Just to Sleep

 Response to Prompt #26 -- Freestyle

 This is a story based on things I know about the early life of my mother's marriage to my father. She has never made it a secret that she felt she had made a mistake marrying him. The church part is something she told me about recently -- I just embellished details of how she got there. I've really struggled to make this story work, to not try to reveal too much, but to evoke a naive girl who had to grow up fast. (Naive is her word, by the way.) I've thought about it and worked on it for about six months -- not sure there is much left in me.  It is time to say it's done! 

 Just to Sleep

The baby had cried all night, like he had for so many nights. Another Sunday morning was here, and any hope of getting a reprieve from it was once again demolished.

She walked little Johnny around their upstairs apartment, gently rocking him, singing to him, and praying her husband would soon return from church. He should definitely have been back by now. It was bad enough she was alone with the child every day of the week, except for an occasional visit from the downstairs neighbor girl; she had thought weekends would give her a break.

Margo had no idea having a child would be so hard. She had no idea life in a small town would be so dismal. She had no idea that being away from family would bother her.  All she had ever wanted was to get away from Columbus, her stern father and nasty mother. On top of that, being married was not all she had been promised.

She was raw. Isolated. She had made no friends beyond the landlady below. And she probably wasn’t really a friend. They co-existed in the same house and shared the washing machine.

Just when she thought she would go out of her mind waiting, Rich came in, shrugging off his overcoat, and she handed him the baby in record time. Margo was tired of explaining procedures to him – she was just going to hope he remembered what to do, and if he didn’t, who knows? Maybe Johnny would stop being so colicky.

Margo pulled her coat around her and walked up Fifth Street.  She didn’t drive, so taking turns going to church meant she had to walk. Before Johnny was born, church was a place she and her husband felt most at peace.  Now, there was no place like that.

The first Catholic Church Margo came upon was St. Mary’s Ukrainian. She was already late for her church, delayed by Rich, and was cold and tired, so decided this church could do. It didn’t matter – the mass was in Latin, so she would be able to follow.  She ducked into the vestibule. Nothing unusual here on this early November morning – just the dark winter coats of the men and babushkas of the women, something she was now used to living in a highly ethnic area.

The mass began, and Margo followed along well enough. The Kyrie elèison. Christe elèison Kyrie elèison and the Gloria and response prayer: Et cum spiritu tuo.  She looked at the iconic statues, the crucified Christ on the cross over the altar, and the Stations of the Cross on the wall: all familiar touchstones from life as a Catholic.

Then the epistles and gospels were read: in Ukranian.  Margo began to lose her concentration. The voices of the readers rose and fell in a rhythm much like when she rocked and hummed to colicky Johnny. Slowly, lulled by sounds she could not distinguish, the darkness all around her, and the sadness in her spirit, Margo’s eyes drooped and then closed completely.

And she slept the most restful sleep.

Even though someone next to her had to nudge her to go to Communion, Margo was not embarrassed. For once her new life in Pennsylvania she had found a place just for herself, where no one was asking anything of her. A place she could relax and forget all the mistakes she has obviously made.

A place just to sleep.