Asleep From Day

by Margarita Montimore

  “So there’s a diner a few blocks—”

  “We’re actually not going to eat,” he interrupts. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Down the street.”

  I’ve been so preoccupied at Curio City that I haven’t had a chance to explore the neighborhood, so I’m surprised when he leads me to a store selling new and used books tucked away next to a vintage clothing shop.

  “Are we looking for something in particular?” I ask as we go in.

  “Yes and no.” Typical Oliver answer.

  A woman with a silver-streaked brown bob barely looks up from the giant hardcover in her lap as we enter.

  He leads me to the back, where the sunlight doesn’t quite reach the double-stacked shelves.

  I’m about to ask why we’re here when the reason pinches the back of my eyes and causes an ache in my throat. “You remembered ‘bookstore’ was on that list of words I wrote down after the party. But I never even told you the full list, I think I only mentioned a couple of the words.”

  “‘Bookstore’ and ‘Chinatown.’ Why do you think I took you there for dinner?” His voice, his eyes, maddeningly neutral.

  Inside me, everything is twisting, my organs a damp towel being wrung out.

  “That makes sense. Though if I went to a bookstore on September ninth, I don’t think it was this one. Nothing about it is familiar.”

  “I thought maybe the smell of the books would remind you of something.”

  We speak in low voices, and there’s a strange energy between us, like an off-key violin, its strings about to snap. Like we’re more concerned with being polite than saying what we really want to say. I hate it.

  I take a paperback off the shelf and fan the pages in front of my face. The scent is powdery and sweet, with musty, faint rotting undertones. It brings to mind comfort and escape and ever-so-slow decay but that’s about it.

  “Nothing?”

  I shake my head.

  He squints at me and tilts his head to one side then the other, the way a painter or photographer might regard their subject. A plummeting sensation overtakes me, but I stand as still as I can, afraid that any small movement might dissuade him from coming closer. I take in a breath but forget to let it out.

  He moves his mouth to my ear and whispers, “I know what you want from me. But why do you want it? Because it might lead to Theo?” His warm breath tickles my ear and the side of my neck in a way that is both glorious and excruciating. He exhales and a spark travels down my spine, down the sides of my body and back up until it’s inside me.

  I turn my head by careful degrees until our cheeks are pressed together.

  “I don’t know,” I say in a low voice. Neither of us moves. Maybe he’s waiting for me to say something more but there’s nothing else I can say.

  The store clerk approaches with a stack of books. “Are you looking for something in particular or browsing?”

  I take a step back, embarrassed, disappointed.

  “Cookbooks.” The word slips out, startles me. “I’m looking for a cookbook . . . for my friend’s wedding shower.”

  Oliver nods, encourages me to continue.

  Something slides into place in my hazy brain. “Do you have The Big Book of Breakfast?”

  My favorite is the recipe for baked eggs.

  “Let me see if we have that one in stock.” She goes off in search of the book.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Oliver.

  His face is maddeningly pleasant and blank, like a bank teller’s. “What for? That’s why we’re here. That’s why I’m here, right?”

  “No, it’s not. I mean—”

  “Big Book of Breakfast, here we go. Lightly used, but overall in very good condition.”

  I take the book, which feels like a cinder block in my arms, and follow the clerk to the register.

  Oliver and I don’t speak during the short walk back to Curio City, not until we get to the store.

  “Oliver . . .”

  “I got you something.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a small bundle encased in thick white paper. “Since I figured you might not have time to get food. I remembered you like BLTs.”

  “Wow. Thank you . . . But wait.”

  “Ask me what you really want to ask me, Astrid.”

  I chew on my lower lip, mustering up the nerve to be honest. I have no right to ask, and yet . . . “Are we ever going to go on a second date? I mean, I know I have some baggage . . .”

  “Baggage?” A dry chuckle. “Lost luggage, more like.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s not a no. But before anything else can happen, you need to talk to the city.”

  “Did you just say . . .?” Yeah, of course he did.

  He won’t say anything else, either, just waves and walks off. I watch his back and mentally urge him to turn around. He doesn’t.

  Talk to the city. What the hell . . .? The only remotely applicable thing I can think of is taking an ad out in the paper, but that would feel too foolish, frantic, futile.

  Back at The Lab, I study The Big Book of Breakfast for clues. It’s nothing but recipes and glossy photos of attractive eggs, stacks of immaculate pancakes and other morning foods. At best, the only thing this book will help me with is learning how to poach an egg. But I know this is the second copy I bought. What happened to the first? And what does it have to do with Theo?

  Take a closer look at that book you just bought.

  Of course. The author. Erin Collins. His sister?

  Half-sister. Same mom, different dads.

  All this panning for memories and a nugget finally rattles in my brain.

  Erin’s recipes are too good. I spent a summer with her on the Cape . . .

  If I can’t find Theo, maybe I can find Erin.

  There’s nobody on Zak’s spare computer in the den so I boot it up and search for “Erin Collins cookbook” in Alta Vista. I find out she lives in Atlanta, Georgia, but there’s no contact info listed for her, and I’m done with phone book shenanigans. I’m not deluded enough to think I could call up Delicious Books and magically get her phone number, but the publisher’s address is listed inside, and she names her editor and agent in the acknowledgments, so I could try to get a letter to Erin through one of them.

  I get out a spiral notebook and a pen. What the hell am I supposed to say to this cookbook author anyway? Dear Erin, I think I hooked up with your half-brother and we lost touch for a bunch of reasons I won’t go into. Help me find him, pretty please? Or I could make up something extreme to make sure she puts us in touch. Dear Erin, Your half-brother Theo knocked me up and then disappeared. I need to find him pronto to tell him he’s going to be a dad. Yeah, no. I need a good balance of honest but not preposterous, urgent but not pathetic . . . or crazy. Might as well just tell it straight.

  Dear Erin,

  I’m hoping you can help me find your half-brother, Theo. I met him last month and spent some time with him. Soon after, I was hit by a car and suffered some minor memory loss. I recently moved and have misplaced Theo’s contact info [a minor fib, but for the greater good]. I’d appreciate it if you could put us in touch. I know this sounds unusual, but he should be able to help fill in some of the blank spots in my memory. Theo actually recommended your breakfast cookbook to me, and I love it. He spoke fondly of spending a summer on the Cape with you when you were developing the recipes . . .

  I finish out the letter with my address, number, and gratitude for her time.

  Next, I run out to the CVS on Mass Ave for stamps and envelopes, because the letters have to be mailed today. I wish they could’ve been mailed yesterday, the day before, the very day I started to remember those missing twenty-four hours.

  I address the envelopes right in the store and I drop them in a corner mailbox.

  That’s when I see her.

  A tall woman, standing on a carton that makes her taller, wearing long satin robes the color of shiny d
imes. Her face is painted silver; grey wings are attached to her back. She holds a basket and there’s an open tin box at her feet, one that may have once contained cookies or other sweets, but now houses spare change and a few loose bills. She stares at a spot above my head, completely immobile.

  I’m eye level with her basket. Even though I can’t see its contents, I know there are feathers inside.

  Flowers wilt. Feathers don’t.

  I drop a quarter into the tin box. She comes to life in herky-jerky motions and offers me a feather.

  “Um, I don’t mean to disturb you,” I say as I take it. “I’m sure this is a long shot, but do you remember seeing me before?”

  She returns to her frozen pose and says nothing.

  “Really, I hate to interrupt your act here, but this is important. Do you remember seeing me with somebody a few weeks ago?”

  No answer.

  Maybe a quarter was too chintzy. I take out a five-dollar bill, wave it in her line of sight, and drop it in the box at her feet.

  She begins to move in stiff mechanical jerks again. There’s a brief graze of eye contact and a sad smile as she hands me another feather.

  “So . . . Now can you tell me if you’ve seen me before?”

  She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me again.

  I release the feathers, let them float to the ground, and go home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ..................

  I’M IN THE BACK OF a church whose walls and ceiling are made entirely of stained glass. The sun beams down bands of color, which reflect on my bare skin. My arms look like they’re tattooed with rainbows.

  Theo stands beside the pulpit on a low stage, behind which is a tinsel curtain that belongs more at an amateur talent show than a place of worship. He’s wearing a silver tuxedo, and his face is painted to match. He stands still and holds a basket with both hands. At his feet is a metal tin.

  “Theo.” I hurry down the aisle to him. “It’s Astrid. Do you remember me?”

  He says nothing, looks straight ahead.

  I stand before him but don’t climb up on stage. “Don’t do this. Talk to me.”

  Silence.

  There’s loose change and a few bills in the tin. I search my pockets, but all I find is a black feather. I drop it in.

  He moves like a marionette whose strings are being tugged, reaches into the basket, bends down, and hands me a Chinese coin. I grab his hand before he can pull his arm back, hold onto it tightly.

  “You know me, Theo. Please look at me.”

  He watches the space above my head, jerks his arm away, but I won’t let go.

  After a few moments of this tug-of-war, his body convulses and large black wings sprout from his back. Startled, I release his hand and the wings begin to flap. They sound like the snap of a sheet over a newly made bed.

  Theo flies up, and I snatch at his ankle, but he’s moving too quickly for me. I can’t hold onto him.

  He makes a swift ascent to the ceiling. A high-pitched shatter as he bursts through it, leaving a jagged hole in the colored glass.

  “Astrid, you have to get out of here,” says a voice from the back of the church.

  I turn around. Oliver beckons to me.

  But I can’t get out of anywhere; my legs are rooted in place. I can only look up at the hole in the ceiling and down at the pool of yellow sunlight on the stage.

  “You’re not safe here,” Oliver calls out.

  A sound like thin ice cracking under too much weight, and a few large shards of glass fall at my feet. They crumble into smaller pieces, glitter like worthless gems.

  A louder noise fills the church, a din akin to a thunderclap. All the ceiling glass goes at once, a chromatic downpour aimed at my head, which is tilted up, aimed at my exposed throat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ..................

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1999

  Another week passes. Nothing from Oliver and no new memories.

  Sunday is my day off. I try out the baked eggs recipe for Sally, Daphne, and Zak, to have something to do and make me less of a liar to Erin Collins. They enjoy the food and praise it, but I eat in preoccupied silence, wondering what thread I can untangle next.

  After brunch Robin calls, and I let him know I’m pretty much healed, settled into my new apartment, and enjoying my new job. I leave out the fire and the firing, the headaches and nightmares. It would be so nice to go beyond the headlines and give him the full story, but there’s no reason to worry him. Considering the sacrifices he’s made to provide for me as a single father, the least I can do is not burden him further with my shortcomings and failures. Instead, I ask about the new musical he’s working on. While he tells me his plans for directing a community theater production of Rent, I pull out the list of words I put together at Minerva’s. The day after the Lunar Haus party, I’d rewritten it on a single sheet of paper, but now I go through it and add notes:

  Diner – Has to be Deli Haus. Did Theo and I go there?

  Bear/Kiss – Statue outside FAO Schwarz, where we had our first kiss. Why there?

  Bridge – Mass Ave Bridge. We must’ve walked across it, since Theo told me about Smoots.

  Bookstore – Where I bought the cookbook. But where? Did Theo help me pick it out? Or sell it to me?

  Chinatown/Coin – Presumably, these are connected. Did Theo and I go there, too?

  Karaoke – Not sure. Did we do karaoke together? If so, where?

  Bubbles – No idea.

  Popcorn – Ditto.

  “ . . . so I think it’s going to be a strong production, if I can keep a couple of the divas in line. Are you still there, Astrid?”

  “I’m here.”

  I keep him chatting a few minutes longer, until he’s satisfied he put in enough father time and has a solid idea of what I’m up to, even though he doesn’t, not even a little. Maybe one of these days . . .

  After I hang up, I turn over the annotated list and draw a rough map, bottom up, beginning in Central Square. Two lines for Mass Ave, a break for the bridge and Charles River, then a section off to the right representing Kenmore Square, with a small square for Deli Haus. Back on Mass Ave, I extend the lines up until they’re roughly where Boylston Street should be, then veer left until Berkley. Another square for FAO Schwarz. More lines until Boylston hits Tremont and then I mark Chinatown all the way on the left (“Welcome to the Combat Zone”).

  I try to piece it together like one of those activity book logic puzzles. The bridge came either before or after Deli Haus. Ditto FAO Schwarz. Chinatown would’ve been before or after FAO Schwarz. But how does the bookstore and karaoke fit into all this? Did we actually go to all these places? Covering that much of Boston in a single day seems unlikely.

  I always sucked at solving those logic puzzles. My temples tighten like a giant rubber band has been twisted around my head.

  Should I call Oliver?

  I pick up the phone, but instead of a dial tone, I hear Sally’s voice: “We’ll definitely be there at four o’clock. Thank you so, so much.”

  Something tells me she wasn’t using the royal “we.” Frenetic knocking on my door a minute later confirms the suspicion.

  “Do I even want to know?” I ask through the door before opening it to a Sally full of dangerous energy.

  “Don’t give me that look. Just hear me out.”

  I could nap in the dramatic pause that follows. Good lord. “I’m listening.”

  “The world is full of mysteries. We may never know what came before the Big Bang or who killed JFK or what happened to Amelia Earhart . . . but finding Theo and figuring out what happened on September ninth is a mystery I know we can solve.” She sits on my bed, crushes my list/map.

  “Are you seriously comparing my missing day with the origins of the universe and the assassination of a president?”

  “Well . . .”

  “And Earhart’s disappearance is considered one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of the
twentieth century.”

  “You know what I mean. We can figure this out.”

  There it is again. “We?” I cross my arms.

  “Yes, we. You know how Zak does IT stuff for Gardner College?”

  “What kind of mad caper did you sign us up for this time?”

  Of course it won’t be as simple as that. First we’ve got to have Story Hour.

  “So they have this local radio station, WGCA, which has a decent listenership outside of the Gardner students. I’ve been really into their Girl Power Hour, where they play all these great female singer-songwriters. And not the typical Lilith Fair stuff, either, though they do throw in some Jewel and Natalie Merchant once in a while, but also Kate Bush, Suzanne Vega, Marianne Faithfull, Tori—”

  “I get the idea. What does this have to do with anything?” I pull out the now-crumpled paper from under Sally, fold it, and stash it beneath a copy of the Improper Bostonian on my desk.

  “The station also does this weekly show called Bizarre Beantown, where they interview some of the city’s weirdoes and locals. It’s great. Like, on the last show, they featured a woman who’s had all these creepy sexual extraterrestrial encounters, and this ninety-three-year-old man who has the world’s biggest collection of movie stubs, and some biochemist dude who came up with a formula for a liquid food alternative he lives off now, and someone else—I don’t remember. Anyway, I asked Zak to put me in touch with the show’s producer and host, Renatta Johnson, a grad student there. Turns out he recently helped fix her laptop so she kind of owes him a favor.”

  “Oh god, don’t even tell me.”

  Sally jumps up and holds my upper arms, possibly so that I don’t flee, because she knows me well.

  “Astrid, this is your chance to get a real lead on Theo. I mean, maybe someone who knows him will be listening, maybe even Theo himself! And—get this—normally, they wouldn’t book someone so late, but they had a last minute cancellation for today’s show. You’re going to be a replacement guest! It’s win-win for everyone.”

  “Not for me. I’d make a fool of myself on the radio.”