this imploding heart

Teresa and Sam

Samuel is talking in his sleep again.

I can't ever make out what he's saying, but I can almost always discern how he feels. When it's a nice dream, he curls half his mouth into a relaxed smile and works his eyebrows like he does when he's telling the story about the girl in the supermarket who told him that he was 'movie-star handsome' while I was busy choosing a carton of eggs. Sometimes, when he's particularly pleased with his dream life, he blows out little self-satisfied puffs of air. 'Pff. humbedlehumoobaffer in the kitchen. Pff.'

When he's having a bad dream, he turns his head sharply to the sides as if he's trying to avoid a bright light. He touches his face with the palms of his hands, and purses his lips.

And there's this look...
Samuel once tried to suprise me by ironing all my work clothes for me, but he put a hot iron on a polyester skirt and ripped a huge iron shaped hole out of it. We were really broke at the time and I was working off a set of 3 work-appropriate suits that I would mix and match every day. When he brought me the destroyed skirt, the look on his face was this terrible mixture of fear and guilt and self-disappointment. When he has bad dreams, he looks like that but with his eyes closed.

Samuel mistrusts himself.
He accidentally blinded and slightly disfigured his next door neighbor when he was nine years old. He was staying over at the neighbors and sleeping in the hallowed Top Bunk for the first time. They got in a pillow fight and the pillow Samuel was sleeping on had a Mag Lite in the case that the boys had used to make shadow puppets. Sam just forgot it was there. Thwap.

It's not that he thinks he's going to blind anyone. It's more that he felt so bad for making everyone so unhappy that he's terrified he's going to hurt or disappoint someone drastically all the time. When it comes to every day things, he's fine. He bikes to work at the bakery. He drinks beer and loves the playstation like it's an extension of his body. But he won't drive for fear of hitting someone or getting hit with someone in the car. He won't wrestle or roughhouse with his nephews for fear of tearing their arms off or knocking their teeth out. He wouldn't hold a baby to save his life. Samuel has basically convinced himself that, so long as he doesn't touch any person, no one will get hurt.

The first time Samuel kissed me, he had his hands clenched in nervous fists pressed against his sides, and he leaned over and only touched me with his lips.

"What was that?"

"Well...I kissed you, Teresa."

"We've been out 3 times and you've not so much as held my hand, and now you lean over from a foot away and plant one on me? I didn't really think you liked me."

Samuel is talking in his sleep again and I prop up on my elbow to watch him. He is squinting his eyes and I can tell things aren't going well for him in there. "NARG!Almafurniture. blackeyeglebaggen?"
I watch as his hands start to approach his face but retreat before quite reaching it. His breath quickens and he half whines, touches his palm to his face.
And that look slowly starts creeping over him.
I didntmakethemunfriesto. I madekanafffledeblugfm.

I lean over, careful not to touch him (it scares him to death when you touch him in these dreams). "Samuel", I whisper, "Sam, honey. You didn't hurt anybody. You're okay. Everyone is okay."

His face relaxes a little.

"snotle? marfenses?"

"Yep. Everything is okay. You're so sweet and handsome. Everybody is okay."

His mouth curls up.

"Pff."

Posted by Sonya at December 15, 2004 11:01 AM