Children are full of dreams, thought Craig, putting the prescription of Rozerem on top of his fridge. Wish I could borrow some. And Chelsea, who was very precocious at seven years old and who had already mastered castling in chess, took her time at his kitchen table with her latest move and asked, "Still having trouble falling asleep?"
"You know I got to stop being so honest with you and your mother," said Craig, tousling her blonde bangs. "And yes, I am. But my doctor gave me this drug called Rozerem."
"Rozerem… Rozerem," she said, pronouncing it carefully as if trying the word on for size. With careless abandon, she nudged her bishop, putting him into check. "That’s good. My Mommy says you have something called insomnia, and you catched it in Africa."
He smiled and moved a pawn. That observation, he thought, has got to be worth at least one glass of chocolate milk – besides a bribe was useful when you’ve lost both knights and a rook. "Caught it, not ‘catched’, and no, I didn’t catch anything in Africa. But your Mom’s right, I need the Rozerem for insomnia."
"Because you saw bad things there?" prompted Chelsea. "I thought Africa was supposed to be pretty."
"Africa’s beautiful, but it’s not Africa’s fault I have to take Rozerem," he explained, moving a pawn to save his Queen. "In the place where I visited, there were people in trouble who needed help, and we built them a dam so they got some clean water, and we cleaned up some bad wells so they wouldn’t get sick, and then some bad soldiers moved in who wouldn’t let us help them anymore."
Chelsea’s eyes stayed on the board with fierce concentration, but he had been aware for some time she was quite skillful at multi-tasking. "So you came home. Mommy says you better be careful with taking pills like that. They can be a bad habit."
"Well, you may tell your mother – in fact, you can say this exact thing: ‘Mummy, the doctor says Rozerem isn’t addictive,’ he replied. "Got that?"
She nodded soberly, asked what addictive means, and he explained, stealing a sip of her chocolate milk. They sat for a full minute in silence across the battlefield of chess pieces, and then with the brazen honesty of children, she confided, "Mrs. Gustafson in 401 told Mommy it’s strange you spend so much time with me, a grown man all on your own, and she should be careful, but Mommy told her she’s always careful and you’re an old friend and she’s got a good measure of you and besides, she checks every hour on me."
He took all that in and decided on a neutral "Uh-huh…" He wondered idly if Mrs. Gustafson ought to be taking Rozerem – all that busybodying keeping her up at nights. Jeez. The last thing he needed for his insomnia was the worry of what neighbors thought.
"That’s true, your mother is a very good judge of character," Craig told the little girl, seeing too late he’d lost another pawn. "You don’t get to be an army captain without it."
Chelsea’s face brightened and she giggled. "She used to tease Daddy because she outranked him in Iraq!"
"I remember," he murmured.
He waited for her to say the obvious, but she didn’t. Maybe it was a sign of adjustment, not mentioning how much she missed him. A full year had passed, but the loss would always be with her.
Her eyes strayed to the bottle on top of the fridge, and then there was a furrow of small brows. "So how does Rozerem–" Careful pronunciation there. "How does Rozerem work?"
"Yes!" he declared with a little too much enthusiasm as he finally took away her knight. He expected a seven-year-old pout in response, but she wasn’t pouting, and that put him on his guard. Tiny fingers were poised over the board. "Rozerem," he explained, hoping to distract her, "targets the part of the brain that controls the sleep-wake cycle. Helps you relax, fall asleep and stay asleep." He tapped her nose and added, "And it’s only for me, you understand?"
"Craig, I’m seven, I’m not stupid," she said petulantly, and promptly put him back in check. "I know there’s medicine for grown-ups like this Rozerem stuff, and then there’s, like, stuff for kids. Boy!" Another pause, and she rolled her head and asked, "Do you think you’ll ever see your son again?"
He took a deep breath. "I don’t know, sweetheart."
Eight, he’d be eight by now, if… A thousand ifs on long nights both back there and then the connecting flight through Nairobi after the whole delegation had to flee, and a thousand more ifs because in the movies the hero always stays behind, doesn’t he? Except movie heroes never lose to rebel armies or get told by an insistent U.N. you must leave or face no fly zones. And if Anaya had lived, she’d be… Yes, it had been bad lately, so he needed Rozerem for a short-term solution. The talk therapy was helping, too, he had to admit. He had an appointment next Wednesday.
"Are you ever going to go back?" asked Chelsea. "To Africa?"
"I promised myself I would," he answered, trying to keep his voice casual. "I’m sure they still need engineers… Some day it’ll be possible."
"I bet you’re a good Dad," said Chelsea. "I want to talk to my Mom about making you my new Dad."
"Well, it’s a little more complicated than that, darling," he answered. "For one thing, your Mom likes Harold, and he seems nice, doesn’t he? You should maybe give him a chance."
"Mom says that, too," said Chelsea. "She says some people need practice being around kids and don’t know that much."
"Actually, that’s true," said Craig. "When my son was a baby, he cried a lot in the night and made me lose a lot of sleep, and I didn’t have anything like Rozerem to help me, but then you have to get up for a crying baby." He chuckled as he realized he’d fallen into her speech patterns. "Anyway… I didn’t think I was a very good Dad, but I think I got better. Before I… lost him."
"Wasn’t your fault," said Chelsea, striking a loyal note. "We should stop. The game, I mean."
"Quitting while you’re ahead, huh?" he teased.
She jumped off the stool and gave him a very mature look. "Craig, it’s checkmate in two moves."
Now that, he decided, was scary. Seven years old.
"When do you take your Rozerem?" she asked him out of the blue.
He shrugged, mystified by the point of the question. "I don’t know." He went to check the bottle. "The label says ‘Take Rozerem half an hour before going to bed.’ There."
"Do you want to watch Shrek the Third with me?" she asked, and he understood why she was so curious about timing.
"Have to pass, kiddo. Why don’t you watch Mulan again with Harold. It’ll be good – you can teach him the songs."
She said okay and before she hurried off, she turned on her heel and impulsively gave him a hug. For the briefest instant, he felt lifted, transported. He rubbed his wet eyes before she noticed. Then he watched her go down the hall, making sure she got back inside okay and listened for the turn of the lock. He knew Linda or Harold was home, but it was good to make sure Chelsea got there okay.
He flicked on the news then made himself a cup of decaf, eyes absently wandering to the Rozerem still sitting on the fridge. He smiled, remembering how she had practiced the name in her small mouth. Rozerem. He was confident he would sleep tonight. He had Rozerem, and he knew there was healing comfort in certain kinds of company.
