Asleep From Day

by Margarita Montimore

  No, wait. I do . . . Saturday.

  “Why is it tomorrow?” Good lord, what a question. I sound like a five-year-old having an existential crisis.

  Sally dabs at my face with a tissue, but then her lips tremble and she starts to cry, too. (For the record: Seeing other people cry? Also pretty high on my list of least favorite things.) Robin, the man who taught me to loathe and restrain tears, stands awkwardly, like he’s all of a sudden unsure of what to do with his arms. He does better when he has a script with stage directions; all those years of theater and improv is still not his strong suit.

  I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but not 100 percent sure, so I ask, “Am I dead?”

  The absurd question cuts through the tension. Sally covers her mouth and snorts, then my father lets loose a snicker, and I start laughing too. This sets off fireworks of pain around my ribs and stomach, but oh well.

  “Of course you’re not dead,” Robin says. His laugh trails off and face goes from amused to somber in an instant. “You were hit by a car.”

  Ohhhhhhhh. Not the best news a gal can get, but it triggers bits of a flashback: the puddle, the car, horizontal rain, the ambulance, glass in my mouth. Was it my fault? Like most people who grew up in New York, I’m a serial jaywalker. Did I get hit because I crossed against the light? What a dumbass. My windpipe closes up and there are more stupid tears. Stupid tears for stupid me.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “It’s not your fault,” my father tries to reassure. He wasn’t there; how could he know?

  I ask, “How bad?”

  “Not as bad as it could’ve been,” Sally says. “Nothing broken. You’ve got some sprains to your wrist and a couple of fingers. A concussion, but a mild one.”

  “They want to do an MRI to rule out a subdural hematoma,” Robin adds.

  My father the buzzkill, but yes, please let’s rule out that horrific-sounding thing.

  “Your spleen, though . . .” Sally chews on her lip. Oh come on, girl, don’t trail off now.

  What does the spleen do again? Isn’t it one of those useless organs, like the appendix? No idea. I don’t think I’d even be able to point out the general vicinity of the spleen.

  “What about it?” I prod.

  Sally tilts her chin one way, then another. “It’s bleeding. If it doesn’t stop, you’ll have to have it removed.”

  “A spleenectomy?” The word sounds so silly it makes me chuckle. I wait for Sally and Robin to laugh with me, but they don’t. Maybe if I make a joke about being really attached to my spleen?

  “Splenectomy. It’s major surgery, a—” Sally catches the look of stop-scaring-the-shit-out-of-my-daughter from Robin and backtracks. “Not life-threatening or anything—”

  “And there’s still no telling whether they’ll need to perform it or not,” my father cuts in.

  “Don’t freak out.” Sally takes my hand.

  “Ow.” I flinch. For a petite girl, she’s got quite a deathgrip.

  “Sorry.” She releases my hand and pats it. “They’re just monitoring you for now. The bleeding might stop on its own, in which case they won’t need to operate.”

  I don’t want to talk about it anymore. My injuries should take priority but it’s so much nicer to focus on the TV, on Vanna flipping letters. Maybe Vanna can help me with this confusion and frustration, maybe she can help me recall . . . What? Something significant, elusive. I turn over the letters but they come up blank. This fog of consciousness sucks; I’m hurting too much to fall back asleep but am not alert enough to think and speak clearly.

  “We must’ve made it to the bridge,” I mutter.

  Sally and Robin cock their heads, eyebrows knit. “What bridge?” they ask.

  Bridge . . . What bridge? Why did I say bridge? The Brooklyn Bridge, the Verrazano, the Golden Gate (I’ve never even been to San Francisco), the Charles . . . Picture postcards of each bridge form an unfinished, wavering collage in my mind . . . Think harder. This bridge, it means something . . . but what?

  “I don’t know which one.” My voice is small and pathetic. Sadness sweeps over me like a giant ocean wave, makes it hard to breathe. The images blur and fade into white, the flipside of an unused postcard, waiting for a message.

  “Wish you were here,” I whisper and sink my head deep into the pillow, eyes shut tight because I’m sick to death of these tears.

  “Sally, get a nurse,” Robin says with an air of panic. He’s less familiar in the role of concerned father, but it suits him. I didn’t know he had such range.

  Eventually a goateed guy in green scrubs comes in and checks my chart. “How bad is the pain on a scale of one to ten?”

  “Um . . .” I breathe hard, chew on my lip. “Seven.” If my father weren’t in the room, I would’ve said nine.

  The nurse injects something into one of the intravenous tubes and leaves.

  Forget Vanna White and wheels and puzzles and bridges and spleens. Focus on lovely Sally in her wedding dress and breathe. In. Out. Don’t look so scared, Sally; there’s no need when you make such a beautiful bride. Breathe in and hold it. Let it out slowly. Say something to ease their worry.

  “But enough about me,” I say. “Sally, why are you in your wedding dress?”

  Her blue eyes spark; she’s been holding in the story, waiting for her turn in the spotlight. “So here’s what happened . . .”

  Words spill out of her mouth and I want to keep up, but it’s like trying to hold water in my hands: most of it slips through my fingers. She says something about getting a call in the middle of a fitting and her pretty mouth keeps moving, but this warmth in my veins is distracting. It’s like my body is being filled with hot maple syrup. Is my temperature rising? It doesn’t matter, because the aches are dissipating. Ah, much better.

  “I’d love to hear all about it, but I don’t think I can hold on long enough,” I yawn.

  Look at the two of them with their furrowed brows and nervous fingers. I wish I could reassure them. As long as I feel this warm and fuzzy, I know everything will be fine. I want to tell them, but I can’t.

  “Fucking bridge,” I whisper, and close my eyes.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ..................

  9/9/99

  ASTRID WAS IN THE HARVARD Book Store, browsing cookbooks for Sally’s bridal shower gift. It was Thursday and she shouldn’t have been taking a lunch hour, not with the countless Frankfurt Book Fair preparations she still had to make for the literary agents she worked for. Bad enough she was taking tomorrow off to attend the shower itself right after Labor Day weekend (Why choose a Friday night over a Saturday or Sunday afternoon for the event? That was Sally Logic; better not to question it). Astrid justified the outing by telling herself she’d work late again tonight, and she did need to get this gift. She’d put it off for too long.

  It could be worse, it could be the overwhelming House & Home section of the local department store. Astrid never enjoyed shopping, especially for banal household items. The sight of glimmering silverware, crystal serving platters, and specialized kitchen gadgets disturbed her, reminded her of how far she was from true adulthood and domesticity. Though a couple of years out of college, the two-bedroom apartment she shared with her friend Cass still had traces of a low-budget, academic lifestyle. Packets of Ramen in the cupboard. Mismatching kitchen chairs taken from sidewalks on garbage days. Living room curtains that were swaths of olive green velour safety-pinned to the rod. Most shameful of all, Astrid’s nightstand: two stacked milk crates, hidden beneath a section of leftover curtain fabric.

  But never mind domestic trappings or failings. Today Astrid didn’t have to be scared off by electronic pepper mills or hand-painted napkin holders or sterling silver toast racks. Sally had made it easy on her when they spoke earlier that week:

  “Ignore the registry. Just get me some cookbooks.”

  “Really? What kind?”

  “Any kind. I kinda exaggerated my cooking skills to Corey.”
<
br />   “In the ten months you’ve been dating, he never asked you to cook?”

  “He did, but then he got this new client in Shanghai and was traveling a lot, and I was working twelve-hour days at Fairman’s. It was easier when I broke my wrist—”

  “Oh, you mean when you exaggerated your snowboarding skills to Corey?” Astrid suspected Corey exaggerated a few things, too; she didn’t trust those buttoned up finance types. But after Sally’s heart was broken by a Brazilian sculptor, she didn’t trust free-spirited artistic types, so her rebound pendulum swung the other way.

  Sally huffed into the phone. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, the cast is coming off in a few weeks, and I know I’ll be expected to dazzle with my long-promised cooking prowess.”

  “Or else what, he’ll call off the wedding?”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Neither is you lying to your fiancé about knowing how to cook or being in Mensa or having Pat Benatar as your godmother.”

  “I couldn’t help it. He’s a big fan of hers.”

  “And what are you going to do at Thanksgiving or Christmas or—I don’t know—your wedding and dear old Pattycakes is a no show?”

  “I haven’t ruled out hiring an impersonator.”

  “You’re killing me, Sal.”

  “Look, if you don’t want to get me cookbooks—”

  “You know I’ll get them. I just don’t want you to—”

  “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you aren’t exactly in a position to give relationship advice.”

  “Ouch.”

  Astrid wasn’t in a position to be picking out a cookbook, either, but she was trying. The bookstore’s selection of recipe volumes was far from daunting, but offered enough choice to be challenging. Sally was of Scandinavian descent and Astrid wondered if she should get a book that celebrated one of those culinary heritages. Except she couldn’t remember whether her friend was Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, maybe even Icelandic. It was one of those countries that produced fair-skinned, blue-eyed, elfin-looking people like her best friend. Maybe Sally would prefer a book of organic recipes, or quick ones, or low fat/low carb ones. Or maybe The Gargantuan Gourmet, a collection of over a thousand recipes “for the novice chef or seasoned expert.” Maybe Pat Benatar had a cookbook . . .

  The glossy covers depicting sumptuous-looking meals made Astrid’s stomach grumble. She wanted to make her selection and be done with it. That would leave time for a quick browse of the remaindered books, then a muffin or bagel from Au Bon Pain, which she’d eat outside before returning to work. It was gorgeous out, possibly the last mild day the year would offer. The sun gave a special glow to the crimson brick facades of the Harvard buildings and cobblestone sidewalks, and the balmy air was woven through with soft breezes. She wished she didn’t have to go back to work.

  “That’s not a very good one,” a male voice called out.

  Astrid blinked, her fantasy of sitting in a sun-dappled outdoor café replaced by the reality of the bookshop. Was he talking to her? She turned around to match the voice to its speaker.

  He was a foot away, pointing at The Gargantuan Gourmet. Tall and broadly built, solid, with a lived-in, purposefully disheveled, rumpled look. Soft-looking hair, like the down on a baby duck. He looked like he was about to share a funny secret. Astrid bet he gave really good hugs.

  She was about to return the book to the display pile, but held it close to her chest. “Why not? It says it has ‘countless recipes for traditional dishes as well as innovative meal ideas sure to please the entire family.’ Sounds fairly comprehensive.”

  “Comprehensive, sure, but what about actually good?” He held out his hands in a gimme gesture and she gave him the book, careful to avoid touching him. She wanted to, but she felt like a curious kid wielding a fork near a live electric socket. As he flipped through the pages, the hem of his beat-up suede jacket grazed her fingers and she got zapped anyway, static shock from the metal buckle. She dropped her hand.

  He stopped at a recipe for rhubarb crumble. “See this? Looks like it would make a hearty dessert for a family gathering, maybe Thanksgiving, right? Wouldn’t you agree that—”

  “I’ve never had rhubarb crumble.”

  “Pretend.”

  “We usually have pumpkin pie.”

  “Well, if you ever decide to try rhubarb crumble, and I strongly encourage you to—it’s delicious—but let’s pretend we’re in an alternate universe where this is what you make for Thanksgiving dessert—”

  “We get the pies from a bakery.” Sometimes Astrid confused being difficult with flirting.

  “Wow, do you ever wish interrupting was a competitive sport so that you could win all the awards?” He gave her an exasperated smile, bright and perfect but for a single snaggletooth.

  Zap. The ends of her hair should’ve been singed and her fingertips blackened. No skin or metal between them but electricity can travel in many ways.

  “Sorry.” Her eyes widened, illuminated. “Please go on. Tell me all about rhubarb crumble and why this recipe is all wrong,” she said with exaggerated seriousness.

  “Not just all wrong. A disaster.” He echoed her pseudo-somber tone.

  She held back a smile. “How so?”

  “This calls for too much butter and not enough sugar, so you’ll get greasy, bland rhubarb and even blander crumble topping which, I should add, will taste like wet sand.”

  “Okay. That’s just one recipe, though.” Her mouth twitched, working harder to restrain a grin.

  He shook his head, as if her skepticism were a great burden and disappointment.

  “It’s more than one recipe. I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this.” He took a step closer and Astrid got a whiff of his cologne: clean and sharp, with hints of lemon and cedar, mixed with the apricot smell of his suede jacket. He kept turning the pages and Astrid inched toward him, wondering if his jacket was as soft as it looked. And his hair.

  “See this?” He pointed to a recipe for lasagna. “You could buy frozen stuff that tastes better.” He flipped to another page. “And this meatloaf? The only thing it’s good for is filling in your bathroom tile.” He kept turning pages. “Based on ingredient proportions, lack of seasoning, and other factors it would be way too complicated to explain, I know you’d be making a big mistake getting this book.”

  “A big mistake, huh?” It was a losing battle: she let loose a smile, and now struggled to hold in laughter.

  “Trust me. You will only disappoint yourself and others if you try to cook anything from it.” His face and voice remained stern, but his eyes, soft blue like worn-in denim, hinted at hijinks.

  “Hm . . .” She pretended to consider what he said. Was she being too obvious, the way she kept inhaling his cologne? Getting caught smelling someone like this would be all kinds of creepy and embarrassing. Yet her nose wouldn’t let up, and she became lightheaded. Could you get drunk on a scent?

  “Why are you in the market for a cookbook, anyway?” he asked. “Did your boyfriend ask you to cook for him more?”

  “I don’t have . . . ” she smirked. “Jeez, I walked right into that. I can’t believe you guys still use that one.”

  “I can’t believe you girls still fall for it.” He set down the cookbook. “Actually, I’ve never used that line before in my life. I’m just cautious about flirting with girls who may have boyfriends, ever since a traumatic incident at the sandbox when I was six, which involved two nurses, a plastic bucket, and my head.”

  “Were you trying to give Sandbox Girl a piece of your rhubarb crumble?”

  “Hey, I like the way you brought that around full circle.”

  Astrid smiled up at him, easy at first, then her mouth got tight. They stood before each other like they were about to slow dance. She took a small step back and he did the same. A different kind of dance.

  She gestured to the stack of books. “This isn’t for me, anyway. My friend is getting married, her bridal shower’s this weekend, and she�
��s been lying to her fiancé about being a good cook.”

  “How can you lie about—”

  “That’s what I wondered, too.”

  “Do you get really good at hiding take-out containers?”

  “It’s a long story. Well, not really, but it’s a boring one. It involves a wayward snowboard.”

  “That sounds like the opposite of boring.”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know.” Rather, she didn’t want to talk about Sally. Or was the spotlight of his attention too bright on her?

  “Sure I do. I like boring stories. They’re some of my favorite kind. I think poor plot development and uneven pacing are underrated. How about this: I’ll help you pick out a cookbook and you can tell me your boring story over tea at Algiers.” He tilted his head down and raised his eyebrows, a look that asked, is my offer as irresistible as I hope it is?

  Astrid’s palms went damp. It wasn’t that men never asked her out. She was pretty enough to attract some male attention, despite her perceived physical detractors (large ears, eyes set too far apart, a nose that veered slightly to the left, a refusal to starve the extra curves from her frame to waifish proportions). She kept her shiny hair long, which, according to one poetic ex-boyfriend, was “the color of sun-dappled chestnuts,” and had eyes the same ex said gave her “an amber-hued expression of exotic wonder” (his poetry was terrible). Many complimented her sweet laugh. According to Cass, she had “a totally righteous energy.” Even so, she wasn’t the kind of girl men turned to look at on the street or bought drinks for in bars or clubs, even when she had the nerve to bare cleavage. Something about her shyness and delicacy. Despite attempts at being street wise or feigning cynicism, she still had the air of a girl with a fragile heart.

  So what was this guy’s deal? Did he cherish delicate things or enjoy breaking them?

  And what was Astrid supposed to do with all this attention? It was like a warm blanket had been wrapped around her, but also like a grenade had been tossed at her feet.