“Hmm . . .”
“Did you remember something?” Oliver asks.
“Kind of,” I murmur.
“Are you warm?”
“Getting there.”
I want to keep my eyes closed, to keep pretending, but it’s not fair to him.
“It’s almost over,” he reassures.
Maybe I don’t want it to be.
Moments later, the rain stops. Even though I’m still cold, it’s time to step away.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Now you go home.”
“Wait, what do you mean? What about the new memories and my list and this big quest I’m supposed to be on? I thought you were going to help me.”
“I am, but you’re sad right now, and your thoughts are muddled. It’s not the right time.”
It never is.
I want to keep going, but he’s right. Despite this brief respite, the melancholy is seeping back in, and my skull warns of another headache on the horizon.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “I have a new job, and we’re making some progress here . . . but I feel awful about everything.”
“It’ll pass. Maybe it’s the weather.” Oliver shrugs.
Maybe it’s the drugs.
“I’m sorry I’ve been such terrible company today.”
“For the record, I’m not here for you to entertain me. I don’t care what kind of company you are. I kinda figured this would be a tough process for you.”
An inner switch is flipped and I bristle with irritation. The smug act is getting old. “Does anything ever surprise you?”
He steps away from me as if from the business end of a ledge. “Yeah, of course.”
“Well, maybe you could be a little less self-help guru about it all.” I’m doing that unfair thing, when your emotions get unhinged and you take it out on the person in front of you. Time to extricate him from my crazy. “Yeah, home is probably my best bet now.”
“My car’s in the shop or I’d drive you, but let me at least walk you to the T.”
“It’s fine. I’ll walk. Thanks for lunch.”
I take off down the stairs without looking at him or saying goodbye.
The rain has thinned into a misty drizzle. Doesn’t matter, right now, I’d walk through a hurricane. I can’t take the thought of being hemmed in by a doorway or a subway car or a taxi.
We forget things all the time. My memory isn’t sharp to begin with, and there are countless days I can’t remember well, if at all. But they’ve been forgettable because they were unremarkable. September ninth wasn’t lost to me because it was as ordinary as the days that preceded it. It might’ve been a day in my mental calendar I would’ve circled and replayed, a day set apart, noteworthy. I don’t get many days like that—I don’t think most of us do—and I want it back.
I reach the Mass Ave Bridge and begin to cross it.
If meeting Theo was so special, it’ll come back to me, right? If it won’t, then either it doesn’t matter . . . or it never really happened.
The wind whips hard with no buildings to buffer it, and my hair goes Medusa wild. A fine rain trickles down the back of my neck and even though I’m shivering again, I no longer feel the cold. Maybe I’ve calmed down or maybe I’m tired, hungover. But no, that’s not it.
I blink.
I feel nothing. It’s a blessing to take a break from emotions, even for a little while.
Ahead of me is the rest of the bridge and the path back home and I don’t think about what I’ll do the rest of the day or tomorrow. All I have to do is keep walking.
I glance at my feet as I step over something painted on the ground: “364 SMOOTS PLUS 1 EAR.”
I can’t remember exactly how many make up the bridge, three hundred and something. And one ear . . . That’s what it says on the other side, where the numbers descend. Next time you walk across, have a look.
I keep watching the numbers at my feet. They do descend.
It’s become such a popular local thing, when the markers start to fade they get repainted. We’re talking decades now. The Smoot is here to stay.
And it’s also a fun word to say.
“Smoot!” I call out. A passing jogger turns back to give me a queer look.
I didn’t know anything about Smoots before Theo. This isn’t a conversation I had with myself. It’s not the drugs and it’s not my imagination.
I’m remembering.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
..................
9/9/99
“What do you want to see?” Theo asked.
“I don’t even know what’s playing,” Astrid replied. “Do you ever have this urge to go to a movie, regardless of what’s out? Just to have that popcorn-smell, feet-sticking-to-the-floor, sitting-in-a-dark-room-with-dozens-of-strangers experience?” One of his eyebrows headed north and she rushed to cover up her embarrassment. “And don’t place too much emphasis on the dark-room-with-strangers part. You know what I mean.”
He looked at her, sleepy-eyed, and said, “I’m a wannabe filmmaker. Of course I know that urge. Let’s check out our options.”
The Copley Theater was in a small shopping center that catered to the upper classes. Astrid always wondered why a run-down movie house would share a roof with a gourmet chocolatier, an antique furniture shop, and several designer clothing stores. It didn’t seem like the same people who shopped there would want to see movies there, too.
“Just a warning in case you haven’t been here before, but this place has pretty bad screens,” she said.
“Hey, I like watching movies on a postage stamp from the end of a long tunnel.”
“Ah, so you have been here before. What should we see, hotshot?”
They considered the selection.
“I have a rule about sequels, so we can’t see Timebomber 2: The Escape.”
“That’s okay, I never saw the first Timebomber, anyway.” She paused. “Hang on. You have a rule about sequels?”
“It’s pretty simple. I won’t watch them.”
“Not any? Not even Star Wars?”
“That was a single story told over the course of three movies, so it’s different.”
“Didn’t a fourth one just come out?”
He shook his head. “We shall not speak of it.”
“Okay then. What about Aliens or Terminator 2? Some would regard those as superior to the originals.”
“I agree with what William Goldman said about sequels being whores’ movies.”
She made a gagging noise. “Oh no. You’re not one of those guys are you?”
“Uh, maybe. What do you mean?”
“You know, one of those guys who watches a movie and goes on about stuff like the cinematography and denouement and mise-en-scene. And worships obscure-ish directors like Jodorowsky and Tarnofsky.”
“Tarkovsky?”
“Whatever.” She inhaled the buttery popcorn smell emanating from the theater.
“Andre Rublev is only one of the greatest movies ever made.”
“I’m sure it is. Oh look, there’s something starting in fifteen minutes. It’s not in black-and-white or subtitled, though. Are you sure you’ll be able to handle it?”
A reluctant sigh. “I guess I can restrain my inner film snob for a couple of hours.”
“Your inner film snob makes my inner film snob look like an Adam Sandler fan,” she said.
“I actually didn’t mind The Wedding Singer.”
Her smile was pleased but she wedged irony into it.
They approached the sales counter. Theo bent down to speak into the silver circle embedded in the Plexiglas. “Two tickets to the five-thirty screening of . . .” he turned to Astrid to fill in the blanks.
“Other People’s Bedrooms.”
“Other People’s Bedrooms—hey, this better not be a sappy romantic comedy.”
She gave a faux-innocent, wide-eyed shrug.
Tickets in hand, Theo led the way to the concession stand. “It’s not
a movie without the popcorn, right?”
“Right. Oh, but could we get M&M’s and put them in the middle and on top?”
“And how do you get them in the middle?”
“I ask them to fill the carton halfway, put in some M&M’s, then fill up the rest.”
“The snack counter people must love you.”
“Hey, I add the ones on top myself,” she defended.
They made it in time for the previews. The theater was only half-full, but they still chose seats in the back row.
Theo leaned over and whispered, “Listen, I know there’s usually awkwardness when seeing a movie on a first date, or whatever you want to call it. To begin with, there’s the issue of the armrest. I’m happy to share it, unless you want it all for yourself, in which case feel free to push my elbow off. Then there’s the question of whether I’m going to try to put my arm around you”—Astrid’s eyes widened in the dark—“or worse, try to kiss you.”
She held her breath until he continued.
“But I won’t. First of all, I don’t know if you want me to. Even though you have no poker face, you still seem a little nervous, and I don’t know if it’s a hey-I-like-this-guy nervous or a I’ll-hang-out-with-this-guy-but-still-don’t-trust-him-not-to-be-a-psycho nervous. Second of all, I don’t think a movie theater is the best place for a first kiss. Too expected. I also don’t know if putting my arm around you would make you uncomfortable, so how about this: if you decide at any point that it would be okay for me to do that, nudge my knee with yours. That’ll be the signal. What do you think?”
She missed half of what he said because she was paying too much attention to his warm breath on her ear and his tangy cologne—an intoxicating combo. For all she knew he might’ve been asking her to join him on a murder spree after the movie.
Theo moved his head so that she could answer. Her lips grazed his earlobe as she whispered, “Sounds good.” She’d find a way to get out of the murder spree later if need be.
The movie was indeed a romantic comedy, about a gorgeous-but-kooky, unlucky-in-love real estate agent who develops a crush on a client, a handsome-but-reserved architect. The architect is purposefully indecisive in choosing an apartment because he’s smitten with the agent.
Astrid took in every frame with thorough enjoyment, though it had little to do with the movie’s formulaic plot. Anticipation rose in her every time she reached for the popcorn and her fingers brushed against Theo’s. During the movie’s second act, right after the agent bumps into a woman claiming to be the architect’s wife, Astrid shifted in her seat and accidentally bumped knees with Theo. He put a sturdy arm around her and her anxiety dissolved in a puddle of relief. Emboldened, she put her head on his shoulder and they watched the rest of the film in that position. Who cared if the picture was tilted for her? Who cared about the eventual pins and needles in her arm from being pressed against the armrest? She barely felt them anyway.
On screen, numerous twists and misunderstandings keep the agent and architect apart, until the inevitable Big Romantic Moment, in which they reunite and close out the film with a kiss on a penthouse balcony. When the credits rolled and people started leaving their seats, Theo and Astrid moved with the lazy gestures of kittens waking up from a long nap.
“You hated it, didn’t you,” she said as they walked through the crimson-carpeted lobby.
“Are you kidding? I thought it was pretty good.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Though the movie itself was atrocious.”
Astrid bumped him with her hip, and he responded by grabbing her hand.
Outside, they separated and faced each other.
Theo scraped the sidewalk with his toe, once more appearing like a shy little boy. “So . . .”
“So . . .?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
..................
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1999
HURRY, HURRY, HURRY. QUICKENED STEPS until I return to The Lab. I impatiently pull off my wet clothes—which insist on sticking to my skin—and pat my hair down with a towel. In the kitchen, a stack of phone books props up a basket of fruit. I find the current one and flip open to the C’s. There are three listings for Theodore Collins, six for Ted Collins and fifteen for T. Collins. No Theos specifically, but that doesn’t mean he’s not among those names.
I sit at the kitchen table with the listings, the cordless, and a pen.
I’m ready. Except . . . What should I say when I call these numbers? What if someone other than Theo picks up the phone, or I get an answering machine? What kind of message could I leave? “If this is the same Theo Collins who met a girl named Astrid a few weeks ago and spent the day with her—me—please give me a call. Unless it was a one-time thing for you, which is fine. It would still be nice to get a call back, though, so I know I got the right number, and also where things stand. Thanks.” Yeah, that would rival the answering machine scene in Swingers for champion of awkward.
Gotta think this through some more before I start dialing.
Sally pads into the kitchen full of yawns, stretching her fists to the ceiling like a cartoon little girl.
“Is there any orange juice?” she asks. “Someone at the party told me to make sure I have juice today. Something about it being an orgasm for my mouth.”
“I don’t know if we have any, but if we don’t, I’ll get some because that someone wasn’t lying.”
She finds a carton in the fridge and fills a mug.
“Oh my god,” she says after the first mouthful.
“I know, right? Pour me one?”
“So what happened to you last night?” She hands me a mug of juice.
I tell her about Minerva, her store, and the job offer. I don’t tell her about Oliver or anything else that happened today. I can’t, not yet. It needs to be mine to obsess over for now.
“What about you and Zak? Did you two hook up?” I ask.
“I don’t remember. There was a room at the party filled with pillows, and one person in the center would be blindfolded and hold up a number with their fingers and that many different people would take turns kissing them. I was in the middle a few times, so who knows.”
I think of germs, of that toothy stranger who kissed me, and I must pull a face because Sally says, “I just had my wedding called off. Last night took my mind off that for a few hours, so I really need you to not judge me right now. You know I’d never judge you.”
This is a variation on what Sally always says after an episode of outlandish behavior. In high school, she set her hair on fire in the science lab on a dare, then shaved her head, “because the smoky smell was annoying.” In college, she dated a performance artist who she allowed to pierce her nipples onstage as part of his act. Her first job out of college? Personal assistant to a porn director. She does things that could elicit all kinds of judgment, but won’t stand for it. Maybe that’s also why she rarely slings it back.
I should tell her. At least some of it.
“Sally, I think I met someone.”
“At the party? I hope I didn’t accidentally make out with him in the pillow room.”
“No, before that. Before the hospital.”
She puts down the mug and slides her chair forward, instantly less bleary-eyed. “Wait, what do you mean, you think you met someone? You either did or you didn’t.”
I tell her the bits I recall, but I leave out Oliver, even though there’s no good reason for me to do so. Instead, I stitch together the story around him and keep vague on the other memory triggers. But I tell her about the coin, the ensuing list of words, Theo’s face, the rain, the Smoots.
“Are you kidding me? I can’t believe you’re only starting to remember all this stuff now. What if he’s your soul mate? What if he’s been calling your apartment nonstop and getting a disconnected number, not realizing your dippy roommate incinerated the place?”
This is why I love Sally, my insta-accomplice.
She zeroes in on the phone book.
“Were you about to call him?”
“I was gonna try. But I don’t know what I’d say to all the wrong Theos . . . and especially not to the right one.”
“Let me think . . . Get me some more juice?” She holds out her mug.
“Yes, boss.” I pour myself another glass, too, draining the last of the carton, but pleased to see another in the fridge. Zak or Daphne must have known and prepared ahead of time.
“Okay, I think I have a plan.” Sally’s face is fierce with concentration. “Where’s this new place you’re working?”
“Inman Square.”
“This is what we’re going to do.” Her fingers waggle in the air the way they do when she’s plotting. “You call up all the Collins guys and tell them an expensive purchase was made with their credit card to—what’s the name of the store? Spooky City?”
“Curio City.”
“Right. Tell them they need to come to Curio City to verify the purchase as an extra security measure blah-blah-their-credit-card-company-tried-to-dispute-the-charge-or-something-blah.”
“Uh, first off, you’re missing some pretty vital steps in those blahs. Second, I just got this job. Lying to not one but over a dozen people about a credit card charge seems potentially illegal and something that could piss people off and get me fired. Again.”
“Hmph.” That was as close as she’d get to admitting she was wrong. “Fine, new plan,” she shifts gears. “We go completely the other way. No bells, no whistles. Call up each person and tell them you’re looking for Theo Collins, who you met last month before you got into an accident and lost your memory. Say you need to speak to him to find out what happened that day.”
I consider playing it straight once again . . . There’s no way it’ll work. “Aside from sounding like a soap opera, if the Theo I’m looking for is behind one of these numbers, there’s a chance he’s not gonna want to talk to me. What if it was a one-night stand?”
Asleep From Day Page 15
