Free I, the Divine by Alameddine Rabih Page B

Xanax? This is not an anxiety attack. It may relax her though. No. She should be able to relax herself. She has survived the Fourth of July before. She goes under the covers, just like she used to do in Beirut when it got too noisy, too violent.
    Sarah turns over once more. She accidentally kicks her cat, Pascal, sleeping at the bottom left corner of the bed. He jumps, lands back on the bed, and then leaps off. She sits up quickly. Sorry, she blurts; Pascal trots away from her down the corridor. She lies back down, her head on the pillow. Closes her eyes again. No use.
    Sarah uncovers herself, sits up, dangles her feet off the side of the bed. Should she get up? If she does, it means she is giving up. She lies back down, fetal position, closes her eyes. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, lamb chops. She’s hungry. Maybe that’s why she’s not sleeping. She pulls the comforter up around her. She realizes she needs new sheets.
    Sarah switches on her bedside lamp. She fluffs three pillows behind her and lies down, rests her head on the headboard. Maybe she can read, but she doesn’t feel like it. She looks at the books stacked on the nightstand. Too many. She picks up the top book, The Age of Innocence , and throws it in the wastebasket. She always hated that book. She feels guilty. Only last week she had wanted to reread it. She leans over and takes it out of the wastebasket, puts it back on top of the stack. No. She is not going to read it next. She puts it in the middle of the stack. The top book is now Bridget Jones’s Diary . Why did she bother picking up that one? She got it for free. She had started it and could not get past page 20. She found Bridget to be stupid, dumbed-down, neurotic, and with an uninteresting career. Worst of all, Bridget is incompetent at being an adult. Every secretary can identify. No wonder the book is a bestseller. She takes it and throws it in the wastebasket. She slides completely under the covers again.
    Sarah pulls the bedclothes down. Is it five yet? Looks at the clock. It’s five past five. Five past eight in Boston. She picks up her phone and dials. A groggy voice answers.
    Are you up? Sarah asks sheepishly.
    I am now, Dina replies.
    How come you’re still sleeping? You’re supposed to be going to work.
    It’s the Fourth of July.
    Oooops.
    You forgot, I’m sure.
    Yes. But that’s why I’m calling. It’s the Fourth of July.
    What are you doing up so early?
    I can’t sleep. Woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep.
    Sarah turns on her side once more. She reaches out to the clock and moves it closer so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to see it.
    So you thought you should wake me up? Dina asks.
    I thought you’d be up.
    Can this wait?
    Yes. Sure. Call me when you’re ready.
    Pause. Sarah does not hang up.
    Are you all right? Dina asks.
    Depressed.
    Drive out of town, Dina says. Go somewhere far from the city where you can’t hear the fireworks. That’s what I’m doing. We’re driving to New Hampshire. It’s quiet up there.
    I will. I’ll go up to Sonoma.
    Why are you anxious?
    I’m depressed a little. That’s all.
    Are the drugs not working?
    I changed. Paxil was knocking me out. My doctor prescribed Zoloft. It’ll take some time before it kicks in, but I’m not sleeping well.
    You don’t sound that depressed to me.
    I am too.
    How come you don’t get depressed like normal people? You know, turn the lights off, draw the curtains, get under the covers and not talk to anyone.
    I’m not normal. We figured that one out a long time ago. In any case, I am under the covers.
    That’s progress.
    Oh, shut up. Do you want to call me when you’re really up?
    Will do.
    Five-twenty. The clock has not moved much. Maybe she’ll run a bath.
    Sarah gets out of bed, walks over to the bathroom. She looks at herself in the mirror, freaks. Dark circles under her eyes. She looks ghastly. Begins to rub a Lancôme fond de teint on her face. She is startled by Pascal rubbing against