Asleep From Day

by Margarita Montimore

  “Don’t you see? This is your chance to ask the universe for what you need—okay, if not the universe, then Boston. You’ll get to tell the whole city your story, or at least a couple of hundred people—if not thousands.”

  “You could even say . . .” Oh Oliver, how do you keep doing this? “I’d get to talk to the city.”

  “Exactly! My gut tells me this is what you need to get a step closer to finding Theo.”

  “My gut tells me it’s going to lose its breakfast. Sal, you know how much I hate public speaking. Don’t you remember I used to throw up before every presentation in school?”

  “But you do karaoke no problem,” she reasons.

  “Singing in front of drunken strangers is not the same thing. It’s easy when you can carry a tune and have the words in front of you. I can’t believe you signed me up for something like this without asking me first.” Who am I kidding? This is classic Sally.

  She gives my arms a squeeze. “Then pretend it’s karaoke. Imagine you’re in some dingy bar, singing one of your depressing songs.”

  What other options do I have left? There’s no telling if I’ll ever hear back from Erin Collins’ agent or editor and Oliver . . . Well, he steered me directly into the path of this radio show. And as tangled up as things are with him, the volatility in my heart is rooted in the puzzle of Theo. The only way to get any resolution is to solve it. Talking to the city may offer another clue. A rational conclusion, but the idea of broadcasting myself like that to countless people still fills me with unbearable queasiness.

  Grimacing, I pull myself out of Sally’s grip. “You gotta let me get by.”

  I barely make it to the toilet before I vomit.

  We take a taxi to the Back Bay, passing quaint historic streets lined with brownstones and trees modeling their fall colors under a cold sun. My nausea persists despite my now-empty stomach. We’re dropped off on a corner of Beacon Street and Sally leads the way to a brownstone with a bright blue door. She rings the bell.

  A woman with golden-brown skin and dark hair woven into fine cornrows answers the door.

  “I’m Renatta. Thanks for coming.” She leads us downstairs to a cramped office, where she offers us folding chairs and bottles of water.

  “I usually like to have more time to prep guests, but since we’ve had a last-minute dropout, we’ll have to be quick and dirty about it, so to speak.”

  She hands me a blank legal pad and a ballpoint pen, and begins to scrawl something on a clipboard.

  “Sally told me your story, but I’d like to hear the way you tell it and go over key talking points. Feel free to take notes as we chat in case there are specifics you’d like to cover when we’re live. Have you been on the radio before?”

  I shake my head.

  “So when we’re on the air, don’t give nonverbal answers. The listeners can’t see you nod or shake your head, so make sure you speak up. Seems obvious but you’d be surprised how many guests forget.” She takes me through more prep and ends with, “Best thing to do is forget you’re talking to an audience at all. Think of it as a conversation you and I are having.”

  “I told Astrid to think of it like karaoke,” Sally interjects.

  “Whatever makes you more comfortable.” Renatta checks her clipboard and continues, “Do you want to take call-in questions or only questions from me?”

  Sally grabs my arm. “You have to take call-ins. What if Theo calls in?”

  Renatta directs her reply to me. “We have an intern screening calls who can take down any info from him or anyone who may know him. Some guests choose not to talk to callers to avoid the surprise element. But, as you can imagine, that’s often the best part of the show and live calls do make it more interesting.”

  More interesting for the listeners, sure, but how might such unpredictability affect me? What if people call in to mock me, tell me I’m desperate, crazy, pathetic? What if someone calls to tell me Theo is married or in a coma or dead? I’m drowning in horrifying variables and clutch the legal pad on my lap like it’s a flotation device.

  “Hey.” Renatta waves a hand in front of my face. When I don’t look at her or say anything, she gets up from behind her desk and crouches beside me. “I understand your hesitation, but I promise I got your back. I will shut down anyone who’s inappropriate right away. And if at any time, a caller makes you uncomfortable for any reason, you can signal to me, and I’ll cut them off. You’re here to share something personal, so I’ll do everything I can to make sure you get to speak freely. If you don’t feel at ease, that’s not good for anyone.”

  Light strokes from Sally on my upper back. Her mouth is open like she wants to speak but worries it’ll come out wrong.

  “Go ahead and say what you need to say, Sal.”

  “You know I’d talk to callers in a heartbeat. I wouldn’t be able to resist. But you’re different. I’m just happy you’re doing this show. Anything else is up to you.” She takes my hand and squeezes twice.

  I reciprocate the squeezes. I am brave, you are brave.

  “Okay . . . I’ll take call-ins,” I relent and turn to Renatta. “But I’ll hold you to keeping them in line.”

  Renatta gives me an atta-girl smile and makes a note on the clipboard. “Great. Now let’s go over some of the questions I’ve prepared . . .”

  We do a dry run and then it’s time to head into the studio. I swallow, tell my stomach to behave, and follow Renatta to the end of the hall. The walls of the studio are lined with textured gray foam, like the inside of an egg carton.

  Guess I was meant for a padded room sooner or later.

  I’m fitted with headphones and seated at a small, round table with a switchboard. Another bottle of water is set before me. Sally bends down to give me a hug and is sent to an adjoining room where she’ll be able to listen to the show.

  “Remember, it’s just you and me having a conversation. You’re going to be great.”

  A thumbs up from Renatta and then it’s time. She pushes some buttons on the switchboard and speaks in a mellifluous voice as she introduces the show and gives an overview of the day’s guests and topics.

  “Please welcome our first guest, Astrid, who has found herself in the middle of a search after an unusual turn of events. Maybe one of you listening can help her find who she’s looking for. Thanks for joining us today, Astrid.”

  “Thanks for having me, Renatta.” Oh god, it’s like somebody poured sand down my throat. I take a gulp of water.

  “Astrid, tell us what happened to you last month.”

  “Sure. So last month . . .” I speak about the car accident and then the apartment fire, offer a few details but not too many. God, how many people are tuned in and judging me right now?

  “It sounds like you’ve had quite a run of bad luck,” Renatta sympathizes.

  I shrug and she points to the mic. Right, I’m on air, nobody can see me. I force a chuckle. “Yeah, it was kinda like my life turned into a country song—I lost my job, I lost my apartment, I almost lost my spleen . . . But I recovered and things turned around. New place to live, new job—I’m lucky I got back on my feet so quickly. Except I recently realized I lost something else: I’m missing a day.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The accident happened on a Friday afternoon, September tenth. But I don’t remember anything that happened in the twenty-four hours before that. And . . . This is going to sound strange . . .”

  “Bizarre Beantown listeners live for strange. Go on.”

  I describe finding the Chinese coin and the fragments it triggered, of course leaving out the part where I drank drug-laced punch beforehand.

  “Then other details started coming back to me and I realized I’d met someone that Thursday, and I’m pretty sure I spent a good part of that day with him. And then I remembered his name and what he looks like.”

  Renatta gestures for me to continue and I do. I give Theo’s name and description and go into the list of words that I was trying to m
ake sense of, which I now know by heart. I falter at “kiss” and almost don’t mention it, but Renatta is so damn good at what she does, her compassionate doe eyes coax it out of me.

  “So you remember kissing him?”

  I fidget and slouch down in my seat. “Um . . . I do remember that part now. And this wasn’t a friendly peck or anything.”

  “So there was obviously something romantic between the two of you, some kind of spark.”

  “I guess so. I mean, I don’t go around kissing strangers, so presumably we spent some time getting to know each other first.”

  She holds up a finger. “Astrid, we have a caller. You’re on Bizarre Beantown on WGCA. What’s your name and neighborhood?”

  “This is Pamela from Brighton. Astrid, did you have sex with this guy?”

  The question hits me like cold water thrown in my face. Wow, blunt much? “I . . . don’t know . . . I don’t remember.”

  But Pamela isn’t done with me yet. “Are you worried he might’ve, like, raped you? And you’re suppressing, like, the trauma of it?”

  This time it’s like being splashed with boiling water. “Um . . . I’m pretty sure that didn’t happen.”

  “How can you be sure?” the caller persists.

  “Because every memory I have associated with Theo is . . . good. Happy. I know he was kind and funny and that we had a great time together. I’m sure anything that happened between us was consensual.”

  I give Renatta a get-me-out-of-here look, and she pushes a button on the switchboard. “Thanks for your call, Pamela. And that’s really why you want to find him again, isn’t it, Astrid? To see if there was something genuine between you two?”

  “Let’s not scare the guy off after one date. First and foremost, I just want to know what Theo remembers about that day. I’d be happy getting coffee and talking to him.”

  “Well, let’s hope somebody listening can help put the two of you in touch. We have another call. Please tell us your name and neighborhood.”

  There’s a lot of coughing on the other line. “Gosh, I’m so sorry about that,” says a woman with a thick Boston accent. “I’m Jennifer, proud Southie.” She drops the “r” from her name: Jennifah. “Astrid, I think it’s wicked awesome you’ve overcome all the crap you been through without bein’ all woe-is-me about it. You got some guts to tell us all this personal stuff—I mean it, good for you. But let’s say you hooked up and it was a one-time thing for him. What if you’re chasing a guy who’s not into it?”

  Or not even real?

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know. If I gave him my number and he tried to get in touch, he wouldn’t have been able to, because my phone was disconnected after the fire. But sure, it’s possible that it was a one-time thing . . .”

  “You do whatcha gotta do, but I’d be pretty friggin’ embarrassed if that was the case,” the caller replies.

  “I have to agree with Jennifer about how brave you are putting yourself on the line like this,” Renatta interjects.

  “Brave or foolish?” A lame laugh and I clear my throat. “My friend Sally told me something earlier that stuck with me. She said there are all these mysteries in the world and questions we may never be able to answer. Like what really happened to Amelia Earhart or who really killed JFK. Not that my lost day is anywhere on that scale of importance. My personal mystery is much smaller, but it might actually be solvable. Will it kill me not to find out what happened on September ninth? Of course not. But if I can find Theo, I can fill in some of the gaps. If it was a one-time hook-up, okay, but at least I’ll know for sure. And if it was something more . . . Well, we’ll see what happens.”

  “I hope you find him, Astrid, I really, really do,” says Jennifer. “And I hope he doesn’t turn out to be a lowlife or a player.” She pronounces it play-uh.

  “Thanks, Jennifer. I hope so too.”

  Renatta smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. “We have time for one more call. Who do we have on the line?”

  “This is Mike from Dorchester.”

  “Thanks for calling, Mike. Do you have a question for Astrid?”

  “I don’t . . . but I do know Theo.”

  There’s a jolt in my throat and a crashing in my ears, as if I’ve been woken out of a deep sleep with a sharp noise. “Are you serious? Is he a friend of yours?” I press my mouth closed to prevent a stream of other questions: When did you last see him? Has he ever mentioned me? Is he seeing anyone? Is he a lowlife or a player?

  “He’s more of an acquaintance,” Mike says. “We have a couple of friends in common, so I see him out once in a while.” He sounds so reluctant, like he might change his mind about talking and hang up at any second.

  I flash an SOS at Renatta with my eyes, because I need her radio magic to help get more out of this guy. She gives me an I-got-this wink.

  “Mike, do you think you’d be able to put Theo in touch with Astrid?”

  “I don’t even have his number, and . . . I mean, I could probably get it, but I don’t know, I think I’d feel funny about it . . . it’s kinda weird, you know?”

  “Even an email address would be fine.” Whoa, gotta ease up on the desperate, gotta tread carefully here. “Or I could give you my Hotmail address to pass on to him. I know this whole thing is . . . unconventional, but I would so appreciate any help with this.”

  Silence.

  Come on, Mike, say something.

  I’m ready to scream like Lola in the casino scene from Run Lola Run: a scream that shatters glass, slows time, a scream to will the roulette wheel to stop where it absolutely has to.

  The silence continues. Did Mike hang up? The twitch in Renatta’s eyebrows echoes my thought.

  Please please please please please please please.

  “Mike, are you still on the line?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’m thinking. I mean, I don’t want to invade Theo’s privacy or create an uncomfortable scene for him. But I have something that could help. I’d just rather not say on the air.”

  Exclamation marks fill my head like confetti.

  “That’s fine,” Renatta says. “We’re just about wrapping up our time with Astrid. If you could hang on, she’ll be able to talk with you one-on-one. Could you do that for us?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Renatta waves a triumphant fist. “Terrific. Astrid, thank you again for joining us on Bizarre Beantown and sharing your story. Good luck and I hope you’ll let us know how things turn out.”

  “Sure. Thanks for having me.” It’s all I can do not to run out of the room.

  “We’ll take a short break and when we return, we’ll talk to Travis, a millionaire who spends a week out of every year living as a homeless person. You’re listening to WGCA.”

  Renatta hustles me back to the small office. “Nice job in there. I’ll have Mike transferred to this phone. Sit tight.”

  But I can’t sit at all, I can only stand beside the desk with a hand hovering over the phone. If this call gets disconnected, I don’t know what I’ll—

  Briiiii—

  I snatch up the receiver.

  “Mike?”

  “Yeah. Astrid?”

  Thank you thank you thank you. “I’m here.”

  “Okay . . .”

  Man, I thought Sally’s dramatic pauses were epic, but Mike’s are on a whole other level.

  “You mentioned you had some info about Theo,” I prompt.

  “We have a mutual friend who’s a performance artist, and she’s gonna be in some kind of skit at ManRay on Friday. You know, the goth club?”

  “I know ManRay.”

  “They do this monthly party called Hell and the theme for October is Dead Stars in Hell. You gotta dress up as a dead celebrity or historical figure or some shit. Not really our scene, but we’re going to support our friend. They can be strict about the dress code, so we have to wear costumes. Theo is dressing up as Andy Warhol. If you go to the club on Friday, you should be able to find him there.”
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br />   “Mike, you have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

  “Please don’t turn out to be some kind of psycho stalker.”

  “I promise I’m not.” Before I can thank him again, the line goes dead.

  When I tell Sally about Mike and this event at ManRay, she looks like a kid at Disney World who’s been invited to live in the Magic Castle. I brace myself for much gushing.

  “Can you believe you’re going to see Theo again? And to be reunited like this—it’s like something out of a movie. Dead Stars in Hell? Oh my god. How come we never went to such cool parties in New York? Who are you going to go as?” Her eyes widen. “Who am I going to go as? I’ve always wanted to dress up like Cleopatra. Do you think I could pull off a white toga and black wig?” She looks at a strand of her buttery hair and squints at it, then turns an appraising gaze on me. “Maybe you should go as Marilyn Monroe. Maybe I should go as Marilyn.”

  If only I could have Sally’s fearless enthusiasm. She plunges headfirst through her world like it’s strung with balloons and welcome banners whereas I tiptoe around mine like it’s a maze of traffic cones. Always inside me, this seesaw to be more elastic like Sally and fight my rigidity, to float like she does even as lead boots weigh me down.

  We walk through the Boston Garden toward the Park Street T, past a large statue of an angel with an inscription on its granite base that reads: “Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days.” What exactly am I going to find after all these days?

  As we cross the bridge over the lagoon, absent of the swan boats that take tourists around during warmer months, I look out at the willow trees along the water’s periphery. I could curl up under one of those trees right now, even though it’s overcast and the wind is picking up, heavy with the threat of rain.

  Sally’s been talking this entire time. “Hey, you’re not listening.” There’s a pout in her voice.

  “Sorry, I was replaying what just happened, on the show and after, on the phone with that guy. I think you’d be an amazing Marilyn. I have no idea about my costume, but I don’t want to wear a wig or anything else that could make me difficult to recognize. I want to keep it simple.”