“I guess I’ll start by seeing what’s salvageable in the living room,” I say.
Not much is the answer. Even though the fire didn’t reach that room, the couch and books are soaked through, broken glass covers the floor, and most of our video collection is melted at the edges. I throw a few unscathed VHS tapes into a garbage bag and point the way to my room.
My bedroom also has more water than fire damage. On my dresser is a piece of hemp paper with a short stack of hundred-dollar bills clipped to it. In her note, Cass apologizes for taking off so abruptly, says she needs to put some distance between herself and Allston, but promises to take full responsibility. The money is my deposit, plus a little extra to replace some of the damaged items. She’s sorry she can’t leave more and wishes me luck rebuilding. No forwarding address or number.
Zak holds out garbage bags, patient as I fill them with clothing, dry books, a photo album with most of the pictures stuck together, CDs, and a few toiletries. All of it smells of smoke. I grimace at the odor.
“Guess I’ll need a new bed.” I poke my damp mattress.
“Eddie left his behind. You might want to examine the box spring for drugs, but it should be fine to sleep on. There’s also a dresser and desk that have been there for years.”
My laptop is under the bed and when I pull it out, water leaks from the sides. That’s what I get for being lazy and not using my desk.
“Bring it, anyway,” says Zak. “I know so many other tech geeks, even if we can’t repair the hard drive, we might be able to use some of the parts and build you a new one.”
I’m tempted to peek into Cass’s room, but it’s on the charred side of the apartment that’s sectioned off. Even though it would satisfy a morbid curiosity, it’s probably not safe and would depress me more than anything. I keep that door closed.
“How long have you been living in The Lab?” I ask as we haul the bags downstairs.
“Almost two years. I was going to get my own place after graduating BU in January, but decided to save up for a condo.”
“What did you study?”
He tosses the bags into the back of the truck. “Languages. Japanese, German, Spanish, Russian, Farsi. I had this dream of being one of those UN interpreters. Minored in computer science, though, which gives me more job options. You go to school around here?”
“No, I’m from New York. I studied Psych and English at a state school, thought about becoming a teacher or shrink . . . but that didn’t happen.”
“So what do you do instead?”
We stop at a red light and he looks over at me. His brown eyes are so dark, his pupils could be fully dilated.
“I was an office manager in a literary agency, but I recently . . . left. Don’t worry, I won’t have trouble paying rent or anything. It’s just my boss—former boss—was such an . . .”
“Asshole?” He chuckles. “Is that why you left?”
I fiddle with the ashtray in my armrest. Should I tell the truth? Being unemployed by choice in this scenario makes me feel like less of a loser. “You could say that. He was the kind of person who wanted everything to run perfectly, but had no clue about how to keep the staff happy. For example, he blamed me for all the assistants and receptionists who left the company, while he was the one who extended the ‘official’ hours from five-thirty to six-thirty, cancelled the Christmas party on account of ‘poor company spirit’, and made everyone work New Year’s Day.”
“I know what you mean. I’m doing tech support for this university, and I get crucified if I don’t fix a problem two seconds after it’s reported. Nobody there has any idea how long anything takes. They think if they open an email with a virus, I can get their system running again within five minutes.”
“Doesn’t it feel like looking after children sometimes?” I pretend to be a crying baby. “Wah, the copier’s broken.”
“Wah, I spilled coffee on my keyboard.”
We laugh as he pulls into a parking spot on Bishop Allen Drive.
When the garbage bags are piled on the bed in my new room, I thank Zak again. Blink hard as the walls around me blur. The horror of being displaced, the relief of finding a new home, the uncertainty of what I’m going to do for money . . . It would be easy to crumple into a mess of tears. I hold them at bay, but he registers my change in mood.
“Hey, don’t worry.” Zak gives me a one-armed hug. “You’re lucky you weren’t there when the fire happened.”
“No, I was hit by a car and recovering in the hospital instead.”
“Then I guess you’re lucky to be standing here at all.”
“That’s what they tell me. At least I only had to be there for two of the three major disasters I’ve dealt with this month.”
“What’s the third?”
“I didn’t leave my job. I was fired.” I roll my eyes, embarrassed.
“It sounds like you’re going to give Daphne a run for her money. She’s the reigning drama queen here at The Lab.”
“She can keep her crown. I’m usually pretty dull, I promise.”
“Good, because I’m tired of calling ambulances around here.”
My cheeks tingle, remembering the paramedic slapping my face, the glass in my mouth.
Zak looks at me closely. “You gonna be alright by yourself?”
“Yeah, yeah. You go on to work.”
“I’ll write my work number on the kitchen whiteboard, in case you need anything.”
After he leaves, I sit on the bare mattress, surrounded by shiny black bags containing what’s left of my possessions. My new room is tiny and painted a dark purple, somewhere between bruise and eggplant (parts of my body matched the walls perfectly after the accident). It’s half the size of my Allston bedroom, but it’s cheap, it’s a place for me to sleep, and I couldn’t be more grateful for it.
I pop an Advil and unpack. As I empty the duffle I brought to New York, something small and white flutters to the ground. A business card. Unadorned black letters spell out Oliver Banks, Finder above a phone number. I don’t recognize the area code. Nothing on the back of the card. Where did this come from? Could it be Robin’s or Sally’s? Should I call the number?
The sensible thing would be to set the card aside and finish unpacking.
Sensible can go take a coffee break. Where’s the phone around here?
I find a cordless in the kitchen.
“This is Oliver.”
I gasp like I’ve been dunked in ice water.
“I’ve heard your voice before.”
“That’s because we’ve spoken before. Hello, Astrid.”
It has to be the same guy, but how could it be? And how . . . “This may sound like an odd question, but did you call . . .”
“A payphone in Central Square last night? I did. Sorry if that scared you.”
“Were you watching me?”
“God, no. I just got this strong feeling you needed . . . reassurance. Granted, I miscalculated that one. I’m glad you found my card.” A thread of calm runs through his deep voice, but it doesn’t soothe me.
I pace the short length of my room—four steps before I have to turn around. “How did I even get your card?”
“We’ve met before. A couple of weeks ago.”
“I don’t remember.” I kick off my shoes, pull off my socks. Cool wood against my bare feet. This floor is real.
“You were reading Memoirs of a Geisha on the T. Long brown hair, green army jacket?”
“You’re right about the hair and jacket, but I don’t remember reading that book. And I definitely don’t remember talking to you on the T.”
“You thought I was hitting on you.”
“Were you?”
“Maybe.” A soft snicker. “You seemed distracted, but not by your book.”
“I don’t usually talk to strangers.”
“Funny, considering you’ve been doing so much of it. It sounds like you’re recovering from the accident okay. A little achy, though, right?”
&
nbsp; I stop pacing, stand completely still. “You don’t . . . This isn’t . . .”
“I do. This is.”
The bed creaks as I sit. Shaking my head clears none of the fog. “ . . . How?”
“I just know certain things. Like I knew something terrible would happen to you after you got off the T. That’s why I tried to keep you talking.”
“Why don’t I remember you?”
He doesn’t answer the question. “It didn’t happen in Boston, though, right? I thought if you missed your stop, you might also miss your train, plane, or whatever you were taking to wherever you were going.”
Take the next one.
“It was a bus, to New York, and I didn’t miss it.” I feel like I’m having this conversation under water or in a dream or in a David Lynch movie.
“I wish you did. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Or maybe some things are written in sand, but others in stone.”
“Okay, Buddha.” He laughs a goofy trill and, like a hypnotist snapping his fingers, my entire body relaxes. “Seriously, though. Did you really foresee my accident? And think you could prevent it? Is that why you allegedly talked to me on the T that day?”
“Yeah. Also, I thought you were cute. Was it a car?”
Hello, shivers and goose bumps.
“Yeah.” I let out the word in one long breath.
Oliver Banks. The same questions orbit my head like goldfish in a bowl. Why I don’t remember meeting him? How does he know what he knows? Is he some sort of stalker? Or worse?
“I’m sorry you had to go through all that,” he says. “And that wasn’t even the end of it, was it? Losing your apartment and job must’ve been awful.”
No way. There’s just no way.
“Look, I’ve always wanted a psychic friend, but this is starting to creep me out. Am I getting charged $4.95 a minute here?”
He replies with a throaty chuckle. Under other circumstances, I might find it sexy.
“Seriously,” I continue. “How the hell do you know all this? Have you been following me?”
“No. I would never do that.” His tone is surprised and vehement. “I’m not a creep, I just . . . sense things. I want to help you.”
“Okay, then. Your card says you’re a ‘finder.’ What exactly do you find? Can you help me find a new job?”
“You don’t need me for that. A new job is right around the corner.”
“I hate that expression. I mean, are you trying to be cute hinting that it’s literally down the street or ‘around the corner’ as in soon?”
“I say whatever comes into my head. I’m sorry if it’s not useful.”
“What can you help me with, then?”
“Nothing right now. You called me too soon. You need to remember a little more. Call me again when you do. Oh—and you may not want to, but make sure you go to that moon party.”
The line goes dead before I can ask any more questions. Moon party? Seriously? This is where the Rod Serling voiceover should kick in: “Her name is Astrid O’Malley, aged twenty-four. Jobless, nearly homeless, and recovering from an accident that could have taken her life—or spleen—she just had a most unusual phone call. Unbeknownst to Astrid, she has a direct line to another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind . . .”
“Do-do-DO-do, do-do-DO-do,” I sing the The Twilight Zone theme and laugh. It’s not funny, but better to feign amusement than let the fear in.
I call Robin and Sally, leave them messages with my new number (without mentioning the fire; no need to worry them). Once I hang up, an ache twists through my left side, saps my remaining energy. Nap time?
Unfortunately, I no longer have sheets or pillows since the linen closet was in the charred part of the apartment. The prospect of lying on a bare mattress is gross so I search through my things for a makeshift sheet. No luck, but I do find a copy of Memoirs of a Geisha. The back of my neck tingles.
I wander into the living room where Maxfield Parrish prints hang on the crimson walls, with pewter sconces on either side. A large, black overstuffed velvet couch is set against the widest wall, flanked by armchairs draped in grey velvet.
“Looks like Daphne and Tim Burton share a decorator,” I murmur as I curl up on the couch with a black chenille throw. Not that I can complain, because the cushions are so welcoming, marshmallows that embrace me and mold to my form (charred marshmallows—no, don’t think of more burnt things). I’m only going to rest my eyes for a few minutes . . .
Of course, it’s hours later when I wake up, well into the afternoon. I had more dreams, but can only recall eating noodles. Now I want something starchy for dinner. But food will have to wait until after errands.
First stop is the bank, where I deposit my severance check and some of the cash from Robin and Cass. Next is a visit to the local discount store for cheap pillows, scratchy sheets and several three-dollar T-shirts. On my way to the register, I pass a shelf of marked down candles in glass cylinders and shudder, thinking of Cass’s misadventure with wax and fire.
The least I can do for Daphne and Zak to show my gratitude is make them dinner, so I go to Star Market and pick out ingredients for vegetable lasagna.
These small tasks help stave off the confusion and anxiety that’s on the periphery of my mind. I still hold my breath and ball my fists at each crosswalk, but it’s more than that. A blind grasping for elusive memories. A misplaced yearning. A distrust of the tangible. As I perform these errands, I shoo away the earlier call with Oliver, which lives in that grey area (a moon party? Come on). Instead, I focus on my surroundings and make ridiculous reassurances to myself. These white plastic shopping bags are real. This lamppost covered with fliers is real. The blue and yellow Blockbuster Video sign is real. It’s worrying, this need to emphasize the distinction. Is it a byproduct of the physical trauma? Maybe it’s the kaleidoscope of dreams rotating through my sleep, the ordinary entwined with the surreal, the frayed threads of each I’m left with upon waking.
“You need to remember a little more,” he said. How can I know what I’m supposed to remember if I forgot it in the first place? What kind of Möbius strip logic is that?
A better question: How much did hitting my head fuck me up?
Back at the apartment, I stash my non-perishable purchases and set about slicing vegetables. I preheat the oven, open a bottle of white wine, find a small radio behind the toaster, and tune in to an oldies station. Hey look, it’s possible to act like a normal person.
Then Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” comes on and the knife slips out of my hand and falls to the floor as I’m engulfed by a warped sense of homesickness. It’s so intense, I grab onto the counter until I ride it out.
I take a big gulp of wine and rinse off the knife. Shake it off and keep chopping.
The lasagna is in the oven and I’m cleaning up food scraps, when Daphne comes into the kitchen. “What is that gorgeous smell?”
“Just a little something to say thank you,” I say.
She collapses into a chair and lights a cigarette. “Don’t be daft, you’re doing me a big favor here, too. God knows how long it would’ve taken me to find someone for that room and even then it probably would’ve been a friend of a friend of a friend, which would still make them a stranger to me. I hate living with strangers. Mind if I help myself?” She points to the wine.
“Not at all. There’s another one chilling in the fridge.”
“Good thing, seeing as you’ve done a bang-up job on this one. Not that I blame you. If there had been a fire here, I’d be at the Phoenix Landing, knocking back whiskeys for days. Were you able to salvage any of your stuff?”
I shrug. “Enough, I guess. I didn’t live there long, so I didn’t accumulate much. It was more the shock of seeing the place like that.”
Daphne taps ash into the now-empty wine bottle. “Zak mentioned you’re between jobs at the moment.”
At least he didn’t tell her I was fired. “I am, but I have money saved up, s
o I’m good for rent and bills, and I’m already looking for something new. Oh, I left you a check on the fridge.” I point to where it’s clipped beneath the wings of a bat-shaped magnet.
“Well, you can stay as long as you don’t sell any of our major appliances to buy drugs. There I was, thinking I’d moved up the chain by living with a dealer instead of an addict, but oh well.”
Zak comes in a little while later, carrying a white plastic bag. He sniffs the air. “Who sabotaged my plan to cook dinner?”
“All my fault.” I knock back the last inch of wine in my glass and refill it, even though my tongue and lips are numb. Numb is nice, numb can pull up a seat and stay awhile.
“Whatever you had planned can’t be better than this veggie lasagna Astrid’s got on.” Daphne lights another cigarette.
“What are we, a bunch of rabbits? I got steaks. Astrid, please don’t break my heart and tell me you don’t eat meat, just when I was starting to like you.”
“Zak, what is wrong with you?” Daphne asks. “Did you overdo it with the coffee today?”
He looks at the floor. “Maybe a little.”
She clucks her tongue and explains, “He becomes a bit of a wanker when he has too much caffeine. I’ve never seen anything like it, it’s almost a Jekyll and Hyde thing.”
Zak turns to me. “And she becomes extra British when her Southie accent starts to slip through. I’ve never heard anything like it, it’s almost a Cliff Clavin and Mary Poppins thing.”
“There were no convincing Boston accents on Cheers. But thanks for proving my point, Zakuro.” Daphne blows smoke in his direction, then stage-whispers to me, “You ever want to piss him off, call him by his full Japanese name.”
We serve the steaks along with the lasagna, and Zak joins in on a third bottle of wine.
Daphne ignores her food. “So, Astrid,” she claps her hands, “after all the crap you’ve been through, you need to have a bit of fun. Zak and I have a couple of friends that live out in JP and throw the most incredible parties. They’re having one next week. You should come with us.”
I mentally shuffle through potential excuses to say no like going through a deck of cards.
Asleep From Day Page 9
