“You don’t have one-night stands.”
“What if I made an exception? If we hooked up, it could’ve been a one-time thing. And if it wasn’t, blurting out the real story like that might make him think I’m a nutjob—which I haven’t entirely ruled out, either. Oh—and what if I call one of the wrong Theos and the guy’s wife answers? Or if the right Theo turns out to be married? So many things could go wrong. No, it can’t be the truth right now. There needs to be a different way to find the real Theo and rule out the others.” If there is a “real” Theo. The Smoots memory bolstered my confidence, but I’m still not totally persuaded.
“Do you think you’d recognize his voice?”
“After all this time? Considering how little I remember, probably not. I’d need to see him to know for sure.”
“Then we have to find a way to lure him to the store.”
“Sounds like you two are plotting something nefarious.” Zak appears in the doorway, carrying an armful of computer equipment. “Who are you luring where, or is it safer for me not to know?”
“Nobody, nowhere.” I point to the bundle he’s carrying. “What’s all that?”
“Gear for your new laptop and some Y2K stuff. Please tell me you’re not planning a murder.”
“Of course not,” Sally jumps in. “Just helping Astrid with some boy trouble. So is this Y2K thing real? Are there going to be blackouts and airplanes falling out of the sky and other catastrophes when the calendar changes over to 2000?”
“Oh please. Don’t listen to those alarmists.” Zak sets down the equipment on the table. “There’s been a major Y2K-compliance program for years. It’s just the media inciting a panic. We made it through September ninth with no problems and the Millennium Bug is going to prove just as inconsequential. Is there any juice left?”
“If there is, could you bring over the carton?” Sally waves her empty mug.
“Wait, what was supposed to happen on September ninth?” I ask. A spider of unease scurries down my back.
“Some systems use 9999 to mark the end of a file, so there was concern that computers would freak out on September ninth, 1999 and stop processing, in accordance with the code. But the day came, and computers and other communications systems ran without any glitches. The same thing is going to happen with Y2K—a lot of fuss over nothing. More juice?”
I wish my internal processer ran without any glitches.
“No thanks. I’m going to lie down for a little while.” I take the cordless and phone book with me.
“Can I come?” Sally asks.
“It’s okay, I’ll figure something out. But thanks.”
I settle at my desk and turn to the Cs in the phone book again. But when I dial, it’s a different number, one I now know by heart.
“Hello?”
“Oliver?”
“Speaking. Who’s this?” He sounds tired.
“Astrid. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me.”
“I’ll try to do better next time. What do you need?”
“Is this a bad time? I can call back.” I didn’t expect such a frosty tone from him, but then again, I was far from cordial when we parted.
“It’s fine. What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry for snapping at you like that. I don’t know what got into me, and I’m not going to use my stupid accident or memory loss as an excuse. I still should’ve been nicer.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“Are you there?” I ask.
“I’m here.”
Another pause. Am I getting on his nerves or did I really hurt his feelings? I hate the thought of either being true.
“I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful,” I continue. “I am. And even though you said I should take some time and process, I wanted to talk to you, and I don’t really know why.” It could have something to do with how safe I felt when he was keeping me warm in that doorway. “Should I leave you alone? Maybe you need more time to be mad at me? Or maybe you’ve had enough?”
“There’s something you can do for me.” Still guarded, but there’s a softening.
“Sure.”
“Have dinner with me tomorrow.”
I blink rapidly and put a hand to my throat. “That sounds like a date.”
“Maybe because it is—or would be.”
“Um . . . I was awful to you, why would you ask me out after that?” Maybe all that nonsense Sally tells me about guys liking bitches isn’t such nonsense after all.
“You were shaken up. I’ll give you a do-over. Dinner. Tomorrow.”
“So would this be any different from our lunch today? Apart from my being less of a jerk at the end of it.”
“Yes. It won’t be about solving the mystery of your missing day or missing guy. It’ll just be us getting to know each other.”
“Hmm . . .” I run my fingertips over a page of the phone book, as if the letters and numbers will rise up like Braille, but only find a dry, smooth sheet. “Not that I’m insecure or fishing or anything . . .” Except that I’m both insecure and fishing. “But why do you want to go out with me?”
“The usual reasons. You’re cute, and I like you.”
My heart gives a little drumroll, but I press on. “That’s it?”
“Now you are fishing. But . . . okay.” His voice takes on the intimate hush of letting me in on a secret; it’s like being immersed in a pool of warm water. “You have a certain tenacity I don’t see often. You’re endearingly stubborn, but there’s also a sweetness there. Something more vulnerable. And a potential to do great things you haven’t started tapping into yet. Enough about you,” his voice adopts a livelier inflection. “I’m not too shabby either, you know, and dinner with me would give you a chance to discover that. So if you ever do track down this so-called dream guy, I’m confident you’ll be won over by my charms and none of that will matter.”
His words are sweet with a touch of grit, cotton candy sprinkled with sand. The compliments are a nice ego boost, but what’s up with that phrasing? Does he question Theo’s existence like I do? The certainty I had earlier on the bridge continues to waver, thin out. I could’ve come across information about Smoots a different way, heard about them from someone else. How do I know for sure this came from my missing day? Add Oliver’s involvement in all this, and the situation could get even weirder and more confusing.
“Astrid? Are you there?”
“Yeah, sorry, I was thinking . . . I don’t know . . . Things could get complicated.”
“Sometimes that’s not so bad.”
I laugh a sharp, humorless laugh. “I think I’m all set on complicated for a while. I . . . I’m just—I don’t . . .”
“You don’t trust me yet,” he finishes for me. “I get that. I can accept that.”
“I’m not asking you to prove yourself or anything.” Aren’t I?
“You don’t have to ask. I’ll do it anyway.”
Do I even want to know how? “You really don’t have to.”
“Don’t sound so nervous. I’m not going to do anything over-the-top. I’ll give you a chance to get to know me better, somewhere you’re comfortable.”
“When?”
“Soon. You’ll see.”
“Okaaaaay . . . but in the meantime, there’s something else I want to ask you about.”
I swear I hear him smile on the other end of the line. “Okay. But he’s not listed.”
“You must be the worst person to plan a surprise party for.” I huff into the line.
“I’m serious, put away the phone book and don’t waste your time.”
“Bossy much? How do I know you’re not saying that to sabotage my efforts?”
“I’m not. I’ll even give you a plausible phone script for the would-be Theos. Like . . . say someone ordered a gift for him from that store where you work, but his number and mailing address was misplaced so he needs to pick it up in person to verify his identity.”
Hm. Better to stay skepti
cal. It’s in his best interests to steer me wrong. And I want to doubt him, even contradict him, if only to prove to myself that I can be rational, that I’m not a sucker. I want to be more Scully than Mulder, but I might as well have my own “I Want to Believe” poster hanging above my desk. I’m already giving Oliver’s words too much weight, even as I tell myself to question them.
“It’s fine, I’ll figure it out.” I try to keep the sulk out of my voice.
“You’re making progress, but you can’t force it. You need to let things happen at their own pace.”
“Yeah yeah yeah. So I guess I’ll talk to you soon?”
He laughs again, low and flirty. “You definitely will. Goodbye, Astrid.”
Back to that damn phone book.
I start with the listings for T. Collins. Those’ll be easiest to rule out while I practice my spiel.
A woman answers the first call. Great.
“Hi. I’m looking for Theo Collins. This is Astrid from Curio City. Someone ordered a gift for him that we need him to pick up in person. I’m afraid our clerk made a mistake on the paperwork, so I don’t have a current phone number or address on file for him.”
“This is Theresa Collins. I think you have the wrong number.”
She hangs up before I can apologize for disturbing her.
I get a Timothy, a few Thomases, a Tamara, a Tracy, a Todd, a Ted, a couple of answering machines with no names (I leave messages with the store address and hours), a couple of people who hang up on me before I finish speaking (I don’t call back), two disconnected numbers, and a few that keep ringing unanswered.
The Ted numbers are next, though I don’t think Theo would be listed under that first name. They don’t fare any better. There are uncomfortable exchanges with more non-Theos and two suspicious wives, more answering machines, and an elderly lady who says her Ted passed away four months ago.
Now it’s down to the three Theodores; these count the most. Everything up to this has been practice, but I still haven’t rehearsed enough. Something I hadn’t considered before: if I get the right Theo, he might actually remember me as the same Astrid he met last month, see through my ruse and—it could get painfully awkward.
But awkward would still be better than this pile of question marks, so it’s time to shake off the shyness and go after some clarity. Oh, comfort zone, how I miss you.
I take a breath and hold it while I dial the first Theodore. Not sure if I’m hoping more for a familiar voice or a wrong number. This is a bad idea and I know it, but now I have to see it through.
The numbers lead to answering machines or disconnected numbers. All but the last one.
A woman picks up that call.
“Is Theodore there?”
“Just a minute,” she says through chomping gum. I hear her shout his name.
“This is Theodore.”
“Hi, I’m looking for Theo Collins—”
“It’s Theodore. Never Theo.”
“Oh. Then you’re not the person I’m looking for. Sorry to bother you.” I hurry through the words but he lets me finish without hanging up.
“No trouble.”
The line goes dead. And that’s that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
..................
THE NIGHTTIME SKY IS SALMON pink, which means it’s going to snow. There’s no clock in sight, but I know it’s late, middle of the night late.
I can’t sit up, can’t move my arms or legs. I’m strapped to a long board being carried by two people, one at each end. To my left are several lanes of traffic, with few cars going by. To my right is a metal railing.
I’m on the Mass Ave Bridge.
“Okay, let’s set her down here,” a male voice calls out.
They place me on the ground and a large metal can is set near my head. A paintbrush is dipped into it then brought out dripping red.
“Careful, try not to get any on her,” says the same voice. I know it but I can’t place it. Theo?
“This makes 192 Astrids,” a different male voice responds. This one I know: Oliver.
“We’re gonna be here all night.”
“Excuse me? Guys? Can you get me out of this thing?” I writhe against the straps.
“You shouldn’t move,” says maybe-Theo. “You might have a subdural hematoma.”
“You’re lucky to even be alive,” adds Oliver. “We’re on the way to the hospital, but we need to do this first.”
Small particles fall from the sky, glittering in the streetlights. The way it hits me, at first I think it’s sleet. But this precipitation cuts at my bare arms, gets into my mouth, and doesn’t melt. It’s glass. A familiar metallic taste as the small pieces cut my tongue and the insides of my cheeks. My mouth fills with blood. I try to spit it out.
“Look what you did, you got paint all over her,” says Oliver.
I try to explain. “It’s not paint—”
“This will go a lot faster if you don’t talk,” maybe-Theo cuts me off.
“193 Astrids,” Oliver says. “Halfway to hell.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
..................
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1999
MY FIRST DAY AT THE new job. It takes me ten minutes to walk to Curio City from The Lab. Minerva greets me with coffee and donuts. As she talks, it’s tough not to get distracted by all the bizarre objects around me. I also keep glancing at the front door, expecting some version of Theo Collins to walk in at any moment. And hopefully not get me in trouble. Why did I have to be a moron and put my new job at risk?
“It’ll be easy to get the hang of this. I’ll show you the register, how to look up inventory in the computer, take special orders, etc. Pretty straightforward stuff. Just make sure you keep an eye out for the photographers and shoplifters.”
“Why aren’t people allowed to take pictures in here?” I ask.
“These types of shops get lots of tourists, goths, artists—or some combination of the three. You can end up with a store crowded with people who have no intention of buying anything, which also makes it easier for them to shoplift. I don’t mind the browsers—you’ll still get plenty of those—but they’ll have less excuse to linger if they can’t take photos.”
She goes through other aspects of the job, concludes with, “And despite the signs telling people not to touch the glass, the cases get covered in fingerprints, so it’s good to wipe them down every once in a while. Any questions?”
“I think I’m all set.” I steal another peek at the entrance.
“Expecting someone?”
“No, just a little nervous for the first customers. I don’t want to mess anything up.”
“Don’t worry, Mondays are pretty quiet, and I’ll be in the back all day. I won’t ask you to fly solo until you have a good grasp on everything. Did you read any of the catalog?”
“Almost half of it.” I take the binder out of my messenger bag.
“Great. Keep it handy to get up to speed on the merch. You’ll want to be able to give people the background on most of it after a while. There are also some magazines if it gets really slow. Oh, right, can’t forget about atmosphere.”
Minerva sifts through a stack of CDs on a shelf behind the register and puts on music that sounds like Gregorian chants backed by synthesizers. She also lights some Nag Champa incense and fits it into a holder shaped like a miniature spinal cord. An earthy floral scent wafts over us.
“That should do it. I’ll be in the back making some calls, give a shout if you need me.”
My main task today is to go through a new batch of jewelry, log each piece in the computer database, then place it into a corresponding display cabinet. I sift through the small plastic bags, surprised to find innocuous crystals and cameos among the more macabre items like animal claw pendants, bracelets fashioned from teeth and bones, insects in amber, and all kinds of skull, scorpion, and spider accessories. Even though there’s a bell above the door to announce customers, I keep swiveling my head towa
rd it and the street beyond.
“He’s unlisted.” Oliver’s words come back to me, over and over, but I’m still keyed up with the possibility that one of my messages reached the right Theo.
There isn’t much foot traffic outside the store this morning. A dozen or so customers come in while I sort through the new stock, but only a couple of them purchase anything. I expect Curio City’s patrons to be unusual-looking, but they’re mostly nondescript, apart from a few low-key goths. On the whole, the first half of the day passes uneventfully.
After lunch, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and tortoiseshell glasses stops outside the store. He checks a slip of paper, studies the awning, squints inside, reaches a tentative hand to the doorknob, and enters.
“Pardon me,” he begins in a thick, upper-crust British accent, “I received a most unusual message from one Astrid O’Malley about an item here for me. My name is Theodore Collins.”
Damn.
“I’m Astrid. Um, there was a slight mix-up and we actually found the Theodore Collins we were looking for. I’m so sorry for any inconvenience.”
“Yes, well, I did think it a bit odd, but you could have done me the courtesy of phoning back to let me know the matter had been cleared up. I drove in from Charlestown.”
Of course this is the moment Minerva chooses to come out of the back room.
“Everything alright in here?” she asks.
“Yes, just a slight misunderstanding.” I turn back to the wrong Theo. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Collins, and I apologize again for the trouble.”
His mouth curls in disdain, but he says nothing more and leaves with a shake of his head.
I hurry to think of a reasonable explanation for Minerva, who doesn’t demand one, just waits for me to say something.
“It’s . . .” I begin, but that’s all I can think of. Nothing beyond that seems right. Not “complicated” or “a long story” or even “dumb.”
The phone rings.
I reach for it but Minerva slides in behind me before I can get to the receiver. Oh boy.
“Curio City, this is Minerva.” She keeps her eyes on me, mouth pursed in an ominous mix of suspicion and disappointment. “Astrid is indisposed at the moment, but I’m the owner. Anything I can help you with? . . . I can imagine. That must’ve been a pretty strange message to get . . . Yes, I’ll make sure we keep more careful records moving forward . . . No, you won’t be getting any more calls from us . . . It wasn’t a prank, just a mix-up on our end . . . I will . . . I will . . . Have a good day.”
Asleep From Day Page 16
