“Look, I’ll make it easy for you.” He plucked an oversized volume from a high shelf and presented it to her with a flourish. The cover depicted piles of waffles sprinkled with powdered sugar and wild berries, garnished with sprigs of mint and magnolia blossoms.
“The Big Book of Breakfast?” Astrid took the tome and thumbed through it, her breathing steadier. Why couldn’t people be as easy to handle as books?
“Pancakes, omelets, French toast, you name it. Your friend will secure her marriage for life if she makes her new husband a good breakfast. I’ve tried some of these recipes out myself and I swear they’re awesome. My favorite is the baked eggs. That one always goes over well.”
Astrid frowned. How irrational, to be annoyed at the thought of this stranger cooking breakfast for other . . . well, for dates, obviously. After a night of . . . obviously.
“I’m sure it does,” she said. “Do you often make baked eggs for others?”
A disarmed chuckle, but he played along. “I can’t help it. It’s a very popular dish. But I only like to make it for special people . . . so I often end up eating alone.”
“That’s a lot of breakfast for one person.”
“Are you calling me fat?”
“Don’t try to twist things around.” She almost reached out to swat his shoulder. “You just want me to buy the book.”
“I didn’t write it but . . . You’re going to, right?”
Astrid couldn’t think of a reason not to. She headed over to the sales counter, book in hand. He followed.
“See, now you’re making me think that you might have tea with me, too.”
She turned around. “Such wild optimism. Where might that be coming from?” She aimed at a playful tone. Did she miss the mark and come off as uptight?
He put a hand on her shoulder. Astrid felt his warm palm through two layers of clothing. She tried to keep her expression somewhere between cocky and neutral, but it faltered.
“I’m not optimistic. I just like how easy you are to get a rise out of. Nervous looks cute on you.” He smiled his I-have-a-secret smile.
“I can help you over here,” a salesclerk called out.
She approached the counter and fumbled with her wallet, a welcome diversion from coming up with an appropriate response.
When her purchase was rung up, the stranger followed Astrid outside and held out a hand.
“Nice to meet you . . .?”
“Astrid O’Malley.” She shook his hand for a beat too long, thought of the defibrillator she’d need if she didn’t let go.
“I’m Tom Collins.”
“Like the drink?”
“Do you know anyone who drinks those?”
“I don’t.”
“Do you even know what’s in a Tom Collins?”
“No.”
“Then I think it’s time to get rid of the connection with this obscure, old fashioned—but not as old fashioned as the Old Fashioned—cocktail and be recognized for my own merits. Do you think when Madonna meets someone, they say, ‘Oh, Madonna? Like the woman in all those religious paintings?’”
“Probably not.” She bit her lip, but it wasn’t enough to suppress her grin’s momentum. When was the last time someone made her smile this much? Probably never.
“I go by my middle name, anyway. Call me Theo.”
“Wait, what?” She squinted up at him. “Why would you introduce yourself as Tom Collins, then? Who does that? Why not just say, ‘I’m Theo Collins?’”
“And miss all that playful banter about cocktails?” He winked, then ducked when Astrid tried to swat him.
Her surge of boldness tapped out, she stiffened and shifted the plastic bag into her other hand.
Theo began to walk down Massachusetts Avenue. “You’ve been to Algiers before, right?”
His question went unanswered.
Astrid remained in front of the bookstore. He doubled back.
“Uh oh. Just when I thought this might be a good day,” he said.
“I can’t go. I have to be back at work in twenty minutes.” The words were recited like lines in a script, weighed down with reluctance. She slipped into responsibility like a pair of stiff shoes, but she’d worn them for so long, she was used to the discomfort. What would it be like to go barefoot for once? Was being responsible in this moment her best idea?
“C’mon, twenty minutes is enough time for tea.”
“By the time we sit down, get served . . .” She thought of the tasks awaiting her back at the agency: air and hotel reservations, a Staples order, a trip to FedEx, a call to the copier repairman.
“Okay, then how about I run into Au Bon Pain”—he pronounced it “pain” like many locals—“get us some tea to go, and we can hang out in The Pit with the gutter punks for a little while.”
Astrid wasn’t convinced, but was sensible enough to understand he wouldn’t keep trying if she didn’t give a little.
“I guess it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I’m a few minutes late,” she relented.
“And if it would be, I want to know all about your job.”
While they walked, she kept her eyes to the ground. What would happen in less than half an hour, when she’d have to leave Theo and return to the office? She couldn’t think about that right now. As they approached Au Bon Pain, she accidentally grazed his side with her arm.
“Sorry.” She willed herself not to blush.
“You wanted to cop a feel. I understand.”
Astrid laughed.
“I like your laugh. I’m sure that’s something you’ve heard a lot.”
It wasn’t. She glanced over, but he was looking straight ahead. “Not in those exact words.” God, I hope he’s not a poet.
While Theo went into the coffee shop, Astrid waited outside, her back to the doors. She smiled into the trees and gave herself a cautionary you-just-met-him-and-he-might-be-a-serial-killer-so-don’t-get-your-hopes-up anti-pep talk. It was no good. Her hopes rose with every passing second.
He came back out with a yellow and white paper bag. They crossed the street to the set of curved steps marking the entrance to the Harvard Square T-stop, nicknamed “The Pit.” The bustle of the sunken space made it a good place to beg for money, show off skateboarding tricks, and put on impromptu concerts. Theo and Astrid chose a quieter spot by the public telephones.
“Don’t you miss actual phone booths?” he asked. “They were so . . . I don’t know . . . charming and insular.”
“I guess.” Astrid opened the lid of her paper cup and inhaled jasmine-infused steam. She closed her eyes.
“Muffin?”
She opened them. “Thanks.”
“Lemon poppy seed. Pretty good, but nowhere near as good as the muffins in that book.” He gestured to her plastic bag.
“I already bought it, so you can go easy on the sales pitch.”
“Sorry.” He said through a bite of raspberry Danish.
“Let me ask you something. Now that you have me here, be honest. Did you really know those recipes in The Gargantuan Gourmet would be terrible?”
“Nope. No idea.”
“Then why were you so against me buying it?”
Theo brushed some crumbs off his lap. “Take a closer look at that book you just bought.”
Astrid set aside her tea and opened the bag. She scanned the book cover. “Ah, Erin Collins. Your sister wrote a cookbook?”
“Half-sister. Same mom, different dads. Erin’s dad was really tight with this religious group—a cult, according to my mom. He left on some kind of spiritual retreat before Erin could walk and never returned. When she started school, Mom began dating one of the construction guys repairing our leaky roof—but only after finding out he was an atheist—and eventually remarried and had me.” Theo took a sip of tea, hissed as the hot liquid burned his tongue. “But enough of my boring stories. Though I did tell you I have a soft spot for them.”
“That wasn’t boring, not at all. And you’re a good brother to pimp h
er book out . . . Do you commonly stalk bookstores and coerce people into buying it?” Astrid folded her arms across her chest.
“If you’re asking whether I use it as an excuse to pick up chicks, no. But with you, I couldn’t resist. You had pancakes written all over you.”
A plummeting sensation came over her and she swallowed hard, forced herself to make eye contact. “Not baked eggs?”
Theo leaned back to take her in, looked at her with surprised tenderness. “No. Definitely pancakes.”
For a moment, neither one spoke. Astrid looked away first.
“Anyway, I promise your friend really will love the book,” he said. “Erin’s recipes are too good. I spent a summer with her on the Cape and gained at least ten pounds helping her test them. Which is why I got offended when you called me fat.”
Her eyes widened. “What! I never—”
“I know, I know. I’m just messin’ with you.”
Astrid smiled and stretched her toes. If only she could dismiss the ticking clock in the back of her head. She checked her watch. “Damn. I’m already five minutes late.”
“You think you’d get fired if you didn’t go back?”
She sighed. Contracts needed to be mailed, padded envelopes ordered, that stupid ancient Xerox machine fixed.
Theo persisted. “Look . . . How many more days like this are we going to have before we’re complaining about the cold and the snow? We get maybe—what—three real days of fall?”
“It’s technically still summer. Autumn doesn’t—”
“You know what I mean. God! Go with the spirit of it, will ya? Today’s the kind of day you should be doing exactly what you want. So, if you could be doing anything right now—within state borders—what would it be? Spending hours cooped up in an office?”
So much dread at the thought of it. “No, of course not.”
“Then what?”
She considered the question.
“Hmm . . . Maybe . . . I’ve always wanted to walk across the Mass Ave Bridge.”
“Hmm indeed.” Theo twirled an invisible moustache. “Interesting.”
“I always tell myself I’ll do it when I’m on the T going over the Charles River and see it across the way. But I’ve been here for over a year and still haven’t. And today really would be the perfect day for it.”
“It would. Let’s go.”
“I don’t do things like that.” She pinched pieces off her muffin, but they never made it to her mouth.
He gave her an exaggerated pitying look, all lost puppies and dropped ice cream cones. “I bet you’re one of those people who never calls in sick and uses up less than half your vacation days.”
“And I’m never late.” A reluctant nod. “But I did take tomorrow off to go to New York for my friend’s bridal shower.”
“Right, so what’s the big deal extending your long weekend by a few hours?” He went over to the nearest pay phone and picked up the receiver. “What’s your office number?”
“I still have so much to do.” But couldn’t it all wait? “You’re going to get me in trouble.”
“Wrong. I’m gonna get you out of trouble. If you go back to that office, you’ll spend the rest of the afternoon—possibly your life—regretting it.” He deposited some coins into the machine. “Number please.”
If she walked away now, she’d always wonder what this day could’ve been.
Take off those shoes and go barefoot for once.
She gave him the number. As he spoke into the receiver, she was too intrigued to stop him.
“Hi, I’m calling on behalf of Astrid O’Malley, one of your employees . . . No, she’s fine. This is Sam, her brother. Could you please tell her boss that she won’t be coming in this afternoon? We’ve had a family emergency and she needs to come to New York immediately. Astrid will explain the rest when she returns on Monday.”
He hung up the phone and offered an arm.
“Your bridge awaits, Madame.”
“I’m not married, so it would technically be Mademoiselle.”
“You’re impossible, you know that?” He nudged her with an elbow. “C’mon.”
“And how will I explain the rest on Monday?”
“I don’t know. You have all weekend to think of something.”
The mail, the office supplies, the reservations, every item on her to-do list vanished as the rest of the day opened before her.
She took Theo’s arm, which was sturdy but with just enough give. It was a gateway drug to the rest of his body. This was an arm that promised it would pull her back from a building ledge. And the glimmer in his grin promised, once safe from danger, he’d crack a joke to take her mind off of the near-death-ness of it all.
An image projected itself on a blank wall of her mind: white curtains billowing, an expanse of crisp white sheets, the two of them in the heart of this pale oasis, lying in bed, fast asleep. She kept her head down as they walked, hair in front of her face to make sure he couldn’t read it. She kept her grip on his sleeve loose, the suede shifting beneath her fingers.
Oh, and his jacket? Even softer than it looked.
CHAPTER FIVE
..................
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1999
GROGGY DAYS AT THE HOSPITAL pass in a haze of pain, weird dreams, boredom, and medical tests.
A policeman comes to question me during one of my relatively lucid periods. He has this bushy red moustache, and I want to ask him if it tickles people when he kisses them, whether it feels like kissing a broom. Can morphine provoke uncontrolled fits of giggles? Because I have to keep apologizing to him for my inappropriate laughter, and for not being able to remember anything. Sorry I can’t be of much use, Moustache Cop.
I get more details about the accident, but they don’t gel into a memory that belongs to me, more like one that’s implanted into my subconscious. Even the heavy rain that day, it’s been mentioned so many times, I can almost feel the wet slant of it drench me as I mentally approach the four lane street where it happened. But is it my thirsty brain eager to fill in details or a true recollection?
Here’s what I know secondhand: based on where the ambulance picked me up, I made it as far as Brooklyn, within blocks of my father’s building. The car hit my left side. Most likely, I flew up onto the hood and knocked my head against the windshield. Hello, concussion and bleeding spleen. I probably landed in the street on my left hand. Greetings, sprained fingers. Judging by the tire tread, the car backed up, swerved around me, and kept going. The spleen trauma was the main reason I was kept for monitoring. And the hematoma, but I had the MRI, a noisy spaceship trip I hope to never take again . . . No blood on this girl’s brain, thank you very much.
Here’s what I know firsthand: everyone’s trying to reassure me, says it could’ve been a lot worse. They use words like “good fortune” and “lucky” like some kind of dime-store tarot readers. I want to ask if they know what those words really mean. Yes, I should be more grateful that it wasn’t worse, but being hit by a car at all is pretty shitty. I can’t wait to go home.
Orange Man was taken away in the middle of the night. I don’t know if he died or what. The only thing I’m sure of is, his bed is empty and soon mine will be, too. The doctor has declared my spleen fine and the rest of me ready for the outside world.
Robin is there for my discharge, taking notes as the doctor gives instructions. Between the blackouts and rotation of nurses treating me, I don’t recall seeing him before, but find it comforting that he resembles a mental image I’d have for a doctor: beard, glasses, bald except for a middle-aged halo of hair above his ears.
He gives the usual pain management spiel, blah blah “get lots of rest” blah, and prescribes a muscle relaxant and codeine.
“If you have severe chest pains or see any black spots on your chest outside of the normal bruising, you must see me or another doctor immediately. Did I mention getting lots of rest?”
“You did.” Robin underlines something on his not
epad.
“It’s worth repeating. Where will you continue your recovery?”
“She’s going to stay with me for a few days,” my father answers for me.
As eager as I was to leave this place, unexpected dread trickles in the second I step out of my room. I walk with a slight limp and there’s a tightness in my lungs from the bruised ribs. It’s all about baby steps and shallow breaths. The further I get away from the safety of my hospital bed, the more my uneasiness grows. Even something simple like the elevator ride feels fraught with danger and uncertainty—What if there’s a power outage and we get stuck? What if the cord snaps and we plunge to our deaths? Settle down, paranoia queen.
I forgot my face is still bruised and cut up and it gets startled looks that run the spectrum of inquisitive to concerned to pitying. People are staring while trying not to and part of me wants to be confrontational (“Go ahead and have a good look”). Another part wants to be inappropriate (“It’s the only way Daddy knows how to show his love”). But I keep my mouth shut.
Before long, I’m in my next recovery room: my old bedroom. Robin turned it into a home office years ago—replaced the bed with a high-end futon, added bookshelves to house numerous plays and scripts—but it’s disconcerting, like being in a generic room with personalized adolescent traces. On the walls are little scotch tape rectangles, overlooked and painted over, from the horror movie posters I hung at crooked angles in high school. There’s the windowsill, its ledge still splintered from the time I tried to remove an air conditioner by myself and ended up with a sprained foot. There are the tiny blue stars I etched into the closet doorjamb with ballpoint pen, one for every time I felt isolated or lost, a galaxy of loneliness tattooed on a skinny panel of wood. Then there’s my dresser, its once pale oak now stained cherry and housing spare linens, but the inside panels still marked with the faint penciled names of everyone I ever met. I open the top drawer, remove a stack of folded sheets, and peer inside. Gregory Basets. Brenda Pazdyk. Reuben Weintraub. Cyndy Strach. Juan Manuel Hernandez . . .
I go by my middle name . . .
Wait.
Asleep From Day Page 3
