Zak chimes in, “This is not something you want to miss. Daphne is not kidding about the Lunar Haus parties, they’re—”
“Lunar Haus?” I ask.
“Yeah, they live in this weird stone house—I forget, Daph, did it get its nickname because it’s shaped like the lunar module or because it looks like it belongs on the moon or—”
Giggles bubble out of my mouth before I can restrain them. Daphne and Zak swivel their heads at me, faces suspended in cautious amusement.
“The moon party,” I blurt out, before another fit of laughter overtakes me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
..................
I’M IN MY ALLSTON APARTMENT, on the rickety balcony, looking out. Above the trees, dark clouds on the horizon spread out like a pool of spilled ink. Sharp darts of wind make me pull the sides of my army jacket closed.
Cass appears in the doorway. “Someone left a message for you, but the answering machine melted before I could write down his name and number.”
I barely give her a glance; I’m too captivated with the approaching storm. “What do you mean, it melted?”
“It melted in the fire.”
I’m distracted, only peripherally part of the conversation. “The fire from the other week?”
“No, the fire happening right now.”
I look at her. The hem of her floor-length lavender cotton skirt is in flames. This does not alarm either of us as much as it should.
“Looks like you’re burning up, Cass.”
She looks down at the wreath of fire around her ankles and nods. “I was hoping the rain would come in time.”
“It might. Come out here so you can catch it.” The roiling sky inches closer, jagged slivers of lightning cutting through it.
Cass steps out onto the balcony, the fire now at her knees.
“It’s chilly here,” she says. “At least the fire will keep us warm.”
The beams of the balcony’s railing hiss as they ignite. They pass the blaze around like an Olympic torch until we are surrounded by it on three sides, in the heart of a sizzling peninsula.
Cass’s skirt is now entirely engulfed in flames. It’s terribly beautiful, though the smoke from it makes my eyes water.
“I don’t think the rain is going to come in time,” I say.
“At least we’re not cold anymore. And hey, you know fire has great cleansing powers, right?” She gives a loopy smile, and the tips of her long curls burst into flames. The singed smell of it is acrid.
“Maybe I should go inside.”
“No, stay out here and keep me company,” she says. “It’s going to rain any second now.”
My arm grows hot. I look down at the sleeve of my jacket. It’s on fire. “I hope so.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
..................
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1999
ON FRIDAY, I COME HOME from another fruitless day of job-hunting. The Dirty Dancing soundtrack is blasting from the living room. Daphne dusts picture frames as she sways her hips and sings along.
“Oops, sorry, didn’t realize it was so loud,” she says when she sees me, and turns down the volume with no trace of embarrassment. “One of my not-so guilty pleasures.”
“Mine too.” My fingertips go numb. That sensation again, of trying to bring something blurry into focus or scratch a deep-rooted itch just out of reach. I’m desperate to figure this out, but I need help.
You need help alright.
“Hey, are you okay?” she asks. “You have a just-seen-a-ghost look on your face.”
“No, I’m fine . . . I need to make a call. Do you mind if I use the phone?”
Daphne digs the cordless out from between two sofa cushions and tosses it to me. I take it into my room, fish out Oliver’s card from my wallet.
“This perpetual déjà vu is starting to get to me,” I say when he picks up the phone.
“Don’t give up, that new job is really close.” He sounds like he’s smiling on the other end.
“Yeah, right around the corner, right? I hope I don’t go broke or crazy first.”
“You won’t.”
“And what’s the deal with this so-called ‘moon party’?”
“All I know is, you shouldn’t miss it.”
I lie back in bed and stare at the ceiling. “I suppose I shouldn’t bother asking again how you know all this.”
“Astrid, if I could figure out where this knowledge comes from, I wouldn’t be living in a fourth floor walk-up in Brighton. I’d record some tapes, get a 900 number, maybe do an infomercial, make a fortune, and get a brownstone on Beacon Hill.”
I chuckle. “I bet my friend Sally would be one of your first customers.” This conversation should be frustrating, fraught with hurdles, yet I find it so easy to talk to him. “Couldn’t you still make money from going on TV and dazzling people with your psychic prowess, like that guy who talks to dead people?”
“I can’t switch it on whenever I want to. Some days I don’t get any impressions, which would make for boring TV.”
“So I guess helping the police find missing kids is also out of the question?”
“Same issue. I get hazy with dates and places, so I’d probably do them more harm than good. And certain premonitions are draining, so sometimes I have to actively close myself off to them. It’s rarely fun. But when I know I might be able to help, I have to.”
“Like with me?”
“Like with you. When you called me the other week, I knew things would start falling into place for you, so I was happy about that.” His voice deepens. “But when I had the vision of you getting hit by a car, I had nightmares for a week.”
My stomach churns at the mention of the accident. “I’m still having them.”
I need to find a way to ask him without asking. “I hope you don’t see any other catastrophes in my future. I’ve had my fill for a while.”
“Nothing you can’t handle.”
“Don’t even.” In the other room, Daphne has turned the volume back up on the music, swapping Dirty Dancing for the perky synthesizers of an early Depeche Mode album.
“Relax, Astrid. You’re in for an adventure. A quest of sorts.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it, baffled. “What is that supposed to mean? You make it sound like I’m going to be slaying dragons.”
“Now that you mention it, I do see dragons in your future.”
“Not funny. Quest implies search. I’m going to be looking for something? Do you know what?”
He doesn’t answer.
“You either do or you don’t,” I prompt.
“I do and I don’t.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“I know you’re eager. But it’s still too soon.”
“Because I haven’t gotten a new job yet?”
“ . . . Yes . . .” He makes the word sound so loaded, but I know I won’t get much more out of him.
“So I should call you when I’m employed again?”
“You can call me before then. You’re a little impatient, but I like talking to you.” There’s a flirtatious lilt to his voice that makes me nervous. In a good way? Hard to say.
“I don’t know how much I believe any of this.” I scan the eggplant walls, as if they’ll provide an answer.
“I don’t blame you. I’d have trouble believing me, too.”
“Then why should I?”
“Because.” He pauses, lets out an audible breath. “Because you know it goes beyond remembering. You feel out of sync with everything, not sure what’s real. You don’t have a lot of people close by who you can trust. But that’ll change soon, too.” His voice is like a cool towel on my hot forehead, a focus knob on a blurry image. “What I can tell you is, you’re not ready to give this all your attention yet. You’re still adjusting, rebuilding. You also need to have a little fun. Like tomorrow. You—”
The line goes dead. The battery light on the phone blinks red.
“No
warning beep or anything? Okay then.” I return to the living room and set it back in its cradle. Should I call him back? What if he was going to tell me something important about the party?
Or I could navigate a simple party like the grown-up I am, without the help of my new psychic friend. That sounds like a more sensible plan.
There’s more talk of the party at dinner that night.
“You’re still coming, right?” Zak asks me.
“I sure am.”
“We’ll need to get you a costume.” Daphne spears a piece of plain chicken, sniffs it, and sets it back on her plate.
“Wait, a costume? Isn’t it too early for Halloween?”
“You sound like the frat boys who mock Daphne’s outfits,” Zak says.
Daphne rolls her eyes. “The Lunar Haus parties always have a theme. This one is ‘A Midsummer Night’s Wonderland.’ Think fairies, Mad Hatters, elves, mushrooms, leaves, glitter, yada yada. Enchanted forest via rabbit hole.”
“Oh boy.” Sounds like a party I’d much rather see in a movie than attend. “Are costumes mandatory?”
“You won’t get turned away at the door if you don’t have one, but dressing up is part of the fun. Lunar Haus parties are the dog’s bollocks,” she says.
Zak slumps in his chair. “Jesus, Daph, you didn’t even grow up in England.”
She gives him the finger.
“Dog’s bollocks means good?” I squint.
“Better than good. Wait until you see this house.” She spreads her fingers wide, as if trying to conjure it out of the air.
“What’s up with all these nicknames for houses and apartments, anyway? Is that a Boston thing or something you and your friends do?” I ask.
“There was an apartment dubbed the Netgoth Shelter and it grew out of that,” Zak explains. “Maybe it’s a little pretentious, but it’s easier to refer to a place by a nickname when a group of people we know all live there. And it’s still not as pretentious as, say, putting on a British accent.” He ducks as Daphne throws a balled-up napkin at his head. “And you really don’t have to dress up if you don’t—”
“Ignore Zakuro,” Daphne interjects. “We’ll go to Garment District tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll find something in Dollar-a-Pound.”
Before I can argue, the phone rings.
“It’s for you.” Zak hands me the receiver.
There’s sniffling on the other end of the line.
“Hello?”
“Astrid?”
“Sally?”
A hiccup. “Corey’s gone. There’s a warrant out for his arrest.”
“Holy shit, what? Are you okay? Are you safe?” Also, who did he murder?
“Safe? Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? He’s wanted for embezzlement. Some detectives came by earlier. They think he’s fled the country.” Sally takes a jagged breath. I wait for her to say more, but she remains silent.
“Oh man . . . I’m so sorry, Sal.”
“At least that explains the passport. And why he wanted to postpone the wedding.”
Daphne and Zak raise synchronized eyebrows, and I give them an I’ll-explain-later wave.
Sally continues, “I just finished giving a statement to the police. The cops searched his place and found a break-up letter he started writing to me, dated yesterday. The detectives made a copy of it for me, wasn’t that nice of them?” An ironic laugh gets stuck in her throat. “I haven’t read it yet.”
I put the phone to my chest. “My friend’s fiancé just left her . . . and the country. He’s got police looking for him, he’s using a fake passport, I don’t even know the whole story.”
“Poor girl. How soap opera. Tell her to come here,” Daphne urges.
“She’s in New York.”
“So what? I’ll pick her up from South Station,” Zak says. “Whatever time she gets in, no problem. Tomorrow’s Saturday, we can all sleep in.”
“But—”
“She shouldn’t be by herself right now. And it’ll be good for her to leave town for a little while, at least for the weekend.” Daphne is adamant; her tone conveys she knows what’s good for a personal crisis.
“Plus, there’s plenty of space,” Zak adds. “This place doesn’t seem right without somebody crashing on the futon in the spare room.”
“Astrid, are you still there?” Sally blows her nose, a sound like an out-of-tune tuba.
“Why don’t you come up here for a while? My roommate Zak and I could meet you at the station.”
“I wouldn’t be good company right now. And I don’t want to ruin your Friday night plans.”
“You are my Friday night plans. And I don’t care what kind of company you are.”
There’s silence on the other end.
“Sally?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Don’t think. Get on the first bus out here.”
“Let me see how I feel tomorrow morning.”
Sally was by my side at the hospital, then at Robin’s apartment, and I want to be as essential to her recovery as she was to mine. “Come on, Sal, it’s not like you’re gonna get any sleep tonight. Why wait? I don’t want you to be alone right now. Just get over to the Port Authority, call to let us know what time you’ll be arriving, and sleep on the bus.”
Some sniffles on the line, then, “Ah, screw it. And screw the bus. I don’t have a wedding to pay for anymore. I’m taking the train up.” That’s my girl.
Several hours later, we greet a shell-shocked Sally at the station. Her light hair is in tangles around her shoulders, her eyes glassy, her lips dry and cracked. She holds a crumpled sheet of paper in her fist.
“His unfinished note. It’s as awful as you probably think it is.”
I brace myself for tears, but she just falls into me and gives me a zombie hug.
She tosses the note in the nearest trashcan.
The three of us are quiet on the drive to The Lab.
Daphne’s in bed by the time we get home, but left Sally a welcome message on the kitchen whiteboard, saying she can stay as long as she likes.
“You can sleep in my room. I’ll be in the spare room next door,” I say.
“No way, I’m not taking your bed.”
“Up to you. The futon’s already made up.” I point down the hall. “Bathroom’s the second door on the right. I’ll leave a clean towel for you. Can I get you anything else?”
“A shot.”
“A shot?” I echo.
“Of anything. Robitussin. Peppermint schnapps, Jager . . . I don’t care.”
Zak gives her the list. “We have Jack Daniels, Bombay Sapphire, Goldschläger, some kind of tequila, vodka—though I think it’s the cheap stuff—”
“Vodka, please.” She presses her fingertips into her eyes.
Zak returns with the drink and a box of tissues.
“Nice meeting you, Sally. Sorry about . . .” A grim smile and he leaves us.
“I like him. Is he always this nice?” she asks.
“He does seem to be pretty good in a crisis.”
“Is he a good lay?”
“Sally!”
“What? He’s cute in a dorky way.”
“He’s not my type.”
“Right, you have a thing for blue eyes. I don’t know who my type is anymore.” A bitter laugh. “Remind me to get the number here so I can give it to Detective Manis in case he has any follow up questions. Did I tell you his full name is Yannis Manis?”
“Like Julia Guglia?” Sally dragged me to see The Wedding Singer with her six times when it came out last year. The rhyming name scene made us laugh every time. Call it cinematic Stockholm syndrome, but I now have a soft spot for the movie. I should rent it this weekend to cheer her up.
“Julia Guglia! Yannis Manis!” Sally falls back on the futon in giggles. I wait for them to turn into sobs, but they don’t, though her eyes are shiny.
“You know what the worst part is?” she says when she catches her breath.
“What?”
&nb
sp; “He misspelled ‘engagement’ in the letter. He wrote, ‘engagment.’ And he spelled ‘fiancée” with a ‘y.’ I almost married an idiot.” The corners of her mouth twitch.
“A criminal idiot.”
There’s a dark edge to her laugh this time.
“Sal, I’m so sorry. What else can I do?”
“This is plenty. Maybe there’s something I can do for you.”
“What do you mean?” I try to keep the unease out of my voice. What does she know? Could Oliver have found a way to reach her?
“You. Home on a Friday night.” She makes sloppy circles with her hand. “You went from being cooped up in Brooklyn to being cooped up in Boston. You’ve been through shit, now I’m going through shit . . . We need to get out there and forget our shit for a while.”
Forgetting my shit is the problem, not the solution, but I nod in pretend-agreement.
“I’m gonna make sure we have some adventures while I’m here,” she says.
Uh-oh.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
..................
9/9/99
“Wait—Astrid . . . Will you stop?”
An imploring hand between her shoulder blades.
She turned, her face a flashing yellow light.
Theo was flushed and breathing heavily. “You forgot your bag.”
“Thanks,” she uttered the word like snapping a whip and took the bag from him.
That was something, right? That he went to the trouble of returning it to her?
It wasn’t enough.
She resumed a brisk pace.
“I thought you were going to come back.” He took quick steps to keep up.
“Uh, no. Not after you talked to me like that.”
“I was an asshole. I’m sorry. Please turn around. We didn’t even make it halfway across.”
Her resolution wavered, a trickle of relief snuck through. But still, no. It wasn’t enough. She didn’t reply, continued on back to Cambridge.
“Astrid, come on. Say something.”
She halted. Faced him. Indecision twisted her mouth. She hadn’t spoken up to Robin, or her teachers, or her exes. But it wasn’t about being special anymore. It was about being heard, if only by a stranger she’d never see again.
Asleep From Day Page 10
