Waiting With Osniel

Standing in the kitchen, red and blue lights blink in the darkness. I find the bag of pretzels, scoop up a handful, crack one between my teeth. I open the fridge, light flooding my eyes, and grab the water, pour half a glass down my parched throat. Then I pee, again.

I make my way back to the bed, crawl into the donut hole of my pregnancy pillow, close my eyes and think of Osniel. Someone once told me there’s a gemara or something that if you think about Osniel, or water, it helps you sleep. I imagine Osniel as a handsome, tanned surfer, who sits beside me on an empty tropical beach. He’s a calm and soothing presence but quick to disappear as my thoughts turn to my meetings in the morning, the email I forgot to send the doula, the essay I need to finish.

I heave my body over to lie on my other side.

What’s the truth behind Lieby Kletzky’s murder? I see the face of Levi Aron. Gruesome images follow.

I turn again, trying to shake my mind clear of the nightmarish pictures so quick to suck me in.

Osniel. I’m lying on the sand.

“I’m here,” Osniel says, hooking his tangled blonde hair behind his ears. “I’m here when you’re ready.”

He’s shepherded me into sleep thousands of time over the years, a platonic, mystical friend. Turning my thoughts to his calm presence, his steady features, the quiet ocean around us, has so often helped me drift off. But now I need to pee. Again.

I struggle to my feet.

My phone says 2:12.

When I get back to bed, I put a hand on my husband’s arm. It’s heavy with deep sleep, the skin soft and pliant beneath my fingers.

I settle back in to my pillow. Osniel. The tide coming in, splashing my feet as he and I sit and wait for sleep, the gift that will not be chased.

The baby twists in my belly, arching her back against the skin beneath my hand like a dolphin in the waves.