My spider phobia is really unexplained, except for one night.
The bedroom I sleep in has three beds in it: mom and dad’s full sized bed, baby
brother’s crib and my small bed at the end of the room, located at the front of
our farmhouse. My parents feel their children are too young to sleep upstairs
by ourselves so we sleep in their bedroom, until further notice.
I’m supposed to be asleep because it is nighttime and
because I was told to go to sleep. But, dishes clanking, along with the voices
of my parents, keep me awake. Outside the bedroom door is the living room where
light from the kitchen spills into it, casting shadows. I can’t see my brother
in his crib because the solid part of his bed blocks my view. But, I know he’s
there because I saw him lowered into his crib earlier, half asleep. He’d whimpered once, waking up to rock himself
back to sleep.
I strain to lift my head, off the pillow, to
interpret the humming that is my parents’ conversation, but instead, their
voices become the lullaby that lulls me to sleep. My eyes flutter to close until
something in the kitchen clangs.
My eyes fly open and I look at the curtains on the window above
me and at the ceiling that seems to glow in the semi-darkness. I lift my arms outside
the quilt, that’s been tacked together with yarn, and play with the strings. My
eyelids are stronger than my four-year-old determination and close, melting
into my cheeks.
The next time I open my eyes, I’ve been dreaming and the
gloom of night swallows me. The house is quiet and darker than before, except, for
a dim light somewhere casting new shadows. I close my eyes to all that scares
me then squint to survey the bedroom. My
heart pounding in my chest becomes a drummer’s solo in my ears. I want to call out to my mom, but I’m too
scared to get my voice outside my head. The big bed seems far away. I see the outline of two lumps in the
big bed, which are my parents. Something on my
bed vies for my attention and I turn my head back to face it. As I look over the
quilt that’s covers me, I see hundreds of shadows that become spiders, racing
atop the quilt.
I clinch my eyes closed and force my voice outward. “Mommy?”
The big bed unfolds and one of the lumps becomes my mother. “What
is it?” Mom says, in a whispery and sleepy voice.
“Spiders – all over
my cover,” I cry.
She says something about it's only the threads on my quilt and not spiders and firmly pats the entire
area of my covering, with her bare hands then smoothes it flat. “There, I’ve
killed them all. There are no more spiders. Now, go back to sleep.” She leans
in close to my face; the shadow of her face consuming mine. My mother’s breath
touches my cheek, followed by a kiss.
My eyes close as she tucks me in again. I feel
her energy and peek to make sure she’s still there, but the burden of heavy
eyelids triumphs.
The next morning, my bed is empty. A search finds me sleeping
behind a big rocking chair in the living room.
[Significance: Since
that night of imaginary dream spiders, I’ve had an extreme (and often
paralyzing) fear of spiders.]
