Asleep From Day

by Margarita Montimore

  “You could still be some kind of creepy stalker.”

  “You’re the one who keeps calling me, remember?”

  Fair point. I may not have his extrasensory powers (if that’s even a real thing), but I need his help to put these pieces together. I need to figure out who this Theo guy is and why it’s important to find him. Based on Oliver’s track record so far, meeting in person—in a public place—might not be the worst idea.

  “Okay,” I concede. “But I don’t have a lot of money, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “So now I’m a gold digger, too? I thought I was just a creepy stalker. And possible ax murderer.”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “I can’t wait for you to label me some more in person. You pick the place.”

  I look at the list I made last night.

  Diner.

  There’s only one diner worth anything to me.

  “Meet me at Deli Haus in two hours,” I say.

  It’s not until I’m at the diner, in a booth, and spooning sugar in my coffee, that I realize I have no idea what Oliver looks like. It’s unsettling, like waiting for a blind date that might stand me up if he doesn’t like what he sees. Except it’s only blind on my side. And it’s not a date. And the guy actually wants to meet me, so any apprehension that he might reject me is ludicrous. So why do I still get the feeling that I’m the one who has something to lose here?

  It was easier when I thought he might be a stalker/ax murderer.

  I’m in one of the smaller booths by the door, facing the entrance. Before I left, I jotted a note on the Lab’s kitchen whiteboard saying where I’d be as a paranoid precaution, but I don’t think I’m in any real danger here. Just trying to stay afloat on this wave of unfamiliar everything that’s been carrying me along. I don’t like being taken out of my comfort zone to begin with and these last few weeks have been one giant discomfort zone.

  Am I making a face? Do I look anxious? Gotta stop jerking my head up every time someone comes through the door. Instead, I’ll squeeze this coffee cup when I get nervous . . . bad idea; I’m going to shatter this cup.

  A better idea is to study my surroundings and try to coax another memory, a scrap of a detail, something that’ll reveal why this place is on my list. So let’s see. The booth’s pale green vinyl, the Formica counter, the chipped floor tiles, all looks the same as always. The only thing different is the photography on the walls, black-and-white prints of hands double exposed with close-ups of eyes in the center of the palms. They don’t remind me of anything; they look like student work.

  Nevertheless, I crane my neck to get a peek at a photo behind me in a far corner.

  “You can’t force it all to come back to you. It doesn’t work that way.”

  When I turn back, there he is, sitting across from me. He could play Clark Kent’s ganglier, slightly nerdier brother, with long limbs, thickly-framed glasses and dark hair that falls into his blue eyes. The kind of attractive that sneaks up on you before it gives you a good wallop. Allegedly, I’ve met him before, but he doesn’t look familiar.

  “You’re name isn’t actually Theo, right?” I ask.

  “You really like to get right to it, huh? It’s good to meet you again, Astrid.” He holds out a hand and I shake it, tentatively, expecting a flood of recognition or even a twinge of something. There’s nothing. Stupid memory.

  “It’s okay if you don’t remember me. Maybe it’ll come to you later. And no, my name isn’t Theo. You have my business card, but if you need me to supplement it with additional forms of ID . . .”

  I stare at him, open and close my mouth a few times without replying.

  “Go ahead and say whatever it is you want to say.” He makes circles with his hand.

  “Can I be totally honest?”

  “I prefer it,” he says.

  “I’m a little weirded out that you’re here. That you’re this eager to help me, this . . . available.”

  A waiter comes over with a pot of coffee and a second mug. “You guys need a minute?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d want to share a plate of fries . . .?” I ask Oliver.

  “I’m more about mashed potatoes today, sorry. Burger and mash, please,” he orders.

  “Okay then. I’ll just have a BLT. Thanks.” I hand over our menus.

  “You could’ve still ordered the fries on your own,” he points out. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve gotten them.”

  “They’re just potatoes, no need to read too much into it.”

  “I like to think I read just the right amount into things.” Oliver smiles with one side of his mouth and reaches for the sugar. “So you were saying, something about being creeped out that I was here.”

  “Not creeped, weirded.”

  “And the difference is . . .?”

  “Weirded is less harsh. I don’t mean to come off as ungrateful, I just want to be straight with you.” My hands need something to do, so I fiddle with a packet of Sweet’N Low.

  “You have every right to be suspicious,” he says.

  “Okay . . . So, why are you helping me?”

  He leans forward and drops his voice. “At the risk of weirding you out further, it’s because I feel like I have to. I can’t explain it beyond that.” He sits back, gives a take-it-or-leave-it shrug.

  “Well, that was thoroughly illuminating. I’m so glad you cleared that up.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  His faux smugness pulls a bewildered smile out of me.

  “Let me put it this way,” he says. “Now that you’re starting to remember, don’t you feel this compulsive need to piece it together even though you don’t really know what ‘it’ is?”

  “Big time.”

  “Well I have that same compulsive need to assist you. And at the risk of sounding full-on creepy, I’ve felt that way since we first met, but couldn’t do anything about it until now.”

  I watch him, uncertain of how to react to his intensity. “You do realize I’m looking for a guy, right? Which means it’s possible there was something romantic between Theo and me? Likely, even, because a string of random words come back to me, like ‘Chinatown’ and ‘bookstore’ and one of them was . . .” Why can’t I say ‘kiss’? God, I’m shy about the most ridiculous things sometimes.

  Oliver gives me a your-secret-is-safe-with-me smirk. “I think I can guess the word.”

  A rush of heat from my collarbone up. “No no, not that.” Let’s pretend this coffee cup is riveting, because I can’t look at him right now. I finally mumble, “It was ‘kiss.’” But, I mean . . . Who knows?

  I hazard a glance back up. Was that a hint of a smirk? Is he hiding annoyance or jealousy?

  “Is that supposed to scare me off?” he asks.

  “I just . . . not that I’m questioning your motives here . . . but, maybe you’re looking to ‘slay my dragon.’” It comes out sounding so dirty, I cover my mouth.

  A rat-a-tat-tat snicker fires out of him. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  I could slither right down and hide under this table. At the same time, our banter is giving me a fizzy lightheadedness that I don’t mind.

  “I don’t have an answer that’ll satisfy you, Astrid. You’re looking for Theo Collins, and I’m supposed to help you find him. So do you want to keep talking in circles or do you want to start this search?”

  Did I hear him correctly?

  “Who did you just say I was looking for?” I draw out every word of the question.

  “Theo Collins. You said so yourself.”

  “I never told you his last name.”

  “Didn’t you?” He blinks and tilts his chin like he’s trying to make out the lyrics to the punk song coming out of the speakers.

  I put my palms flat on the table. This table is real. My coffee is real. I look across at Oliver. This guy is . . . I don’t know what he is.

  “I didn’t,” I say. “But it is Collins. No doubt abo
ut that. What else can you tell me?”

  “Nothing.” A quick cobweb-clearing jerk of his head. “I mean, this? Just now? Rarely happens. Usually the impressions I get are less specific. But I might be able to prompt you to recall more.”

  “Great. So how do we begin?”

  “Hmm . . . Let’s see . . . Close your eyes and tell me everything you remember.”

  “Right here, in the middle of Deli Haus?” Even though I’m sitting with my back to the main dining area, the idea of shutting my eyes like that makes me feel exposed.

  “I’d normally pick somewhere more private, but I think you chose this place for a reason,” he explains.

  It’s not like he’s asking me to get on the table and do a dance. No big deal, right?

  “I have a list.” I reach for my pocket, but one of his abnormally long arms stops me. Man, he must have no trouble reaching things on high shelves.

  “Forget the list. Close your eyes. Tell me what you remember. Tell me how you started to remember.”

  Okay, here goes. I do as he says, fidgeting my shoulders as I block out the diner. “I found a Chinese coin in Minerva’s car—Minerva is this woman—”

  “That doesn’t matter. Tell me about the coin.”

  “Right. So it had these animals etched into it. I asked her if they were snakes or fish and she said, ‘dragons.’ That’s when I knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “I had that conversation before. With Theo. After his name popped into my head, it was followed by all these random words. ‘Popcorn.’ ‘Chinatown.’ ‘Kiss.’ ‘Bridge.’ ‘Bear.’ ‘Diner.’ There were others, but I’d have to check my list. I don’t know, some of this stuff might be from the dreams I’ve been having since my accident.”

  “Let’s stay on Theo. Focus on his name and think about that Chinese coin. Imagine holding it your hand. Turn it over, feel the weight of it, feel its texture. Now make sure you keep your eyes closed for this part.” His voice has a depth and richness that envelops me, puts me in a soundproof booth that shuts everything else out. “Keep looking at the coin, but imagine you’re sitting across from Theo. Move your eyes from the coin to the table. From the table over to him. He’s right there in front of you. Tell me what you see.”

  Holy shit. He’s right there behind my closed eyes.

  “BLT, burger and mash.” A dish is set in front of me with a light clatter and I open my eyes. The image is gone.

  When the waiter leaves, Oliver says, “Close your eyes again. He’s still there.”

  I do, and it takes a moment to bring him into focus, but I see him. This is Theo.

  “Tell me what you see.”

  Out loud I describe Theo in broad strokes: fair bedhead hair, light eyes a faded blue, solid build verging on stocky. But as I go into his main features, other details come back to me, which I leave out. I don’t mention how strangely perfect his ears are, how I could (and maybe did) run my fingertips around their curves. I don’t tell him about the enticing softness of his hair. I don’t tell him how Theo’s eyes go from mischievous to guarded and back again depending on how he blinks and tilts his head. I recall the exact dip of his downy cheeks and firmness of his lower lip, but I don’t say any of this out loud.

  In fact, I could reach out and touch Theo’s face right now, and I do, and his cheek is warm and I move down his face only this mouth is a little wider, a little fuller.

  I open my eyes and pull my hand back, as if from a fire. “I’m so sorry.”

  Oliver looks down and takes hold of his burger. “Don’t be. I’m glad something came back to you. That’s why I’m here.”

  I don’t think he’s entirely glad. As I chew a mouthful of my sandwich, I frown. Shouldn’t I be reassured recalling Theo’s face? Satisfied that the tugging at the back of my mind alluded to something tangible? So why am I not happier about it? Why this confusion, discomfort, even vague guilt?

  We don’t speak for a few minutes. I pretend to focus on my food and guess he’s doing the same.

  “Tell me something.” Oliver breaks the silence, and I let out a breath I’ve been holding too long. “What’s the last thing you remember before your accident?”

  “Before coming to New York?”

  “Do you even remember the trip to New York?” he asks.

  “Sure, I . . .”

  Hang on a second. Time out. Rewind to the Friday I left town. I thought I . . . Well, isn’t that odd . . . When I search my mental file folders for any details of the trip, they come up empty. “Shit . . . That can’t be . . . I don’t . . . Let’s see . . . I remember the day before the accident, I went to work, had a busy morning. Then I must’ve taken lunch . . . and the rest of my day would have been ordinary.”

  “That’s a lot of speculation. What do you actually remember?”

  “Calling hotels in Frankfurt. Ordering coffee and soda for the office. Talking to Jasleen about an open mic night she wanted me to go to in the Back Bay. Leaving the office around twelve thirty . . .” Wait, is that it? That can’t be right. “Um . . .” It’s like travelling through a long dark tunnel of my memory, searching for a patch of light. “Wow. The next thing I can remember is waking up in an ambulance with glass in my mouth.”

  “And when was that, again?”

  “Friday, September ninth. Sometime in the early afternoon.”

  “Friday, September ninth?” Oliver does some mental arithmetic. “Friday was September tenth.”

  “Why did I think it was the ninth?”

  “Because you can’t remember much of the ninth, so maybe your brain is trying to fill in the gaps. Looks like you’re missing about twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s insane. Why—How—” I stammer. Is it possible I tricked my brain into covering up a hole in my timeline? If my mind is that susceptible to misdirection, what other mental glitches might I be experiencing? “How did I not realize I was missing a full day? Why did it take me so long to realize?” I push my plate away. I can’t sit here anymore. The smell of the grease, the loud background punk music, the people around us, it’s too much. I stand up.

  “What do you need?” Oliver asks.

  “Air.”

  Outside, I find a nearby stoop and sit heavily, elbows on knees, head in hands.

  A minute later, Oliver joins me. He drapes my jacket over my shoulders but doesn’t say anything, doesn’t touch me, just sits beside me.

  “I know it’s stupid,” I say. “It’s just time. It’s not even like I lost a year of my life or anything. I mean, that accident . . . I was lucky. It could’ve been so much worse,” I regurgitate the platitudes from the hospital as I try to buy into them. “Losing a day shouldn’t be such a big deal in the grand scheme of things.”

  “And yet . . .”

  “And yet, in my own not-so-grand scheme, it was an important day. Maybe my best day. What if that’s it? I can’t say how I know this—hey, I’m starting to sound like you—but what if it was the best day of my life, and now it’s been wiped clean?” I look up at the sky, anemic white with dark grey clouds moving in. A cold wind infiltrates the open spaces of my jacket. I shiver and move closer to Oliver.

  “It hasn’t been.” A cautious hand pats my back. “You remembered his name, what he looks like. You have a whole list of other things. The rest will come back to you.”

  But will Theo come back? Will I ever see him again? And what if that list is meaningless, a byproduct of the drugs I took at the party? Should I tell Oliver what might’ve been the real catalyst for that chain of words, besides the coin? Because anything could have actually happened that day, or nothing could have happened. Theo could be a figment. Would Oliver still help me if he knew we might be chasing down a hallucination? Or does he already know? Is he enabling me, giving a last name to my lunacy? If so, why would he do that?

  The sensible thing would be to level with Oliver, but there’s something deeply embarrassing about questioning your sense of reality—sanity, even—out loud. Whether or not he alread
y senses my tenuous hold on the waking world, right now he believes me, and he could possibly help me figure out what’s real. I’m not sure I’ll ever get that day back but I can’t afford him doubting me by adding more confusion to the mix. So I chicken out and don’t say anything else. Maybe his motives should matter more to me or maybe each of us is turning a blind eye on the situation. For now, I can live with that.

  “So what happens next?” I ask.

  “What happens next is, it rains.”

  The skies open right up as if waiting for Oliver’s cue, a cold rain that partially soaks us in the time it takes to scramble up the stairs to the entrance of a nearby brownstone.

  “The psychic who doesn’t carry an umbrella,” I admonish through chattering teeth.

  Across the way, cars slow to accommodate the sheets of rain that blur sightlines. The rushing water builds to a din, and I know this is exactly how it rained when I was hit by the car, a twin downpour that derailed my mediocre but perfectly acceptable life. The first domino that sent the rest toppling. If only I could’ve been a little more careful at the crosswalk. I wouldn’t have lost my job. I might’ve been able to prevent Cass from torching our apartment. I definitely wouldn’t have forgotten Theo. I might be with him right now. Instead, I’m cold and weighed down with pointless alternate reality scenarios. Full of remorse and fear that no matter how much I try to stay on the edges of life, keep my head down and stick to my little routines, I could step off the curb and have them wiped out just like that. And now I’m dwelling on unchangeable consequences and grieving over a little bit of lost time. How petty of me. How ungrateful.

  My shudder is fifty-fifty self-loathing and frigid rain.

  “Come here,” Oliver says. When I hesitate, he adds, “I’m not making a pass at you. Stop being so suspicious.”

  I move in and—how is this much heat emanating from his lean body? When he hugs me (“shut up and let me get you warm”) it’s like being encased in one of those space-age foil blankets marathon runners and trauma victims get: thin but surprisingly effective. My head rests on his shoulder. He smells like towels fresh out of the dryer. We stand there, inches from the downpour, and my deluge of bad feelings gradually ebbs away. A better sensation comes over me: of being cozy under the covers, of not wanting to go out in the rain, of being pressed against a body, inhaling the smell of skin and feeling drunk off of it.