The Case of the Sleepwaling Daddy

December 5 - Dear Diary:

Well, I almost don't know how to start. So weird! Last night my dad came into my room and woke me up. It was total craziness!

I woke up to see my dad rummaging through my closet. WTF, right? I started to say something, but then I noticed his eyes were closed!

He seemed to be pretending to gather things into his arms. He would reach into the closet, grab some imaginary something, then pass it to his left arm, which he had cradled to his chest. Weird as hell, right?

I just sat up in bed and watched. After a few more grabs, he took his "armful" and walked to my dresser. He placed each imaginary item on my dresser and turned to smile at me, eyes still closed.

I couldn't help but smile back. My dad's so handsome! I also have to admit that I glanced down at his body. Hey, I know he's my dad, but he's also like, totally built. His broad shoulders bulged with muscles, and his thickly muscled chest tapered to a classic eight-pack. Loose boxers and below them tree-trunk legs. Yep, he was a world-class hunk. All those years in the military had made him really serious about discipline.

Take it from me... I know. Eighteen years with a military dad, and believe me, I understand discipline! Eighteen years old and I've never been on a date! But you already know this, dearest Diary. Sure, I've kissed a few times, but dad has been so careful with me I've never even gotten to second base. Whatever that is!

I watched in fascination as he began to mime making a sandwich. He was slathering imaginary something on imaginary bread, using an imaginary knife. Crazy!

I didn't know what to do. I mean, my first impulse was to wake him up. Then I looked up at the bunched muscles of his arms as he made the imaginary sandwich. I think I read once that you should never wake up a sleepwalker. You never know what they might do.

Suddenly I shivered. Daddy had never hurt me. Not ever. Not even a spanking. But for the first time, I felt a ghost of fear. What if he did something in his dream-state? Like went back to Iraq in his head or something? One punch could kill me. I'm just a tiny girl, Diary... I started to get pretty scared!

I've only ever seen Daddy hurt someone once, and it happened so fast I almost didn't see it at all. We were at the county fair, and I think I was like sixteen or something. Anyway, someone tried to steal my purse. It all happened so fast.

First, I felt a pull as my purse was yanked away. Before I could even react, dad was a blur. I heard a horrible, meaty "whack" and when I turned around, I saw some dude on the ground. He was holding his hands to his face and blood was gushing out around them.

I looked up at my dad, eyes wide, and what I saw made me take one step back. In his left hand dangled my purse. His right hand was clenched in the biggest fist I'd ever seen. But what made me step back were his eyes.

It's easy for me to forget that my dad is a soldier. He is so sweet and loyal and kind. He never raises his voice or pushes anyone around. Even when his friends get rude or out of hand, he never loses his cool. He's a giant teddy bear!

But on that day I realized something important. My daddy doesn't hurt or bully anyone. Not because he can't, but because he chooses not to. His gentle spirit and calm personality come not from weakness, but from intense strength. He doesn't need to prove anything to anyone.

But those eyes... you remember, Diary... I couldn't sleep that night. His eyes were not angry. Not hateful. Not emotional at all. That was what frightened me. They were the cold, lifeless eyes of a killer. He was looking right at me, but somehow not. He was looking through me. I could almost hear his mind coldly assessing the situation. Evaluating further threat. Determining if further punishment would be necessary for the poor dude on the ground with the broken face.

And then suddenly he smiled and handed me my purse. We walked on down the midway, and I never did find out what happened to the would-be thief.

But I did learn a lesson about my daddy. You do not fuck with him or his. But I didn't feel afraid. If anything I felt even safer. I mean, what girl wouldn't love to have Captain America as a father?

But last night I started to get scared. There was no way I was going to try to wake him up. I know he would never hurt me on purpose, but... why take a chance?

So I sat and watched him make his imaginary sandwich. It was kinda funny, actually, once I got used to it. He mimed each motion exactly. I could actually see him trying to separate the pieces of lunch meat.

This sent a shock through me. Daddy and I were both peanut-butter and jelly people. My heart started to weigh heavy in my chest.

Daddy was making a sandwich for mom.

I felt a tear trickle down my face as I realized that my sweet daddy was dreaming of making a sandwich for his beloved wife, now dead for three years. It was so sweet and heartbreaking all at the same time.

Suddenly, something changed and he straightened a little. He paused in that position for a minute, then suddenly walked out of the room.

Hmmmph! He didn't even put away all the sandwich fixin's. And if I even leave the salt out, I get an ear-full. Hypocrite!

* * * * * * *

December 6 – Dear Diary:

Well, it happened again last night! Same exact scenario, all over again. I awoke right away, since I kinda thought he might be back. Sure enough, he gathered all the ingredients again, took them to my dresser, and started making the sandwich. This time he actually got a little farther in the process before going back to his bedroom. He put both the meat and two slices of cheese on the sandwich. Yep, definitely for mom.

But that got me thinking about mom. I know it's been a few years, but I knew her for a long time. I don't ever, and I mean ever, remember Daddy making her a sandwich.

Not that he wouldn't have. He would have done anything for her. He loved her so much. But she had very traditional ideas about family, and I don't think I remember Daddy ever making himself any kind of food while she was around. She always said, "Nobody takes care of my man but me."

To which he always replied, "And no one ever will."

Remembering that kind of made me cry again. He was true to his word. I mean, there were constantly women sniffing around the house, trying to win him over. Jeez, come on! Thirty-seven year-old widower. Handsome and fit as hell. Successful business-owner. I can't tell you how many beautiful women have tried to catch his eye through the last three years.

To absolutely no effect. Not even a glance. He was polite, and civil, but clearly not interested.

I even remember one, that airhead brunette bitch, talking on her phone to a friend. "I don't know, I've tried everything. Even the 'accidental bathing suit malfunction' and nothing works. Maybe his you-know-what got blown off in the war or something."

I remember being so angry at that bimbo. To take his loyalty and true-love and try to turn it ugly, God it burned my blood.

And besides, I happened to know that nothing had been blown off in the war.

Not that I tried to see him, but you remember Diary. I told you all about it. It may have only been a few seconds as he came out of the shower, but I can tell you for sure, he has all of his parts, and they are all... well... perfect.

Oh God. Now I sound like a perv. Look, it's hard for me to explain. I'm not trying to say I'm hot for my dad, okay? He just happens to be totally perfect. I'm just commenting on the obvious.

Anyways, at first I was glad he was ignoring all those women. I mean, none of them could ever replace my mom, so fuck 'em, am I right?

But after a while I realized that I was being selfish. Daddy has a right to feel love again. To have someone to hold hands with. Now I'm kind of hoping he will find someone. He's such a good man. Such a good protector. Soon I'll be gone away off to college, and then who will he protect?

Well, anyways Diary, I just wanted to tell you that he sleepwalked again. He's never done that before, and now twice in a row? I wonder if he will be back again tonight? I guess we'll see.

* * * * * * *

December 7 – Dear Diary:

Yep. Happened again. Each time he seems to get a little farther into the scenario. Last night he made it as far as putting the second slice of bread on top and placing it on an imaginary plate. Then he looked up and walked back to his bedroom. So effing weird!

And all of this has got me thinking about mom. God how I miss her. Everyone tells me I'm growing up to look exactly like her. I look at her photos but can't see it myself. She had blonde hair like me, and I guess we both have tiny little noses and high cheekbones. But she was way more beautiful than me.

Poor mom. She had it all. Perfect family, perfect life. All of it taken away by a drunk driver almost exactly three years ago.

Wait, Diary! Maybe we're onto something. Mom died on Christmas Eve, almost exactly three years ago. Maybe these dreams are somehow related to the coming anniversary of her death. I mean, that's why we don't celebrate Christmas anymore. We just pretend it doesn't exist.

Which is pretty hard, take it from me.

I'm starting to get really interested, Diary. As you know, I'm going to be a police detective when I grow up, no matter what Daddy says. I smell an interesting case. A man with no history of sleepwalking suddenly sleepwalks three days in a row. This sleepwalking may in fact correspond with the coming anniversary of his beloved wife's death. And finally, the mystery of the sandwich. Mom would never let him make her a sandwich. It just didn't make sense.

Or, maybe he's just sleepwalking. Maybe he's dreaming of when he was a kid. I don't even know what kind of sandwiches his brother and sister eat. Maybe I'm making this into something more than it is.

We'll see Diary. We shall see...

* * * * * * *

December 10, three days later, night time – Dear Diary:

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!!! Holy crap! I'm writing in my bed right now. Daddy just left. Oh my fucking God!

I didn't write for the last few days because nothing new was happening. He just kept coming back, every night, making a damn sandwich. Getting a little further into the dream each time. Until tonight. Oh. My. God.

Okay, I have to calm down.

So Daddy came in, got the ingredients, and made the sandwich. Same as every day for the last week or so. No biggie, right?

But tonight, when he finished the sandwich and cut it in half, he came over to the bed and sat next to me. I couldn't believe it! What was I supposed to do? I sure wasn't going to wake him up, so I just sat there, quiet as a mouse, breathing in his clean, manly scent.

He turned to me and mumbled something, but I couldn't make out the words.

And then he leaned forward and kissed me! And no, I don't mean the way daddies kiss their kids. I mean like a full-on Hollywood lip-lock.

I was completely taken by surprise! He cradled the back of my head and simply kissed me. And I have to admit... I liked it. His tongue probed gently but firmly into my mouth, finding my tongue and twirling it with erotic, muscular strokes. He nibbled on my lips in a way that made my tummy flutter.

God, Diary, I have to admit, it was amazing. I loved the way he tasted. I loved the way his whiskers grated against my cheeks. I loved the feeling his tongue was giving me. I felt suddenly hot and liquidy inside.

I was felling things I'd never felt before, and the feelings were getting stronger. I let out an involuntary moan and suddenly he sat up straight.

Once again, he froze in a distracted posture, stood up, and went back to bed.

I just sat there, breathing heavily. My nerves were on fire. My lips felt hot and tingly. And oh God. I almost can't admit this to you, Diary, but my panties were wet!

I swear I didn't pee! But as I reached down, there was no question. My little woo-woo was slick and hot. I felt strange electric jolts when I touched it.

I went to the bathroom, confused and scared. What had just happened? I rinsed my woo-woo in cold water, and that seemed to help the weird fire down there, and after I dried off I came back in here to write.

Dear Diary, what the fuck?

* * * * * * *

December 11, early morning – Dear Diary:

Okay, Diary. Last night was crazy. I have no idea how to handle this. I can't wake him up, but I can't let it happen again. I mean... I know I liked it and all, but that's only because I'm a normal human girl, and he is a total stud, and I just reacted the way any one would. Right?

But it has to stop. I'm his daughter. He would die if he knew what had happened last night. It would crush him to think he had in any way hurt or coerced me.

Time to put on my detective hat. I'm going to get to the heart of this matter. I'm going to start investigating! Starting today!

I'll write more later today to keep you updated!

* * * * * * *

December 11, continued – Dear Diary:

Well okay. I understand now. Holy shit. Oh boy, I better explain. And it is not good.

First I called Uncle Roger, dad's brother. I asked him if Daddy had ever made mom a sandwich, and he laughed about three minutes straight. When he settled down, he said, "Honey, your mom would have killed him if he'd tried."

I thanked him and rang off, but I was starting to have unpleasant thoughts. What if Uncle Roger was right? What if dad never had made mom a sandwich? What if he'd made one for someone else? Someone else who he had then kissed afterwards?

Oh my God, I thought, what if dad had cheated on mom? What if he was reliving that experience out of some kind of guilt about the coming anniversary of her death?

God, I should never have taken tenth grade Psychology. I started thinking, maybe he had found a woman who would give him what mom couldn't give. Maybe he had found a woman who would let him make her a sandwich!

Yea, I know. Laugh it up Diary. You're not so damn smart yourself. Or, well, if you were a person, that is. You wouldn't be... Never mind!

But all my silly psych theories got destroyed when I called Aunt Megan. Aunt Megan probably knew my mom better than anyone in the world except dad. Growing up together, they had been pretty close, especially since they were the only two girls in a family of eight.

When I asked her if dad had ever made mom a sandwich, the line was silent for a long time. Finally, she said, "Why do you ask, sweetie?"

"Oh, no reason," I lied, "dad just mentioned it one time, and something about the way he said it made me curious."

Another long silence. I was beginning to think she knew something weird was going on. My story was clearly bullshit.

But she trusted me. Why not? That was the first lie I'd ever told her. No, she was silent for other reasons, as I would soon learn.

"Honey, your dad made your mother exactly eighteen sandwiches," Came her soft reply.

I couldn't contain a little guffaw. What the heckski? How the hell could she know such a thing? Down to the exact number? This case was just getting weirder and weirder.

Don't laugh at me diary. It is a case. "The case of the sleepwalking Daddy." And I'm on track to solve it.

I guess Aunt Megan took my silence for the stunned shock that it was.

She laughed her throaty laugh, sounding so much like mom. "I know, sweetie. That's a pretty exact number for something as mundane as making sandwiches, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I said softly, my heart beating fast. I knew I was close to cracking the case.

"Well," she said in a conspiratorial tone, "let me tell you how I know the exact number."

I sat up, pen poised above my little detective notebook I'd bought last summer. I looked down at the clues already listed, and I wrote a large number 18.

"Your dad made your mom a sandwich every Christmas Eve," she said softly. "It was a tradition for them." Another long pause. "I don't know if he actually made the eighteenth or not, because that was the night..."

The night my mom died. I sadly wrote a question mark next to the number in my notebook.

Again long silence on the line. Suddenly I asked, "But why would he even try to make one? Mom always felt insulted when anyone tried to take care of dad, even dad himself."

That throaty laugh again. "That's for sure. That is why I know the exact number. Your dad is a special man, sweetie. He got her to break her rule right from the beginning."

I perked up. Now this had the sound of a good scoop. Er... or whatever detectives call big new information. I held the phone tight and listened closely.

"You see, honey," she continued, "your dad knew just how traditional your mom was. And he approved. He was quite traditional as well. And well, even though we think of such things as old-fashioned these days, as long as both parties are okay with it, the old roles can work out pretty good."

I raised my eyebrows, since I know that Aunt Megan is anything but "traditional," being a lesbian biker among other things. But she clearly thought that what my mom and dad had was special.

"I was a little suspicious of your dad at first," she said, "I mean, he was a fucking soldier boy, for crying out loud!" She paused. "Excuse my French. But after a while, I started to realize that he was the real deal. He wanted traditional roles, but he took his duties very seriously. Not like some assholes who think the woman should work all day, then cook and clean."

"No, he meant to provide for her in every way. He meant to provide and protect and support. That's just how he was built." Another long pause. "As different from my life as that is, I had to respect it. Especially since I knew that was exactly what your mom wanted too."

She sighed into the phone and I had forgotten to take notes, so captivated was I by her story. "But your dad really won me over the night he proposed to her. That was the first night he made her a sandwich."

I perked up, and wrote "proposal – first sandwich" in my notes. This was getting good!

My aunt's soft, reflective voice continued. "She told me all about it. He had invited her over for lunch, but she'd assumed they would be going out. When she got to his apartment, he led her to the kitchen, where he had laid out all the fixings for her favorite turkey sandwich. And he said to her..."

I listened as my aunt's voice got deeper, as she heard his voice in her memory, "Darlin, you take such good care of me. You're the best woman I've ever known. And I know how much pride you take in being the one who nurtures. The one who provides the meals and the shelter from the storm. Hell, that's one of the reasons I love you so much."

My aunt laughed, and I wasn't sure if it was hers, or her memory of my father. She continued in the deeper voice. "But today, just this once, I'm going to make you a sandwich. And no argument! I know this is the way you show your love for me. And I honor and accept that love. But today, just this once, I'm going to feed you. Nurture you."

The phone was silent for a moment, yet charged with the emotion of my father's long-ago speech. "Because I want you to be my wife. And I want you to know that I appreciate what you do for me. And what better way to show you that I understand, and truly appreciate you, than for me to do the same for you?"

Aunt Megan's voice returned to normal as she continued. "He made her that sandwich, in perfect silence, right in front of her. She told me it was the sweetest thing she'd ever seen. She took the sandwich from him, tears streaming down her face, and simply said 'Yes.'"

There was another long pause as I tried to make sense of how this story related to recent events. Suddenly she spoke up again. "Look, you're old enough to know this, so there's no reason to keep it from you. That was also the first night they made love."