Lean On Me

The Familiar Things

There's something about being in your own bed. Perhaps it's the comfort of familiarity; knowing all the spaces and little folds in the sheets. Maybe it's your scent that lingers on the pillows or the way the same spot in the frame creaks when you roll over. I had just had a hot shower, was situated in bed, and was beyond ready for some sleep. Roger and I were beat. He appeared at the edge of our bedroom, dropping one of our bags to the floor.

 "Were you expecting a delivery?" He asked examining the box. I shook my head and yawned. “Well, you have a package here….from the US.” Roger said, tossing the package to the bed; which naturally forced me up to have a look. As Roger headed into the bath to get his shower, I wondered what this could be. Perhaps it was all Veronica’s insecurities and fears being mailed to me to dispose of properly. Or it could have been my inhibitions that I had so conveniently left folded up neatly on the bed in LA? Roger had stuff strung out over the floor, a combination of dirty and clean clothes. There were those that needed hanging and those that needed washing. As I heard the water turn on in the shower, I began to pry the side of the package open. I didn’t even bother looking at the return address label.

 In another bed, story time was in full swing despite the jet lag. John held on to Michael who was half asleep while Robert hung on every word of the same story that Veronica read to him nearly every night. Even at two years old, he loved being read to. The Deacon’s were sweetly tucked into their nest though it wouldn’t be long before Veronica and John would put the boys to bed. Sleep was a divinely sought for luxury after such a long flight.

 Veronica finished the last page of the little book, closing it and handing it over to Robert. He loved the soft, squishy cover. She sighed and looked to John. “I’m glad to be home….in more ways than one.” She said, letting her fingers toy with Robert’s curly hair. John smiled, trying not to move around too much and wake a drowsy Michael.

 “Sure is. Promise me something…if ever you’re drowning in something; and ya’ feel like ya’ too deep. Please. Please, sweetheart. Tell me so I can save you.” John said sincerely to her. She shook her head.

 “I promise.” She said before yawning. “Think they’re ready for bed?” she asked, hoping the boys would be sleepier than they were a few hours prior.

 “I think we’ll find out soon enough. Stay here, I’ll put them down. Hopefully, they’ll sleep through the night.” He said, carefully picking Michael up.

 Freddie and Mary had effectively unpacked and turned the house into a war zone of clothes and luggage. Freddie, sleep deprived; had badgered endlessly about the speculation of when all their antiques would arrive in London. Mary let him babble away as she turned their bed down. The cold October rain pattered against the window as she settled in, barely cracking it to allow the air to filter inside. One thing was certain, the warm, Los Angeles autumn had been lost to the cold English one. Freddie continued to talk, serenading Mary a bit as he did whatever it was he was doing in the bath. Mary could only assume he was making a mess. Hell, they’d torn everything else up in a frantic panic to get to bed and get some sleep. Why not tear the bath up as well? Finally, Mary couldn’t let this go on any longer.

 “Freddie! Hush! Just finish what you’re doing and come sleep.” Mary called to him, rolling over. Familiarity. As she gazed at the wallpaper-covered wall, enveloped in the brown sheets and floral blanket; she could feel familiarity overtake her. The sound of the tender London rain, the smell that loomed in the room thanks to Freddie’s shampoo, and the taste of the mint toothpaste that hung on her lips all reminded her that she was home. Suddenly, Los Angeles and the United States felt so very far away to Mary. Part of her longed to have a piece of it back and the other part of her was more than content to lie there in the familiar and allow life to return to normal. Whatever normal was.