrong with us?” She felt guilty now about pretending to be asleep.
    “How was the funeral?”
    Franny sat up straighter. “It was difficult,” she said. “But I’m OK.”
    “Are you really?”
    “Yes.” In silence, Franny made coffee. She emptied the grounds, refilled the pot, and plugged it in. She stood at the counter while it percolated, not looking at Nat. When it was ready, she poured a cup.
    “Why don’t you add sugar and cream, like you used to?”
    “I don’t know.” She sank back down into her chair, one of a set they had been given as an engagement gift from Nat’s parents.
    “You did all right on the Scotch last night,” said Nat, “and I found these in your purse.” He held out the cigarettes.
    “What were you doing in my purse?”
    Nat paused. He sat down at the table, and leaned toward her. “I don’t know.”
    “Don’t go through my purse. Jesus!”
    “I love you when you’re angry,” said Nat. Franny waited for the coffee to kick in. She sighed. Nat knelt next to Franny’s chair and put his arms around her waist. He took Franny’s chin in his fingers, turned her to him. “Franny, what’s going on?”
    “Nothing,” said Franny. “I just want my coffee.”
    “Sweetie, look at you. Amelia is dead. It’s okay for you to be down.”
    “Anna,” said Franny, twisting her chin from Nat’s grasp.
    “What?”
    “Her name is Anna,” said Franny, her voice rising. “Anna!”
    “Her name was Anna,” said Nat.
    “Fuck you,” said Franny.
    “Why won’t you let me help you?” said Nat.
    “Leave me alone,” said Franny. “Can I just have my coffee, please?”
    Nat snorted and shook his head. “You’re a real piece of work,” he said.
    Franny liked to think things through. She made lists before she made decisions. After college, she had made a list of 157 careers she was suited for. She then spent twenty hours (drinking two pots of coffee before Uncle Jack cut her off) imagining each possible life. She winnowed the list to twenty-six (mourning each lost career: editor, dancer, real estate agent) when Uncle Jack told her she was going to medical school and sent her to bed.
    In the morning, she had made a list of sixteen medical schools.
    Now, on the subway, Franny took a pencil from her bag and tried to unravel the aching mess in her mind. She wrote, Advil—need more. She wrote, funeral—bad idea. She should not have gone to the funeral. She knew that what she had said to Mr. Gillison was inappropriate. He could go straight to the hospital and repeat her statement: “It was my fault.” That polygamous man could testify to her many glasses of wine. Guilt sat heavily in Franny’s stomach. She imagined her mentor, Jed Lewis, looking at her. “I am disappointed in you, Franny,” he would say. And Uncle Jack, who had sacrificed everything to send her away from Gatestown. He had told her, after she had graduated from prep school and college, that it was up to her to make