Asleep From Day

by Margarita Montimore

  We cross the threshold, return to the fairy lights and garlands and glittery eyes and sloppy smiles.

  “Where do you live, anyway?” I ask.

  “Inman Square.”

  “And you really haven’t taken any drugs?”

  She shakes her head. “I know the hosts, and I supplied the antlers. Also, not everyone here is on drugs. I think some came just to hang out and enjoy the eye candy. But I don’t do drugs, anyway.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have, either. I thought it would make it a better party for me.”

  “You were hoping it would be the fairy tale it’s trying to look like.”

  She’s right, but I don’t reply. Hey, at least there’s a possibility of a new job. Probably why Oliver was so keen on my attending this “moon party.”

  I find Daphne on my way out and let her know I have another ride. The leaves of her costume are back on, but wound crookedly. She plants a kiss on my forehead, tells me not to worry about Sally, and twirls into another room.

  Minerva doesn’t seek anyone out, only says goodbye to people in the path of her trajectory to the front door.

  As soon as I’m inside her car, a sharp odor makes my nostrils sting and my eyes water. The smell is thick, medicinal, and cloying, like nail polish remover and rotting pickles.

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I had a jar with a preserved pig fetus shatter in the front seat,” Minerva says. “The car’s been cleaned a few times, but I can’t get rid of the formaldehyde smell. I’ll need to replace the carpet. Let me know if you start to feel sick again so I can pull over.”

  I take slow breaths to keep my jumpy stomach in check. Having all the windows open helps and, as we wind around the hilly streets of Jamaica Plain, my nausea ebbs. A few minutes into the ride, I begin to see trails in the streetlights, little white comets dotting the roads, red, yellow and green ones at the intersections. Wow. When I move my hand in front of my face, same thing happens, as if the image has a visual echo. What was I feeling so terrible about earlier? Who knows, who cares? There are so many small things to feel good about right now, like these velvet tights under my tutu, so ridiculously soft, stroking them is like petting kittens. I get a mental image of pants made out of kittens and giggle.

  “Well at least you’ll get to enjoy some of it,” Minerva says, bemused.

  Why haven’t I noticed these amazing textures before? I pull a finger along the line of my jaw, across my forehead, down my nose. It feels like someone else’s hand touching me, one wearing a silk glove.

  “Hey, are you bleeding?”

  I check my face in the passenger mirror. It’s streaked with red, painted like I’m a fanatic at a football game or going to battle in an ancient war.

  “Oh.” Hey look at that, the pad of my right middle finger is cut. How did that happen? I hold it up, entranced by the crimson streaks pooling at the webbing between my fingers. “I don’t even remember cutting it.”

  “There should be a Band-Aid in the glove box.”

  Let’s see if I can avoid bleeding on anything while I search. As I pull open the glove compartment, a small object falls to the ground. I reach under my seat to retrieve what turns out to be a coin. Bronze, with a square cutout in the center. I peek through the hole at the stoplight, which dilates and contracts like the crimson pupil of an eye. Back to the coin itself and it’s got Chinese symbols carved on one side, scaly creatures on the other.

  “Are these fish or snakes?” I hold it up to get a closer look.

  “They’re actually dragons.”

  Dragons.

  Wait.

  I know this. I know this. The coin blurs in my shaking hand.

  “I’m pretty sure they’re dragons. But I don’t know why she gave these to us.”

  “Hey, are you okay?” Minerva glances over, slows the car. “Do you need me to pull over?”

  “Yes. No. No, I’m fine. I just need to . . . What can you tell me about this coin?” I press it between my thumb and forefinger, tighten my muscles to keep from trembling.

  “A friend of mine gave it to me for Chinese New Year. It’s supposed to be good luck or some shit. You sure you’re not gonna be sick again?”

  “Maybe she thought we looked like we could use some luck?”

  I’m so close. Almost there.

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  I close my eyes, bring my left hand to my velvety knee, soft soft, think think. A second later, I’m not touching fabric anymore, I’m touching hair. Soft, like a baby duck’s.

  “Theo.” My eyes fly open.

  “Did you say something?” Minerva asks.

  I did, didn’t I?

  Theo.

  “I need a pen,” I say.

  “Should be one of those in the glove box, too.”

  There’s no paper, so I write the name on my arm, which takes forever to scrawl and still comes out a mess of squiggles. It doesn’t help that the ballpoint tickles my bare skin and makes me want to jerk my arm away from myself. Damn it, these stupid drugs are murder on my motor skills.

  Other words come to me and by the time we reach Inman Square, I’m still trying to jot them down. Minerva doesn’t say anything to distract me, just makes sure I don’t trip up the stairs to her apartment.

  Once inside, she hands me a blank notepad and a spare pen. I curl up on her couch to transcribe the words on my arm. Paper is easier than skin, but I still feel like a first grader learning the written alphabet. Especially considering some of these words, which are out of a child’s early vocabulary: “coin,” “bubbles,” “bear.” Time passes and my fingers cramp from holding the pen so tightly, but I keep my head down, keep going. I don’t touch the glass of water set beside me, though I’m thirsty, and I don’t move my body, though my knees are cramped from sitting cross-legged for so long. I keep writing. I add new words: “bookstore,” “kiss,” “Chinatown,” “popcorn,” “diner,” “karaoke.” What else . . .? “Bridge.”

  I put the pen down. That’s all of them. So let’s see . . . I scan the list. Yeah, I have no clue what any of it means.

  But I have a place to start.

  I have a name.

  Theo.

  Who the hell is Theo?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ..................

  I’M IN THE PASSENGER SEAT of a car driving through what looks like a video game version of Chinatown. Red neon everywhere. Lucky cats wave their lucky paws in every window. Glowing paper lanterns float in midair. Multicolored LED dragons flicker across the fronts of buildings covered in busy, indecipherable signs.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Where do you want to go?” The driver replies.

  When I turn my head to look at him, one of the dragons breathes out a big digital breath and the inside of the car fills with a blinding light.

  “You’re Theo, aren’t you? You’re the one who called me in the hospital. The one in the movie theater?”

  “If you ask too many questions, you won’t enjoy the ride.”

  “I just want to know who you are, how I know you.”

  “I’m a stranger taking you for a drive.”

  I notice we’re looping around the same block over and over again.

  “We’re going in circles,” I say.

  “Yes, but it’s never the same twice. Look closer.”

  I scan the streets and he’s right. The spidery letters on shop signs flicker and morph into new characters I still can’t decipher. The bricks of the buildings rearrange themselves into pagodas before returning to their original boxy forms. The lucky cats continue their winked waves in unison but grow to fill their window frames, then shrink back down. The dragons shape-shift into kaleidoscopic fish and undulate from façade to façade.

  I try to get another look at the driver but there’s that flash of light again, violent as a sun flare. It forces my eyes shut.

  “You keep doing that, and we’re gonna end up in an accident,” he says.


  “Can you please stop the car? I want to talk to you.”

  “We are talking.”

  “I want to see you.”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault you’re blinded by my good looks.”

  The car accelerates. Our surroundings become a vortex of color.

  “Theo, please slow down. Please.” I grip the armrests, expect a collision any second now.

  “I’m a very good driver. Never even got a speeding ticket.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Then please slow down. And take us somewhere else.”

  He reduces his speed. “I can try a new route, but I don’t know where we’ll end up. You game?”

  “Yes.”

  He veers left, and then we’re driving through a tunnel, ivy creeping along its curved edges, dried leaves crunching beneath the tires.

  “Is this better?” he asks.

  “We’ll see.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ..................

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1999

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I SHOULD be hungover from last night’s mystery party punches, but other than a stiff neck from the sofa, I feel fine.

  I check the armrest to make sure my notes are still intact. The pages are there, but making sense of the scrawls is another story. Up and down my left arm are squiggles of smudged ink that I can vaguely make out.

  What do these lopsided words mean? Is it random babble from being under the influence or something more?

  “Hello? Anybody home?” I call out.

  There’s a note from Minerva on the fridge held in place by a scarab magnet:

  Help yourself to coffee, juice or food (sorry I don’t have anything better than PopTarts). The front door locks from the inside. My store is a few blocks away. Come visit. —M.

  Beneath the note is a hand-drawn map to Curio City.

  I don’t feel the slightest pull for caffeine or food, but I’m acutely thirsty so I pour myself some orange juice. I take a sip and—holy shit, it’s the best juice I’ve ever tasted. The sweetness and acidity from the citrus hits my tongue just so. I take a larger gulp and check the container. Tropicana. Did they change their recipe? I could spend an hour savoring the entire carton, but I’ve got to start the day so I force myself to drink it down and not linger.

  Hang on, am I sure I don’t need to scare up some aspirin? Nope, my head is still ache-free. Am I sure I don’t need coffee? No grogginess here, either. I’m energized by something new ignited within me, a fierce motivation.

  I have to find Theo.

  I don’t know who he is or why I need to find him, but I do. Simple as that. Correction: it’s the furthest thing from simple. Having no last name or physical description poses a challenge (hair softness notwithstanding). But maybe I can decode some of the gibberish I wrote down last night and begin to make some sense of it.

  And there’s always Oliver . . .

  This so-called quest will have to wait a little longer. First up, I need to secure a new job.

  I find Curio City easily, and stop to admire the window display. Behind a sheet of plate glass, a giant unicorn skull is nestled on a bed of teal velvet, surrounded by gold-plated scorpions. I love this store already.

  A bell rings as I cross the threshold. Minerva waves from behind the register, setting aside a leather-bound ledger.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  I take in my surroundings before answering. It’s like being in the attic of a crazy aunt married to a taxidermist (and possible serial killer), both of whom were hoarders. There are walls of glassed-in shelves filled with skulls, fossils, shrunken heads, and taxidermy. Then there are racks of gold and silver jewelry made of bones, small stands with antique postcards and daguerreotypes, and various odds and ends I can’t begin to figure out, some of which seem innocuous, objects like bottles and bowls, and others that resemble rusted instruments of torture.

  “Much better than last night,” I finally answer. “Pretty awesome, actually. Thanks for looking out for me like that.”

  “First time on E?”

  I nod.

  “Enjoy the after-effects today, maybe tomorrow, too,” she says. “You’ll find food tastes especially amazing. But be prepared for the comedown—a little depression here, some moodiness there—and remember your fried egg of a brain is recovering from the drugs. Next time, be careful about mixing your punches, so to speak.”

  “Yeah, that’ll be the last time I drink anything without knowing exactly what’s in it.” I gaze at some ornate oval frames housing portraits of Victorian-era zombies in various states of decay and motion to the space around me. “This place is incredible, by the way. My friend Daphne would also go nuts over this stuff. I feel like I could live here. Or at least, um . . . work here,” I add. It doesn’t come out as assertive as I hoped.

  Minerva takes out a rack of skull rings and begins to polish them. “I do need someone. But I don’t know . . .”

  “What you saw last night, that wasn’t me. I’m not usually a socially awkward weirdo prone to puking and writing on myself.” Half of that statement is false but hopefully she won’t call me out on it.

  She glances up at me, doubtful. “Actually, I think you are a socially awkward weirdo. But I like that. And last night you were having a bad trip but kept it together. That says something about you.” Minerva holds out a hand, each finger stacked with three skull rings apiece. “Too much?”

  “I think you could pull it off.” My tone veers into obsequious. Whatever, I need her to hire me.

  “I just worry you’re too shy to handle a place like this.”

  Damn it.

  I lean forward and brace my hands on the counter, causing her to drop a skull ring and step back. “I can handle a place like this. In high school, I spent summers working at Claire’s Boutique. I handled girls freaking out over getting their ears pierced, shoplifting like it was an Olympic sport, and making a general mess. More recently I worked at Tower Records, the one on Newbury Street. I handled midnight releases for Megadeath and the Backstreet Boys. I handled a guy who got so mad the Chumbawumba single was out of stock, he threw a Mariah Carey CD at my head.” I’m not sure if her eyes are widening at my stories or my intensity so I straighten up and force some tranquility into my voice. “My shyness—which I’m working on—is not going to get in the way of this job. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Clean up a broken jar full of preserved pig fetus? Done. Prevent someone from stealing that two-headed stuffed goose?” I point to one of the shelves. “You got it. Give me a chance to show—”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? I’m hired?” Come on come on come on.

  She folds her arms and looks at me like a stern teacher reluctantly impressed by a student’s answer. “I wanted to see if you’d fight for it. You did. I can offer you twelve bucks an hour, plus five percent commission on anything you sell over a hundred bucks. And some of the taxidermy can get pricey—like that two-headed goose—so it’s not a bad deal.” She takes out a dog-eared catalog from beneath the register. “I’ll need you to study this so you can speak knowledgeably about the merchandise. You’ll get a lot of questions, especially from tourists and gawkers. They’ll want to know all about animal skulls and lobotomy ice picks, spend an hour pestering you with questions only to buy a frog change purse or nothing at all. And you’ll get sick of telling people not to touch things or take pictures. But the pay is more than you’ll typically get at a retail gig. You in?”

  I do another sweep of the room. Could I really spend my days surrounded by these bizarre artifacts? Would being in the company of all the dead things and antique oddities creep me out, give me nightmares? I couldn’t handle a new roster of bad dreams, but I can’t handle poverty, either.

  Except that I’m already used to the space, comfortable even. Before Corey, Sally briefly dated a guy training to be a mortician. The three of us met for drinks one night, and I asked if he was uncomfo
rtable being surrounded by so much death.

  He said, “Dead people don’t bother me. They can’t hurt you. Dead is dead. It’s the living you need to watch out for.”

  I take the catalog. “I’m in.”

  It’s quiet back at The Lab. Maybe they’re still sleeping it off. I’m buzzing from all these new developments and I have to share them with somebody right away, so I take the phone into my room and call Oliver.

  “I think I’ve begun to remember,” I say.

  “Hello to you, too.”

  “Sorry. Hi. It’s Astrid.”

  “I know who it is.” His voice is on the cusp of laughter.

  “Right. Because you’re psychic.”

  “No, because I’ve spoken to you enough times that I recognize your voice now. And your endearing lack of niceties. Basic deduction, not supernatural ability.”

  I hold back a sigh of impatience. “Good afternoon, Oliver. How is your Saturday going?” I say in a robotic voice.

  “Fake niceties are worse than none at all.”

  “I can’t win with you.” I let out the sigh.

  “You are so easy to get a rise out of, anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Yeah, and that nervous looks cute on me.” My breath catches in a short gasp.

  I just like how easy you are to get a rise out of. Nervous looks cute on you.

  “I think he told me,” I say.

  “Who?”

  “Theo. The name I remembered last night. I think I need to find him.”

  Oliver chuckles. “And so it begins. Congratulations on the new job, by the way.”

  Man, this guy takes The Psychic Hour to a whole other level.

  “Thank you,” I reply with caution.

  “Why don’t you tell me all about it over lunch?”

  “With a complete stranger? Shall I bring the ax for you to chop me up with, too?”

  “Hey, you can be all flippant about it, but I think I’ve proven myself enough to at least merit a cup of coffee.”