Asleep From Day

by Margarita Montimore

  He dismisses me with a wave. “It’s more than that, Astrid. It’s also your performance. We’ve had three receptionists and one assistant leave in the last five months alone. It’s your job to weed out the weak and find us the sharp ones who will show longevity on the job.” Jonathan sighs. “This extended absence of yours has given me time to realize you don’t care much about your work.”

  “That’s not true. I care about my work. But I couldn’t do it from a hospital bed doped up on morphine and waiting to see if I’d need to have my spleen removed.”

  Jonathan licks his lips and frowns. “I hope you’re not hinting at filing any sort of wrongful termination suit against this agency. That would make things very tough on you, whereas I’m trying to keep things civil. Nellie is willing to provide a reference and we’ve even prepared a modest severance package, taking into account your . . . recent circumstances.”

  I stare at his glass desk, uncomforted, waiting for him to continue.

  “All we ask is that you pack up your things in the next half hour and calmly leave the office. Someone from security will supervise you to make sure any sensitive material remains on the premises.” He slides a manila envelope toward me.

  I take it and stand up, clutching it hard enough to crumple the paper. “I’ve been here a year. I’ve worked very hard for this agency, Jonathan.”

  He turns to his computer and, not bothering to look up from the screen, shrugs. “The copier’s been broken since Wednesday. Sorry, but I can’t do business that way.”

  Jasleen is waiting at my desk.

  “Are you here to make sure I don’t smuggle my computer out?”

  “I’m so sorry.” She pats my shoulder. “I didn’t know anything about it until I saw Peterson just now.” She lowers her voice and leans in. “The smug bastard.”

  “Who, Jonathan or Peterson?”

  “All of them, really.” We laugh and exchange grim smiles. “Hey. You still have that flier I gave you?” Jasleen holds out her hand for it, writes her number on the back. “Please come to the show if you can, but either way, give me a call.” Her kindness eases my own rising bitterness, but only a little, and only until a security guard appears behind her.

  Fifteen minutes later, I leave Spellman Rosenberg Literary Agency armed with a cardboard box. Inside are a couple of framed photos, an umbrella, a pair of black flats, a plush lobster, some multivitamins, a box of Dayquil, a near-empty bottle of Pepto Bismol and—at Jasleen’s insistence—a ream of heavy stock ivory paper and box of Pilot V5 pens. She drapes a tote bag full of free books over my shoulder before I go and wishes me luck.

  When I step outside, all remaining traces of anger and indignation dissipate. A woman in a trench coat glances at me and smirks as she passes by. Can she tell I’ve been fired? How mortifying. I can’t bear the idea of more appraising looks, more judgment that I’ve been found lacking. Even though I no longer have a source of income and need to stretch my remaining funds, I take a taxi back to the hotel.

  When I return to my temporary room, the first thing I do is dial my apartment again.

  “I’m sorry. The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”

  Perfect.

  Now what?

  I drum my fingers on the desk.

  What’s the name of the management company Cass writes the rent checks to? It’s two initials . . . D&T . . . T&E . . . T&C? That’s it.

  I get their number from information, a woman actually picks up (victory!), and I explain the situation.

  “I’m not sure who I should talk to, but there’s a padlock on the front door.”

  “That’s a precaution we had to take after the fire,” she tells me.

  Fire. My new least favorite word.

  “I—I’m sorry, I’ve been out of town for a while. What happened?”

  “Apparently, the fire originated from the third floor, which would be your apartment, correct?”

  “Yes. Is Cass okay?” I swallow down the shrill note in my voice, the lump in my throat.

  “No injuries were reported.” There’s a rustle of papers on the other end. “Let’s see . . . Cassiopeia Harris stated that she had people over to make candles. A few were left burning in the kitchen, which was the source of the blaze. It spread through much of the east side of the apartment before it was contained by fire workers.”

  The woman continues to talk and a fog settles over me, makes it tough to pay attention, though I get the key points. Luckily, the building was insured. Unluckily, the fire and water damage rendered the entire structure uninhabitable. Luckily (for me), Cass’s was the only name on the lease. Unluckily (for her), the insurance company will probably sue her.

  “Will I still be able to get my things?” I ask.

  “I can arrange for someone to unlock the building, at . . .” There’s a soft clack of pecking on a computer keyboard. “Wednesday morning at nine for a few hours.”

  “Thank you.” It takes a few tries to put the receiver in its cradle because of how hard my hand is shaking.

  Should I call Sally or Robin to update them on these developments? Sally would tell me to come home, probably let me stay with her, but she has enough to deal with at the moment. I leave her an innocuous voicemail letting her know I’m feeling better (a necessary lie) and will call again in a few days.

  What about my father? I rarely share problems with him. He’d offer muted sympathy but urge me to make the most of this setback. Then I’d get his classic life lecture. It began with tales of his actor hardships and ended with a reiteration of his personal philosophy: there are leads and there are supporting players; everyone wants to be the star but most of us end up as secondary characters. Most only get a little bit of the spotlight or work behind the scenes. Maybe it was his way of reassuring me that it was okay to fail or how he made peace with his own life’s disappointments. I get it. But once in a while it would’ve been nice to be told I have some star potential, to not feel like an understudy waiting for a part yet to be written. I can’t handle hearing my father’s “all the world’s a stage and you’re better off behind the curtain” manifesto again, so I leave him a generic voicemail, too.

  Let’s review my current predicament: I have no job, no apartment, and very few Boston friends (my ex Simon got most of them in the buddy custody battle). It’s tempting to return to New York when I look at it that way. But how lame would that be? Things get a little tough and I cut and run?

  A new determination flares up in me. I will find a new job and a new place to live around here. I will fix things with Daphne and make new friends. I will not run away from these setbacks.

  How’s that for star potential?

  I call The Lab to check on Daphne, but get the machine. I’m about to hang up, but change my mind. Might as well begin the fixing now.

  “Hey Daph, it’s Astrid. I know it’s been a while . . . I actually came by last night when . . . Zak told me . . . Anyway, I hope you’re okay . . . I miss you and . . . I’ll try you again tomorrow.” And the award for Most Awkward Pauses in a Single Voicemail goes to . . .

  I go downstairs and ask the clerk to extend my stay by two more nights. Sure, I could find a cheaper hotel or even a hostel, but this place is both comfortable and comforting. I’ll allow myself a little bit of luxury, giving me forty-eight hours to get my shit together. Hopefully, I can at least find crash space by then.

  With the basic need of shelter handled, my rumbling stomach demands food be next. I go to Star Market, conveniently located next door. At the top of the escalator, to my right, is a glassed-in flower shop with a purple and blue neon sign spelling out “Thora’s Blooms.”

  Something pulls me toward it. I put my hand against the cold glass, over the letter “T.”

  My heart pounds a crescendo until I can hear my pulse in my ears.

  The glass fogs under my hand, which glows indigo at the edges. My throat constricts; the neon blurs.

  I urge my brain to make s
ense of it, but all I can think of is how lost and bereft I felt the first week after my father shipped me off to drama camp, when I was ten. All I want to do is go home.

  Where are you?

  A woman pokes her head out of the flower shop. “Can I help you?”

  I wish.

  No more lingering, I need to hustle here. I buy a newspaper, sandwich fixings, chips, and some tabloids, and return to the hotel.

  Back in my room, I sit at the desk and flip open my paper. The apartment listings come up first, so I start with those. Now that school’s back in session, there aren’t as many roommate situations available, but I find a few promising leads. I make appointments to see three places tonight, two in Allston and one in Brighton.

  The first viewing isn’t until six, which leaves me plenty of time for job hunting. Admin jobs will be my best bet, but as I read the ads, the room gets smaller. I think of cubicles and pantyhose and stilted elevator small talk. I think of little plastic LEGO people with painted-on suits moving along a conveyor belt. Yeah, I could use a break from office work, even though a retail job will pay less and keep me on my feet more. I recall last summer working at the Tower Records on Newbury Street, where I first met Daphne. There was a simple satisfaction in stocking magazine racks or getting through the mayhem of a midnight CD release. Simple would be welcome in my life right now. And with my laptop currently trapped and possibly incinerated in my apartment, I don’t have access to my resume, anyway. I’d much rather spend the afternoon pounding the pavement than recreating it in some Internet café.

  So I do just that, beginning in Central Square. I fill out job applications at Blockbuster Video and Pearl Art & Crafts, and wind my way down Mass Ave to Harvard Square.

  Something nags at me as I walk, a whisper I can’t decipher. I’ve been on this street so many times, what’s bothering me about it? As the businesses give way to pastel two-family houses, the whisper gets louder, though it’s still unintelligible. When I reach the block with Second Coming Records and Johnny Rockets, it becomes louder still.

  At the Harvard Book Store, it becomes a roar. This off-kilter vibe is now a spiral of tip-of-my-tongue confusion. Like when you walk into a room and forget why you’re there in the first place. Except I know exactly why I’m here, so this feeling makes no sense. What is it? What is it?

  This store is real. These books are real.

  I force out a sharp breath and enter the bookstore.

  A man behind the sales counter with wire-rim glasses and mutton chop sideburns informs me they’re not hiring, but still lets me fill out an application.

  Part of me wants to explore the shop and figure out why the hazy feeling is so strong here. But a bigger part demands I play Nancy Drew some other time, so I leave quickly.

  My legs feel like popsicle sticks in the grubby hands of a kid about to snap them, so I make my way to the Pit and sit on one of the low walls.

  A gutter punk with a green mohawk and suspiciously new-looking plaid bondage pants comes over and asks me for spare change.

  “Let me see . . .” I stand and rummage in the pockets of my army jacket.

  I pull out a white feather.

  “Yeah, thanks for nothing,” he grumbles and walks away.

  The red bricks beneath my feet sway. Ground-level vertigo? This is new. I sit back down, but the movement continues, as if I’m at the center of a merry-go-round. Bits of scenery slow to a snapshot standstill before whooshing by me again: a newsstand, an antique streetlamp with twin bulbs like elongated onions, the information booth with its sombrero-esque dome, a brown building with ornate white trim. I stare at the feather in my palm, willing it to anchor me, but the lurching quickens. I close my eyes. Please let me off this ride.

  Just when I think I’m going to be sick, the spinning slows, then stops.

  When I open my eyes, the feather is gone.

  Okay, that was freaky.

  It’s nothing. Probably dehydration. Buy a bottle of water and get on with the day.

  I hit a few more stores, and fill out more applications. Here’s hoping I make it back to the hotel with a stronger grasp on reality.

  The apartment viewings that night are a disaster. One place in Allston needs a fifth roommate to take what must’ve been a converted walk-in closet, fitting no more than a bed and nightstand (“you can share one of our closets and put your dresser in the living room”). The other Allston listing is inhabited by members of a local band, who soundproofed the place so they could play into the late hours. These guys clearly care more about music than cleaning, as evidenced by the mold on stacks of unwashed dishes left on random surfaces and the brown ring around the toilet (“Our drummer kept the place spotless, but he OD’d last month; that’s meth for ya”). The Brighton apartment is owned by a woman with at least six different species of pets, including large squawking cockatoos, two yappy Chihuahuas and a case full of hairy tarantulas the size of my palm (“I’ve only ever had one escape, but don’t worry, they don’t bite”).

  It’s after ten when I return to the hotel, sapped of energy but not hope. I run a bath while I eat a turkey sandwich and try to block out the dreadful day I just had. Snapshots keep popping up like in one of those red View-Masters I had as a kid. Click. Jonathan fires me. Click. Fruitless job hunting. Click. Jail-cell room. Click. Squalor and rock ‘n’ roll. Click. Chihuahuas and spiders and birds, oh my. Click. Me back in Brooklyn, enduring Robin’s absence and ambivalence.

  No way. Today was a mess but tomorrow will be better. I have to believe that.

  Loose thoughts float around my head. Who called that payphone in the rain last night and how did he know my name? Could I have imagined all that? And what did Jonathan mean about my calling out on Thursday for a family emergency? My only emergency was the following day. Not that it matters at this point.

  When the tub is full, I bring in the tabloids, strip down, and sink into the foamy water. The magazine pages pucker beneath my wet fingers and it’s nice to give my brain a rest.

  After a little while, I toss the magazine on the floor and give my eyes a rest, too.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ..................

  I’m sitting in the dark. There’s murmuring around me.

  A male voice behind me whispers in my ear, “Don’t make any noise, don’t stand up, and don’t turn around.”

  “Are you going to hurt me?” I ask.

  “No, the opposite.”

  “Then why can’t I look at you?”

  “Because you need to see this first. Here, have some.”

  Something is placed in my lap. I feel around the sides: a cardboard container with rounded edges, open at the top. Its contents have the consistency of packing peanuts. I bring a handful to my nose: popcorn.

  His warm breath is against my ear. “I had them put M&Ms in the middle and on top. That’s the way you like it, right?”

  “How do you know that?”

  My question is ignored. “The movie’s about to start. I’ll stay behind you, but you can’t turn around. And again, you cannot make any noise or stand up.”

  “Or else . . .?” I whisper.

  “Or else you’ll never remember.”

  A dim light illuminates my surroundings. I’m in a movie theater screening room, ten rows back, by the aisle. A handful of other seats are taken, but I can only make out dark silhouettes of their occupants.

  Red velour curtains part to reveal a screen. A black-and-white film leader counts down from five, then the image switches to a rainy street. No opening credits, no music, only the booming clatter of thunder and rush of heavy rain. The camera zooms in on the back of a girl, blurry through the downpour. She walks down a residential street flanked with sand-colored apartment buildings and small houses with cemented front yards.

  While I watch, there is hot breathing in my ear, followed by a nibble on my earlobe and a tongue tracing patterns along its curved edge. I squirm in pleasure, lick salt and chocolate off my fingers.

  On s
creen, the rain intensifies and stains the pale buildings. The girl quickens her pace, her long hair drenched a muddy brown. There’s a large puddle of water at the next crossing. She tries to hop it, but ends up shin-deep in water.

  Staccato violins play over the images, dictate dread and impending doom.

  “What are we watching?” I whisper, taking care not to turn my head, though I want to see the man behind me.

  “Shhhhhh . . .” He runs kisses down my neck.

  The soundtrack intensifies with nervous cellos. The camera moves in closer on the girl, who turns her head: she’s me.

  “What the hell is this?” I don’t bother to whisper this time.

  I’m shushed by everyone around me.

  On screen, the girl continues to wade through the puddle, but the scene is intercut with shots of a car speeding toward her—me.

  “I don’t want to see this. I don’t want to see this!” Now I am yelling.

  The theatergoers hiss at me to keep quiet.

  “You’re making too much noise,” he murmurs in my ear.

  Meanwhile, my cinematic twin doesn’t notice the light change or the dark sedan skidding around the corner. She doesn’t hear the car horn over the thunderous rain.

  I can’t watch anymore.

  “Turn it off!” I whip around to confront the mystery man but there’s nobody behind me. All the rows are empty.

  I throw my popcorn bucket to the floor and push off from the armrests to stand. My legs don’t move. That’s when I notice I’m not sitting in one of the regular seats; I’m in a wheelchair. I try to move the wheels but they’re stuck in place.

  I turn my gaze back to the screen, where my other self is being struck by the car. She lands on its hood and puts out a hand to grab at nothing before her head collides with the windshield.

  A disembodied whisper fills the room:

  “You’ll never remember.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ..................

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1999

  THE NEXT MORNING FILLS MY window with sunshine and my brain with panic. I need to figure out this apartment situation right away.