Someone Is Watching by Joy Fielding Page A

looks to be about thirty and seems reasonably handsome, his features pleasant, his posture impeccable. Dark hair, average height, a slim build. Mercifully I’m spared the sight of his “pretty impressive six-pack,” as he’s now wearing a shirt and toying with the idea of adding a tie, two of which he holds up to his chest in front of the full-length mirror. Probably he has a date.
    I think of Owen Weaver’s recent invitation to dinner, and I wonder if I would have called him. I remind myself that dating is one of the things women often forego when they get involved with married men.
    Even women who haven’t been raped.
    After a few minutes of indecision, I watch the man reject both ties and toss them toward his bed. One misses and floats to the floor. The man disappears into his closet, returning seconds later with a sports jacket, which he puts on and adjusts carefully, studying his reflection all the while, obviously enamored with what he sees.
How can any woman compete?
I think, lowering my binoculars and turning back toward Heath. “You should see this guy,” I begin. But Heath’s eyes are closed and the easy regularity of his breathing tells me he is asleep.
    I climb into bed beside him, toy with the idea of turning the TV back on, watching more people die in an assortment of mind-boggling ways. Instead I find myself watching my brother sleep, in much the same way I’d watch over my mother when she was sick, carefully monitoring each breath, counting the space between it and the one before, holding my own breath when hers became labored, whispering words of love into her ear as she slept, hoping that my words would penetrate her morphine-induced dreams, that they would be enough to keep death at bay for another year, another month, another day.
    Of course they weren’t. Words in the face of death are never enough. Neither is love. No matter what anyone tries to tell you.
    I’m not sure when I first become aware that someone else is in the room. There is the sound of footsteps tiptoeing across the carpet, the floor creaking with each furtive step, and the air above my head stirring and then parting, like curtains. Someone is on top of me, his knees crushing my rib cage as a pillow is pressed against my face. I struggle, but I am helpless against his weight. An arm stretches across my windpipe, cutting off my supply of air. I scream, but the sound that emerges is more of a rattle. A death rattle. Gathering up whatever strength I have, I scratch wildly at my attacker’s arm.
    “What the hell!”
    I open my eyes, pushing aside a nearby pillow to see my brother Heath bolt up beside me in bed, holding out his injured arm.
    “What the hell are you doing?”
    “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I was having a nightmare.” I check the clock. It’s after midnight.
    Heath is rolling up his sleeve, although it’s too dark to really see anything. “I think you drew blood.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    He sighs. “It’s okay. I’ll live. A nightmare, huh? Do I have to ask what it was about?”
    I shake my head as my breathing gradually returns to normal.
    “Can I get you a glass of water or something?”
    “No, I’m fine,” I tell him, knowing this is what he needs to hear. I wipe a line of perspiration from my forehead, my body suddenly cold and clammy.
    “You need your sleep, Bailey.”
    “I know. I’m so tired.”
    “Ssh. Just close your eyes. You don’t have to be afraid. I’m right here beside you.”
    “Thank you. It means a lot.”
    But even as I’m saying the words I know that Heath is already drifting back to sleep. I lie there beside him for several long minutes, then carefully extricate myself from his arms and climb out of bed. I grab the scissors from the top drawer of my nightstand and do my regular check of the apartment, then proceed to the bathroom, where I take off my clothes and run the hot water. I shower in the dark, emerging fifteen minutes later into a steam-filled room, my hair wet, my