"Set the Bed on Fire" by Andrea Chesman
Photo Credit: Joshua Newton, obtained and licensed through Unsplash
It is not a good day, I tell my therapist, who doesn't appear to be listening. I'm not sure he ever does. Behind the rimless glasses perched on his beaked nose, his eyes are always downcast. He questions, but never comments.
I chose him for his address: walking distance from my office. This put him in a district of low-rent storefronts and offices, above a document-shredding business and across the hall from a fortune teller/psychic. My mother pays for the therapy, says I need to find my happy place again. I wonder if the fortune teller would have more insight than this balding, middle-aged man who looks like he has owl genes in his DNA.
"I'm not good at my job, I'm a terrible mother, I can't do this anymore," I say to the man who supposedly earned the diplomas on the beige waiting room walls. He does not ask what "this" is. He says he'll see me next week.
I go home and start my second shift: motherhood. Dinner, homework, baths, stories, kisses. Finally, I am off duty. I check my eBay account. I am selling off all my wedding presents and anything else that reminds me of Him, the man who walked away from me and my (our) children.
In the bedroom, I go to the closet, take down a locked box from a high shelf, and pull out a key tucked into a padded bra in my underwear drawer. From the box I dump an assortment of plastic pill bottles onto His side of the bed. Ambien, Ativan, Halcion, Valium. Good night, sweet dreams, ten, fifteen, thirty. When He first left me, I stockpiled pills—from my mom, my sister, my doctor—they all thought I could use a little help. "A good night's sleep is all you need right now. You'll feel better in the morning," they promised.
On the good nights, after I make another sale, I reward myself with a couple of pills, for sending away another reminder of broken vows, for one solid, dreamless night's sleep. I swallow two pills and return the rest to the bottles, the bottles to the box, the box to the closet, the key to the underwear drawer, my bones to my side of the bed.
Sleep with pills is delicious, a deep slide into chocolate. This world is warm, kind, enveloping. I feel safe as I gently tumble down where there are no interruptions, no dreams, no disparagement.
But the nights without pills are endless because of my night visitor. A troll comes visiting. He sits on my shoulder and natters in my ear, "You will never find love again. You were a terrible wife—that's why he left you. And now, hah! Now you are a terrible mother."
Sleep with pills is delicious, a deep slide into chocolate.
His breath is rank, his clothes reek of wood smoke and something rotten, sulfurous. His toes are hooks that dig into my shoulder, and he rocks back and forth, piercing deeper and deeper. He tells me I should take all my pills and put myself out of my misery.
"What about my children?" I ask.
"The boy's a changeling," he grunts. "I'll take him back. The girl can live with her father. He'll have a new wife soon—younger, prettier, smarter than you. She'll love her."
His nose is crooked and long, hanging over his thin cruel mouth. His hair is snarled; twigs and leaves caught in the tangles. I shut my eyes and slide under the blankets so he can't see me and hope that he'll give up, which he does eventually, when dawn begins to lighten the sky. Or maybe I just fall asleep. I'm pretty sure he doesn't bother the children because of those good-luck trolls I bought at a garage sale last summer and the fairies that hang from a mobile over Anya's bed. I must protect them no matter what.
*
The next time I see my therapist, I tell him about the pills, but not the troll. I don't want him to think I am crazy. I tell him I am tempted to take all the pills sometimes, but I don't tell him it's the troll who tells me I should swallow them all.
My therapist looks at me with new interest. He asks me what would happen to my children if I died. We talk about their father, how bad he was at parenting. He suggests I call my mother and ask her to stay with me for a while. He tells me I need to see him more often.
Two days later I am back at the therapist's office. He asks if I've gotten rid of the pills. He asks if I am worried the children will find them. I tell him the pills are safely locked away. I tell him I am worried about my son, Ben. How he is growing up too fast. How he is mean to me, mean to his sister. How he'll need to start shaving soon. That I don't know what to teach a boy.
"Tell him when you shave, you do two passes. The first pass you shave down, the way the hairs grow. Then you shave up, against the hairs."
"That's it? That's all you can give me? Which direction to shave?"
"And tell him to puff out his cheeks, stretch the skin. Like this." He rounds out his cheeks, bringing out the turtle in his features. And then our session is over.
The next time I see my therapist, he asks about the pills again. I tell him the pills aren't really the problem. I tell him I have nightmares when I don't take any pills. "There's a voice I hear telling me to swallow all the pills I've been hoarding."
"And tell him to puff out his cheeks, stretch the skin. Like this." He rounds out his cheeks, bringing out the turtle in his features.
I don't tell him that the voice belongs to a troll. That the troll seems real, that I don't think I'm asleep when the troll comes.
The therapist brings the subject back to the pills. "Please," I tell him. "I don't need to get rid of the pills; I need to get rid of the nightmares."
"I think we should work on your sleep problem. If you're sound asleep, you don't have nightmares, do you? So let's focus on improving your sleep. Have you tried melatonin? Would you like to try hypnosis? I have training in hypnosis."
The idea of turning my subconscious over to him turns my stomach. There's something about the stale air and worn furniture that surrounds him. Something about his fraying shirt collars and nervous fingers that never stop tapping the arm of his chair. I tell him I'll try the melatonin.
This excites him. He leaps up and pulls a book from a shelf behind his desk. He pages through it. "Yes, yes. This could be the cure. Let's try 2 milligrams of melatonin with a cup of chamomile tea an hour before bedtime. And put a lavender sachet under your pillow." He looks up from the book with satisfaction and snaps it shut. "Do you know how to sew a sachet?"
"Will the lavender keep the...nightmares... away?"
"Could be. Worth a try, no?"
*
I try the melatonin. I try chamomile tea, which tastes like grass. The grassy taste makes me think of marijuana, and I try some edibles I buy from a colleague. I have sold all the desirable wedding presents and now I'm down to listing gravy boats, turkey platters, inexpert pottery from His hippie friends, and odd souvenirs from our travels, which don't sell. I don't reward myself with sleeping pills and sleep doesn't come, but the troll does.
"Damn! It smells like an old lady's apartment in here. Well, that's what you'll be soon. An old lady no one likes, no one visits. Your kids will resent you for your lousy mothering. They'll move in with their father. You'll have no one. No one 'cept me, I'll keep coming."
One night, in desperation, I take an Ambien—not as a reward, as a defense against the troll.
I am just drifting off to sleep when he materializes on my shoulder. "Hey, lady, I think you might be falling in love with me. Otherwise you'd get a human man to sleep with you," he says, a wicked grin twisting his distorted features. "But you're pretty ugly. Too ugly for a human. Hell, you're too ugly for me."
"Go away, Swamp Thing."
"You wish." He pulls a cigar out of his pocket and lights it. It smells like burning garbage. "I came prepared this time. Don't want to smell no lavender." He puffs on the cigar. "Didja take a pill tonight?" he asks.
"What's it to you?"
"I like a good conversation now and then. You're more interesting when you're awake. Besides, you need me. My visits are the only contact you have with a man. Besides that gormless therapist you have."
"Go away!"
"Nah, not 'til you start crying. I got a vial here. Gonna collect them tears. Sell them on eBay. Weeping mother's tears. Makes the flowers grow."
"Go!" I yell—apparently loud enough to wake Ben, who materializes at my door.
"Hey, lady, I think you might be falling in love with me. Otherwise you'd get a human man to sleep with you," he says, a wicked grin twisting his distorted features.
"Mom! Who are you talking to?"
"What? Oh, Ben. I was having a nightmare. Go back to bed. Everything's fine." I look around but the troll is nowhere to be seen.
Ben turns to go but says over his shoulder, "Looks like you woke everyone up."
Anya appears, clutching her blanket and doesn't say a word, just climbs into my bed. I wrap my arms around her and we both fall asleep, safe for the night anyway.
*
I tell my therapist that my nightmares are waking up my children. I tell him that Anya crawled into my bed last night and I worry that this is harming her in some deep psychological way.
"Do you sleep with your children regularly?"
"It happens. Kids have nightmares." I sound defensive. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything—I don't want him to make a big deal out of this. Or get children's services involved. Kids have nightmares; everyone does.
*
At my next appointment, I say, "I don't want to talk about the pills, or my mothering, or my mother. I want to talk about the troll that visits."
"Your nightmares," he says.
"They're not nightmares. The troll is real." I start to unbutton my blouse to show him the marks the troll's toes leave on my shoulder.
"Whoa!" He squawks and blushes scarlet. "This is totally inappropriate. Button your blouse."
As I button my blouse, he says, "Maybe you should see someone else."
I think of all the time I've spent denying the troll, talking about nightmares. I don't want to start over again. "It's okay, really. I just wanted you to see the marks he leaves, so you'll know the troll is real."
"Trolls are real.." The therapist states it as a fact, then sighs heavily. "You're sure you have one? 'Cause they can be hard to deal with."
I nod my head. "The troll is real. I can see him when I'm awake. I can smell him. I can touch him. ."
"You're lucky he's a small one. Is it a he? Am I right in saying 'he'?"
"I'm lucky?"
The therapist sets down his notebook and pen, rests his elbows on his knees, and props up his chin. The thinker. "And all the talk about nightmares?"
"No nightmares. A troll. A swampy, smelly, twisted troll."
The therapist is silent, staring at the floor. "Trolls are trouble. Big, big trouble." He sits like that for a minute, two minutes.
"Excuse me? Isn't he a figment of my imagination? Aren't you going to tell me I need to cure my insomnia, do a sleep study, or something the AMA would recommend? Aren't you going to tell me that the troll is a manifestation of depression?"
The therapist sets down his notebook and pen, rests his elbows on his knees, and props up his chin. The thinker.
"'Fraid not," he says sadly. "'Fraid not. Once a troll finds someone who believes in him, he..." His words hang in the air.
"He what?"
"He tends to stick around. Then you have trouble. Big, big trouble."
The therapist walks to the bookcase and ignores the shelf that holds the herbal book he consulted before. He passes by various editions of the DMS (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders), Psychology for Dummies, Games People Play, I Feel Guilty When I Say No, Blink, and numerous textbooks. Instead he runs his finger over a row of old, leather-bound volumes leaving a trail through the dust. I can't make out any of the titles, but he finds the one he wants, pulls down a massive tome, and silently pages through it. As he flips through the tissue-thin, darkened pages, dust motes stream through a beam of light. Finally he speaks, "Sunlight and fire are the most certain ways to kill trolls. You'll have to set fire to your bed."
"What?"
"You'll have to have someone—maybe your son?—shoot him with a flaming arrow."
"Are you serious?"
He doesn't answer. We are silent for a minute. Two minutes. "Will you try the flaming arrow?" he asks.
"No, I will not try the flaming arrow," I say. "I'm not going to ask a twelve-year-old shoot burning arrows. He could get hurt. He could accidently burn the place down."
Again, there is silence that weighs on both of us. Finally, he asks, "Would you consider candles?" he asks.
"Candles for what?"
"You cover your floor with lit candles. A whole roomful that the troll will have to hop over. Might keep him away."
"Yeah, and maybe the troll will set the apartment on fire when he trips. Or one of the kids trips on one when they come into my room in the middle of the night."
"Yeah, the kids who sleep with you. You shouldn't let them..." Again he lapses into silence, his shoulders hunched. Finally, he straightens his spine, slides his glasses farther up his nose, and clears his throat. "I'll tell you what you can try. I don't know if it'll work, but some people have had luck with it."
"Yes?"
"You can try full-spectrum lighting. The kind that mimics natural sunlight? I hear it works. Sometimes it works. If you keep it on all the time. If you have several lamps going. At least one in every corner of the room and one directly over the bed."
I stare at him in disbelief. "That's it? That's your best advice?"
"Can you sleep with the light on?" he asks.
*
I try the full-spectrum lighting, one in each corner of my room and one over the bed. Of course, I can't sleep with the lights on. Ben complains about the light slipping under the door. I buy both of us sleep masks. Ben loves his mask, and I sleep soundly for once.
After two restful nights, the troll comes and jumps on the bed to get my attention. I pretend to sleep and he stomps on my arm, hard. "Lady! Whatcha you got goin' here? Growing marijuana? I don't see no plants. That's the only reason to get those lights. I can hook ya up with someone if you want. Good stuff. We can share a joint."
I try the full-spectrum lighting, one in each corner of my room and one over the bed. Of course, I can't sleep with the lights on.
I feel him leaning over my face. His breath is putrid. I groan and roll over away from the odor, but he hops over my shoulder to stay close. "Sign up for any dating apps?" he asks. "We could have a threesome."
I moan. He laughs. Interspersed with invitations for getting high together and, ugh, other suggestions, he continues a running stream of disparaging remarks, each one a barb that pierces. I'm a terrible mother, an ugly sad person. Just the usual. I wish it didn't bother me so.
*
My hand is raised to knock on my therapist's door when I am seized by a compulsion to knock on the door across the hall instead. A tall, rail-thin, dark-haired woman a few years younger than me answers the door, with a lit cigarette dangling from her fingers. I expected someone older, more kind looking, less like a heroin-using fashion model. "Excuse me," I say. "I am looking for the psychic."
"That would be me," she says. "Do you have an appointment?"
“Actually, I have an appointment across the hall...I just thought maybe..."
"Maybe I can help you instead?" At the mention of the office across the hall, the woman raised her eyebrows and reached out the hand without the cigarette to pull me in. "You don't want to see him," she says. "Come in. Come in."
Her waiting room is the opposite of the therapist's. Her walls are deep crimson, where his are beige. The upholstery is plush where his is Ikea modern cheap. And where his has a musty odor of dust, this room smells of patchouli and sandalwood. She leads me into a smaller, dimly lit room with no windows and sits me down at a table covered with a purple velvet cloth. She disappears for a few minutes behind a beaded curtain, leaving me long enough to give full reign to my anxieties. When she returns, she is wearing a leopard print robe. In one hand she holds a lit cigarette and with the other hand she swishes a burning bundle of sage around the room. When she sits down, I try to reach out to stroke the robe to determine if it is real, but she grasps my two hands in hers. “To get a basic reading,” she says. I sit silently, wondering what I am doing.
"Oh!" she screeches, dropping my hands. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting that!"
"Expecting what?"
"Shhhh." She holds my hands for a few more minutes, sometimes frowning, sometimes smiling.
The psychic releases my hands, sits back in her chair, and lights another cigarette. She looks at me closely and says, "You have trouble with the men in your life."
Well, who doesn't? I don't say it out loud but I figure she sees the tan line where my wedding ring used to be. As if she hears my thoughts, she says, "Yeah, your ex is a jerk, your son has picked up some of his father's nasty habits, your boss is an idiot, and your so-called therapist is a creep, but that's not the problem, is it?"
"No," I whisper.
"It was the troll that surprised me. That's when I dropped your hands. So sorry. Very unprofessional of me, but he's a persistent little bugger."
"Yes." A shiver slithers up my spine. She can read my thoughts. There's no way she could know all this, is there? Could she have talked to my therapist? Would he have discussed my case? Maybe so, because the next thing she says is, "Well, you've come to the right place. Finally. No?"
"Yes? You've dealt with trolls before?" It doesn't really matter whether she's talked to my therapist, I think, if she has something I can try.
She regards me. Can she hear my doubts?
"Okay," she says as she stubs out her cigarette, "here's what we are going to do. I'm going to come over on Saturday night after your daughter is asleep. Say ten o'clock to be safe?"
A shiver slithers up my spine. She can read my thoughts. There's no way she could know all this, is there? Could she have talked to my therapist?
"Yes, but Ben, my son, is usually still up then. Is that okay?"
"Doesn't matter. He's going to sleep at a friend's house that night."
"How do you—"
"Don't worry about it. I'll sleep in your bed. You stay out of sight. In the guest bedroom, if you have one."
"I don't. It's a small—"
"Alright, don't worry about it. Shut yourself in your daughter's bedroom and don't come out until it's light out. No matter what you hear. Any questions?"
"Will you want coffee or tea in the morning? Eggs? Bacon?"
"That's your question?" She shakes her head. "I don't eat animals, I like fresh flowers in my room, and my charge is three hundred dollars." With that, she sends me on my way.
*
Ben leaves for a sleepover at his best friend's on Saturday night. Anya and I play an elaborate make-believe game with her collection of toy horses for the better part of the evening, which ends with a bubble bath for Anya and the whole herd. I have to read five bedtime stories before I can get her to settle down. Meanwhile, I am ready to crawl out of my skin with anticipation.
Finally, Anya is asleep and the psychic arrives, taking a last puff of her cigarette, and grinding it out with her boot just outside the door. She picks up the butt and slips it into the enormous woven bag she carries on her arm. Tonight she is all in black: tight black jeans, long black sweater over a black shirt. She looks stunning as she sweeps past me into the living room.
"All good?" she asks. And not waiting for an answer, asks, "Where is the bedroom?"
I point to my room and she goes in and shuts the door firmly behind her.
I stand there for a minute, feeling uncertain and dislocated. Well, I was dislocated. I was dislocated from my bedroom.
When I slide into Anya's bed, she wraps her arms around my middle. "Mama," she says, "I didn't know you knew any fairies. What's her name?"
"Shhhh, Anya. Go back to sleep. You're dreaming."
Anya burrows her head into my neck. She continues murmuring but I can't make out what she says. I lie awake, listening for what seems like hours.
*
I wake as the sky begins to lighten and slip out of Anya's bed. My bedroom door is ajar and I tiptoe in. I walk across the room and lift the blinds. Morning sun comes streaming in. The psychic is gone. But so is the bed. All that remains is ash.
Andrea Chesman is the author of more than twenty cookbooks, mostly focusing on preparing food from the garden and homestead. Her fiction has appeared online in Green Mountains Review, The Bangalore Review, Fresh Ink, Blue Lake Review, Montana Mouthful, and Sad Girls Club among others and in print in the anthology Twisted, published by Medusa's Laugh Press, which nominated her short story for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in an old farmhouse in Vermont, where Robert Frost used to take his meals when he lived in the cottage across the street.