“Come on, that was nice of him.” Her eyebrow remains raised. “Okay, okay, maybe it’s to ease his guilt for not being around much during my recovery.”
“You could’ve stopped at ‘around much.’”
One unpleasant topic deserves another. “So you still haven’t asked Corey about the passport?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know what you’re going to do about it?”
“Nope.”
We spend the rest of the ride in prickly silence.
Once we reach the station, Sally insists on carrying my bag. A cloud of cheap fried food and urine hangs over us as we navigate the squalid bowels of Port Authority. I’ve never been so eager to board a musty Greyhound bus.
Sally waits with me until my bus arrives. As it pulls up, she takes my hand and gives it two squeezes, a code we’ve had since we were eight, when she had to board her first plane to visit her grandmother in St. Paul. I echo back with two squeezes of my own. I am brave, you are brave.
It’s a relief to be going home, though a low hum of uneasiness still hounds me. I never did get through to Cass. Should I be worried? She’s probably off in Vermont or Arizona on one of her spontaneous vision quests or some kind of hippie retreat—she’s left before with no advance warning. A few days or a week later, she’ll return with stories of healing circles, ley lines, hallucinogenic teas, and worshipping the forest or desert or whatever. Sometimes she’ll bring me a trinket she swears is infused with special energy, like a woven belt or a wreath, or one time, a plain grey golf ball-sized rock. I hope she’s home from wherever she’s been. I miss her. And yeah, it may be selfish, but I don’t want to spend my first night back in Boston alone.
The streets of Manhattan scroll past as we leave the city. It’s not raining, but there’s no sun and everything looks dimmer: the bodegas, the parking lots, the high-rises, all muted and gloomy. The people outside bend their heads against the driving wind and frown. The only creatures that don’t look dejected are a pair of Dalmatians, who strain against their owner’s leash in between pissing on parking meters.
There’s already traffic. I close my eyes and settle in for a long ride.
The trip stretches from its usual four hours to five-and-a-half, and it’s dark out when we reach Boston. I’m groggy from jolting in and out of sleep, and sore from twisting around in a cramped seat. When I finally exit the bus, my bag feels ten times heavier.
I board the T, switching at Park Street from the red to the green line, which will take me back to Allston. When the train goes above ground and starts its glacial journey down Commonwealth Avenue, it begins to rain. Surprise.
“Again?” I sigh.
“I know, never seems to stop raining, huh?” The woman who answers is stretched across the two seats in front of me. She has one of those gaunt faces whose age it’s tough to pinpoint: could be hard-living 20s, well-preserved 40s or anything in between. She has hoops through her lower lip and both eyebrows, and most of her hair is shaved off, except for a dyed blue patch in front, cut into a V shape down her forehead. “It seems like it hasn’t stopped for weeks now. It’s worse than Seattle.”
Normally, I would leave it there, but something about this woman makes me want to engage her. I find it flattering that someone so cool-looking wants to chat with someone so average-looking. But there’s also a general comfort in talking to a stranger tonight, even if it’s about weather.
“Doesn’t it rain something like three hundred days out of the year there?” I ask.
“People say that all the time but it’s not true.” She brings a knee to her chest and plucks at the frayed denim on the cuffs of her jeans. “It’s overcast a lot, and misty, but it isn’t the non-stop rain-fest most think it is.”
I like boring stories.
Shush.
“How long did you live there?” I ask.
“Most of my life. But I needed a change, so I relocated my business here.”
“What kind of business?”
She reaches into her pocket and hands me a business card. “You should stop by some time. This is me.” She stands. “I’m Minerva.”
A screech as the train brakes, followed by a hiss as the doors open.
“Stay dry, Astrid.” She pulls up the hood of her jacket before exiting.
Did I tell her my name?
I blink hard and turn over the card. Gothic black letters spell out Curio City. Located somewhere on Prospect Avenue. Probably in Cambridge.
I did tell her my name, right?
Doesn’t matter, my stop is next. I put away the business card and search for my umbrella. It’s gone. Either I left it in the taxi or on the bus. Oh well.
When I step off the train, I’m pelted with rain. I have the light and I should run across the street, but as I reach the curb, I can’t step off of it. Can’t move at all. The light changes. Something inside me lurches each time a car whizzes by.
Okay, okay, I can do this. Green light. I hold my breath and put a foot forward. The cars idle a foot away as I pass them. It should be easy, but it’s like walking a tightrope. There’s so much trust involved putting yourself into traffic, in front of large vehicles that can kill you.
Once safely on the opposite sidewalk, I hurry up the block. I expect my momentum to carry me through the next intersection, but nope. Another moment of panic. I want to get out of this cold rain, but I’m stuck on the curb. Get on with it. Go. Walk, dummy. I finally cross, but cast suspicious glances at the cars as I walk in front of them, am answered with indifferent windshield wipers batting their solo lashes at me.
By the time I reach my block I’m drenched.
Cass and I live in the top floor of a three-family house on a dead-end street with other identical clapboard houses. They were all probably painted different colors a while back but are now faded to beiges and grays. Here we are, second-to-last one on the right.
Once in the eave of the building, I take a minute to find my keys, wet fingers slipping around the insides of my pockets. Got ‘em. Hey, what’s with this padlock on the door? And the strange smell of smoke and wet wood, a soggy campfire only more acrid. I examine the doorframe, but it’s not warped or singed. What’s going on?
I squint at the padlock, bewildered. Why is the house boarded up? Has there been a fire? Just to be triple-sure, I check that I have the right house number. Of course I do; it hasn’t been that long, not even two weeks. I step back out in the rain to see if there are any lights on inside the house or visible damage to the outside of it. Nope and nope. Back up the stairs and I ring all the buzzers repeatedly, but there’s no answer. I cannot be locked out of my own home. A few frenzied tugs on the padlock, but it doesn’t give.
Dread joins the rain trickling down my back. Welcome home, Astrid. Minus the home part.
Even though it’s futile at this point, I go around the corner to a payphone and call my own number. Busy. I don’t know any of my friends’ numbers by heart, and my address book is inside the apartment, on the kitchen table. I can’t decide if that’s truly ironic or ironic in the Alanis Morissette sense, in which case it’s merely unfortunate.
Looks like I have a big item on my To Do list: find a place to sleep tonight.
I’ll have to take my chances, show up somewhere unannounced, and hope I’ll be given crash space.
My best bet is going to be The Lab in Central Square, an apartment with a revolving door of residents (including my friend Daphne) and a spare room with a foldout couch that often houses strays. It was dubbed The Lab on account of all the computer science majors who lived there over the years, as well as the alcohol and drug experimentation that frequently took place, back in the day. Legend has it, a former resident working on a chemistry degree at MIT left his roommates a book of homemade acid as a parting gift when he moved out, which got passed along to further generations of roommates as more people came and went. Things have been a little complicated with Daphne, but under the circumstances, she couldn’t turn me away, right?
I take the bus to Central Square and follow a side street to the rickety walk-up that houses The Lab. I’m so preoccupied with finding shelter, I don’t freak out crossing streets like I did earlier, so that’s something.
When I reach the house, the front door is ajar. Should I ring the bell? This windy rain is relentless, and I can’t stand the idea of getting colder or wetter, so I go right in.
At the second-floor landing, I knock on the door. An Asian guy with glasses and a ponytail opens it as if expecting my arrival.
“That was fast,” he says.
“You must be psychic,” I try to smile through chattering teeth.
“Oh. You’re not the paramedics.” His shoulders drop. “It’s not them!” he yells behind him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt a medical crisis, I was here to see Daphne. Is everything ok?”
“You don’t want to see her in the state she’s in right now. Do you know if she’s epileptic?” He opens the door wider.
Fear clamps my windpipe. Breathe. Answer the question. “No idea, she never mentioned it. What’s going on?”
He scratches his chin. “Shit, it must be E then. Or acid. Eddie’s usually so careful about cleaning up, but maybe she accidentally ingested a crystal and had a seizure. We’ll have to think of a story for the hospital.”
“Holy shit. How can I help?” I peer behind him but only see a coatrack. Is Daphne passed out? Is she breathing? Seizure is a scary fucking word. “Daphne’s my friend. There has to be something I can do.”
“Naw, she’s pissed enough that I called 911 when she passed out. If I involve anyone else . . . you know Daphne. She’s conscious now, and hasn’t stopped giving me shit since she came to. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.” The buzzer rings. “That must be them.”
I want to insist on staying, but I’d only be in the way.
As I turn to go, her vehement yelling from inside the apartment carries over. “Goddammit, Zak! You better send that ambulance away. I’m not getting in that thing.”
“See what I mean?” he says. “She’s going to be fine.”
As I head back downstairs, I move aside for the two paramedics carrying a stretcher.
Back outside, I think about Daphne (even though a bigger, more daunting thought keeps trying to penetrate my brain and incite hysteria). I can’t imagine being so blasé over a possible drug overdose, but Zak acted like he’d seen that kind of thing before. Living in The Lab, it wouldn’t surprise me. Though Daphne’s always been responsible in her drug use. She wouldn’t be able to holler at him like that if she wasn’t okay, right?
Psst, that other thought hisses at me, I’m still here.
There’s no way to paraphrase it to make it less frightening. The words stomp through my head in a loop: I am homeless. I am homeless. I am . . .
It’s only for the night. But what if it’s for longer? Who knows why that padlock is there?
My breathing quickens and I pause under the awning of a brick house. I picture my charred apartment, Daphne in the midst of a seizure, and I can’t catch my breath. I’m a soda can that’s been shaken up and the panic is ready to overflow.
Get it together. You’re an adult with a problem to solve. You got hit by a car and survived that. You’ll survive this, too. Put on your big girl pants and figure this shit out.
I steady my breathing and return to Mass Ave, which feels familiar, safe.
Should I go back to South Station, get a bus back to New York?
No way. I’m not gonna let these setbacks run me out of town.
Outside a pizza place is a pay phone. Who else can I call? Hand on receiver, before I can decide, the phone rings. I pull back, like I’ve been burned.
Briiiiiing!!! Briiiiiing!!!
There’s absolutely nobody around, no one who might be waiting for a call.
Briiiiiing!!!
“Hello?” Why am I answering the phone? It’s not like—
“Astrid?”
If déjà vu is a feather down the spine, this sensation is a razor.
I must have misheard.
“Astrid, are you there?” The same male voice from my dream, the static now on my end in the form of the noisy downpour.
“Who is this?” I ask. “How did you know I would answer the phone?”
Before he replies, tranquility trickles into my veins like one of those lovely drugs pumped into me at the hospital. Of course. There’s no need to worry about any of it. This is just another dream.
“You’ll find out who I am soon enough,” he says. “There are more important things you need to deal with first.”
“Sure there are. Like what kind of snack I’ll have when I wake up.”
A pause on his end. “You’re not dreaming, Astrid.”
It stops raining, abruptly.
“The car accident, the fire, your friend’s overdose,” he continues, “All of those are real things.”
“Who are you? You’re scaring me.” I look around, expect to see someone lurking in a dark trench coat.
“I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have called. But I wanted . . . to reassure you, tell you you’ll get through this. I’ll be able to help you more later on.”
“Do you . . .” My mouth is parched, my voice hoarse. “Do you go by your middle name?” I clear my throat, hold onto the phone with both hands. “Please tell me your name.”
“You already know my name, Astrid. You just need to remember it. But first, you need to find a place to sleep.”
“You mean a place to wake up. Right here would be perfect.”
He sighs. “Don’t do that. Don’t deny what’s real.”
How am I supposed to tell the difference?
“Astrid, you’re going to be fine. That’s all I wanted to tell you. We’ll speak again soon.”
The line goes dead.
I hang up the phone and cross the street, continue to walk and walk and walk. My brain has short-circuited and I don’t know what to make of anything that’s happened tonight. All I can do is walk and look for a place to rest and ignore the kaleidoscopic whirl of the familiar and the strange.
I’m in a daze, and I don’t know where to go and—did I just walk past a sign for a hotel? I circle back around. Yes, there it is. Hotel@MIT. I may not have a firm grip on reality, but I do have a barely used credit card that’ll get me a bed for the night.
I cut through a small garden with manicured flowerbeds and curved brick footpaths. Moments later I’m at the hotel’s entrance. Thank god. Through the revolving door, into the softly lit lobby, and a man in uniform smiles at me as if I’m a wealthy, important guest and not the soggy walking disaster I really am. He even uses the word “Ma’am” when greeting me.
The clerk at reception is just as courteous, and if he notices the small puddle my sleeve leaves on the counter as I sign whatever form he hands me, he doesn’t react. Instead, he gives me the key card to my room and a compassionate smile.
In the elevator, my reflection in the mirrored doors is equal parts spooky and amusing, somewhere between escaped mental patient and swamp creature. I give my reflected doppelganger a shaky laugh and then ignore her all the way up to the seventh floor.
When I cross the threshold to my room, a lump forms in my throat, which I swallow down. I could collapse into a soggy pile on the floor and doze right here on the carpet, but I take a moment to admire my home for the next two nights. I could’ve been on another musty Greyhound bus. Instead, before me is a space decorated in pale yellows and olive greens, brocade curtains, polished mirrors, glossy wooden furniture. A double bed is piled high with thick pillows. All that hysteria about being homeless? Yeah, not so much. I’m the luckiest “homeless” girl alive.
I’m shaking from the cold rain and from everything that’s transpired tonight. That phone call . . .
Making sense of that call, of everything else, can wait. Right now, I need a hot shower.
And oh, it is the best shower of my life. At first I j
ust stand there and let the steamy water knead my clammy skin until I stop trembling. Eventually I muster enough energy to wash my hair with rosemary-mint shampoo and soap up my body. I exhale long breaths as I rinse off.
You’re going to be fine.
The man on the payphone sounded so sure of it. I wish I had his confidence.
When I tuck myself into the giant bed, I can’t stop his voice echoing through my mind, so I switch on the television to drown it out. I close my eyes and drift off to an entertainment news show profiling the newest “It” girl.
“Coming up, her breakout performance in Other Peoples’ Bedrooms has critics calling her the next Julia Roberts, but before she was a leading lady, she overcame a heartbreaking struggle with dyslexia. Stephanie Hughes opens up about her disability, her rise in Hollywood, and what’s in store for her after the success of Other Peoples’ Bedrooms . . .”
CHAPTER TEN
..................
9/9/99
“Can I carry that for you?” Theo asked.
“Nope.” Astrid held on to the shopping bag, not out of stubbornness, but more a need to feel gravity pull on it, ground her.
The two walked down Mass Ave, past racks of used clothing outside Oona’s thrift store and The Games People Play, a shop specializing in board and card games, then crossed the street to a block of basement-level businesses including Second Coming Records and Johnny Rockets (“That place has the best sweet potato fries,” Theo proclaimed). They strolled in comfortable silence until they reached the outskirts of Central Square.
“So am I the only one missing work?” she asked.
A frown flashed across his face, which he replaced with an easy smile. “Be honest, do you actually miss it?”
“You know what I mean.”
He didn’t reply as they continued walking. Past the YMCA and the pyramidal steps of a post office. Past a cloud of cigarette smoke from a drunken man outside 7-11 and the waft of curry from an Indian restaurant.
Astrid tried to read Theo’s face, but it was inscrutable. Who was this guy? Should she be uneasy, worried for her safety? Ted Bundy was charming and attractive, too . . .
Asleep From Day Page 5
