TALL, LIGHT HAIR, BLUE EYES,
MID-20s, AVERAGE BUILD.
NEED TO GET IN TOUCH WITH HIM ASAP.
IF YOU HAVE ANY LEADS, PLEASE EMAIL
[email protected].
Oh god oh god oh god oh god.
“Astrid, Americano.”
I grab my coffee and book it home.
Okay, where can I find traces of Sally’s meddling? I search the living room, the den, the kitchen, but there’s nothing. I ransack every corner of my room—desk, bed, dresser drawers. More nothing.
Check again.
Another search of the desk and . . . Oh no. Under an issue of the Improper Bostonian is the piece of paper I threw out yesterday, my Theo Rosetta Stone. It’s been flattened out and on the back of the list where I drew the map, in the upper right-hand corner is a smiley face.
Damn it, Sally, what did you do?
Let’s take a minute here. Should I call Oliver? He’s out of town, so I’d have to leave a message. I could tell him what I found, that it was all my best friend’s doing . . . but what if he doesn’t believe me? What if there’s enough doubt to poison what happened between us the other night? Leaving such a message might make things tense again. Alternately, I could go try to take down the fliers before he gets back from his training seminar. And once things are cool between us, I’ll tell him about Sally’s stunt and we’ll have a good laugh over it. That makes more sense than leaving him some convoluted message, right?
Wrong. I can’t revert back to my habit of hiding and holding back. Oliver deserves the truth. Now.
I get the cordless from the kitchen and dial his number. It rings. And rings. No answer, no machine. Did he forget to switch it on? I call a few more times, but get the same series of rings.
Well, at least I can avoid the discomfort of explaining the fliers a little longer.
But that also means I better hurry and tear those damn things down before he sees one of them.
I put on my sneakers. It’s going to be a long day.
One thing I have to say for Sally, she doesn’t do anything halfway. She didn’t throw up a couple of fliers on some bulletin boards and leave it at that; she charmed her way into the store windows of 7-11 and CVS and Hubba Hubba and even the drag queen shoe store. Now I have to charm her fliers out of those establishments and others, which is easy enough (“we found Theo, thanks for your help,” etc.) but time-consuming and tedious as I untangle the knots of her good deed.
My misguided friend also taped fliers to the lampposts for good measure and used packing tape to keep them secure, so I have to buy an X-ACTO knife from Pearl (where—surprise!—there’s another Theo flier that needs to be removed) so I can cut them down. It takes me over an hour to clear the area between Central Square and the Mass Ave Bridge.
The thing is, I can’t get angry with her for this, not after what she’s been through with Corey, and my withholding so much, and then surrendering the search for Theo. When she turned twenty-one, Sally and I took a trip to the Mohegan Sun Casino to celebrate her birthday. She insisted we play blackjack, because it was one of the games with the best odds. Whenever she or I won a hand, she’d pump her fist with a triumphant “yes!” equally happy regardless of which of us beat the dealer. If one of us won, in her mind, we both won. This little stunt of hers is similar in spirit: she wanted one of us to win.
Except that this could actually make me lose, big time. God, the thought of Oliver finding one of these fliers . . . The vaguest threat of it spurs me on, makes me rush down the street with my X-ACTO like a mad slasher in a horror movie.
Over the bridge to Kenmore Square, into Deli Haus and the nearby independent record stores, down go the fliers (“Thanks again for letting us put these up. Who knows, maybe this was the one that helped us find him!”). At a pay phone, another call to Oliver yields more unanswered rings, so onward I go. Down Mass Ave and over to Boylston, where I stop at a Dunkin’ Donuts for more coffee to get me through the next stretch. Past Copley Square and the fountain stands there dry, bubble- and water-free.
It’s like reliving parts of the lost day in fast-forward, a blur of dialogue and action, a glitch in the video that strips out the leading man.
It’s been over a month since that so-called perfect day. I don’t know if I remembered it right, and I might never know. Better to keep my version undisputed, even if it’s too ornate, too expansive, too much. Maybe it’s more the day I wanted than the day I had. Maybe my brain got rattled in the accident and won’t ever be the same. Maybe you get these days woven into your life, and then all you can do is let them go and continue forward, even if the ones that follow are less dazzling. With every flier I remove, every step I take deeper into the heart of Boston, I make a little more peace with that day and let it lie where it belongs, in it’s 9/9/99 slot. Like a librarian with a stack of books, I catalog each memory and move to the next aisle, let the titles remain in their proper shelves.
There will be other great days, whether I have them alone or with Oliver or my friends or maybe even my father. I have new days to look forward to, new plans to make. I’m going to save up money so Sally and I can finally take our cross-country trip. I’m going to call Jasleen and see if she can help me find a new job in publishing. I’m going to cook my vegetable lasagna for Oliver.
Instead of piecing together an old reality, I will create a new one.
It’s dark by the time I reach the bronze bear outside FAO Schwarz. I’m exhausted, but push myself toward Chinatown, where I get lost in the twist of incoherent streets. I have no idea how far Sally might’ve gone or if I took down every flier. I hope, I hope, I hope.
I take a taxi home and try Oliver’s number again.
It rings and rings and rings.
CHAPTER FORTY
..................
9/10/99
ASTRID WAS ON THE GREEN line heading to Park Street, her duffle bag on the seat beside her. She prayed for a speedy transfer to the red line; she was cutting it close. Her nerves jangled with happy disruption. In her head was a melody she couldn’t make proper sense of, a cat walking across piano keys.
She might miss her bus. She tried not to worry.
Maybe reading would provide a good distraction. At least until she was on the Greyhound and had ample time to replay, review, relive every moment spent with Theo. She took out a book but ignored the words on the page.
“That’s an unusual talent.”
Before her stood a tall bespectacled man, dark hair falling into his eyes, amusement at the corners of his mouth.
“What is?” she asked.
“Being able to read upside down.” He pointed to her book.
“Oh.” She glanced at the cover of Memoirs of a Geisha, turned the paperback the right way around. “I guess my mind is somewhere else.”
“Worried you might miss your bus?”
Now he had her full attention. “How did you know?”
A bony shrug. “Just a guess. I’m Oliver.”
He held out a hand. Astrid hesitated, but shook it. His palm was warm, his grip confident.
“Take the next one,” he urged.
“What?”
“This is going to sound strange, but hear me out. I think you should miss your bus on purpose and take the next one.”
“Why?” She stared at him, baffled, dazed.
“So you can get a cup of coffee with me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“If you get coffee with me, you’ll get to know me. I think you’ll like me.” The words carried more levity than arrogance.
Park Street was announced over the loudspeakers. Astrid stood up.
“I . . . have to go to New York.” She walked over to the train doors.
“That’s too bad.” His smile was accepting, but laced with regret. “Too bad.”
The doors opened and she was about to step out of the car, onto the platform.
“Hang on.” Oliver handed her the duffle, which she’d left under
the seat.
“Wow, I can’t believe myself today.” She gave her head a shake, trying to rearrange her thoughts. “Thank you.”
He held out a business card. “In case you change your mind about that coffee.” As the train doors closed, he smiled at her again and gave her a sad little shrug.
Astrid slipped the card into her bag. She should have rushed to catch the red line, but instead she smiled back, waved at him, and watched as the train left the platform.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
..................
MONDAY, OCTOBER 18, 1999
THERE’S NO WORD FROM OLIVER the rest of Sunday, which is expected, but tonight I rattle around the apartment, waiting for him to call like one of those girls I never wanted to be. I clean the kitchen and bathroom to stay busy. I read a hundred pages of a science fiction novel I find in the den that doesn’t interest me but makes time pass.
There’s nothing to worry about. There’s nothing to worry about.
By six o’clock that mantra wears thin, especially when I call him and still get no answer and no machine. He did say dinner on Monday, right? I try again at nine o’clock, but no luck.
There’s nothing to—I mean, there has to be a simple explanation here. Even if he found one of the fliers, he’d call me to hash things out, wouldn’t he? Surely I’ll hear his voice soon, explanations will abound, and we’ll resume where we left off in the hotel room.
I do my best at self-persuasion, but there’s a disturbance in the air. Something ominous has taken root in me; its black vines grow and twist under my skin.
Something is wrong.
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 19, 1999
I find out what it is the next day when I get home from work.
On the kitchen table is a sealed white envelope with my name on it. This was left under the door for you, says a Post-It written by Daphne or Zak.
This can’t be good.
I hold the envelope up to the light, but can only make out a folded piece of paper.
I don’t want to open it.
There’s no point in putting it off, the words are already written and my stalling won’t un-write them. But I was never the kind who could pull off a Band-Aid in one quick tear, even though it caused less pain in the long run. I always picked at the edges, let it tug and pinch my skin, bit by bit, until it was finally off.
I get a butter knife and cut open the envelope, slowly and neatly, as if that’ll make a difference. Once that’s done, I don’t take out the paper inside. I let it sit there for a few minutes, the way you might let a bottle of wine aerate after opening it.
Read the damn thing already.
I finally reach into the envelope.
Damn it.
I did my best to remove all of them, but I missed at least one. The paper in my hand is one of Sally’s neon yellow fliers. Oliver’s note is written on the back:
Astrid,
I thought the other night changed things for us, even though you were still a little distracted. I wasn’t expecting a manhunt on this level. Obviously, you still haven’t gotten the closure you need. This is where I step aside and let you find it. Because you’re not really here. Maybe down the line we’ll both end up in the same place.
—Oliver
Fists pound the inside of my head, and my stomach clenches, and I am plummeting down, down, fast and hard; I will hit cold water or jagged rocks or blunt cement any second now.
I dial Oliver’s number with nervous and sloppy fingers, get it wrong twice, grit my teeth as it rings and rings and—Yes! Finally!—a click and his recorded voice tells me he’s unavailable.
“It wasn’t me, Oliver. I had nothing to do with those fliers. Sally put them up behind my back. It was her parting gift after I told her I wasn’t going to look for Theo anymore. I wouldn’t do something like that, not after Friday night. I may have gone overboard with the search, but this goes beyond anything I’d do. You have to know that. I am here. I wasn’t before, not fully, but I am now. Please talk to me, Oliver. Call me back. Please.”
I hang up the phone and read his note over and over, astonished at the ugly wreck I made.
I go into my room. On my desk, the pile of fliers from my retrieval mission. Why didn’t I throw them out? I take a small stack and tear them into strips, then rip the strips into smaller pieces, until I’ve created small hills of sunny confetti.
Over the sound of tearing paper, I think I hear something else. Is that the phone?
I run into the kitchen and pick up the receiver.
It’s him. It has to be.
“Oliver?” I answer.
“Hey. It’s Theo.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Terry Montimore, there aren’t enough ways to say thank you. Your support, wit, wisdom, patience, creativity, and kindness are nothing short of astonishing—werewolf. You are my dream made real and your hair looks really good today.
Mom, thank you for getting me hooked on books early, loving me fiercely, and encouraging all my crazy ideas—like wanting to become a writer.
Erin Foster Hartley, you’re the Jinkx to my Katya. We tune into the same dark and weird frequency, and I’m so grateful you receive all my transmissions.
Kelli Newby, may our inner writers forever wear eyeliner and torn fishnets. Thank you for reading quickly and thoughtfully, and always knowing when to check in.
Bridget McGraw-Bordeaux, thanks for revisiting our old haunts via this book more than once. Blood be damned, you are forever my sister.
Kez Quin, your creative writing class changed my life and helped me find my voice. Jessica Treadway, your guidance helped me hone that voice. Jessica Liese and Sharon Gerber, our little writing workshop was short-lived but kept this story alive.
Additional early readers and patient friends, I salute you. Jennifer Hawkins, the venting, commiseration, reassurance—it’s meant a lot to me. Kelly Calabrese, my fellow buffalo in this blizzard, your positivity and determination is admirable. Mary Ann Marlowe, your funny quips and killer hooks have been invaluable. Kelly Siskind, you’re as smart as you are foxy and I appreciate you sharing your time and wisdom.
But wait, there’s more! Thank you Brianna Shrum, Alison Pantano, Amy Carothers, Nina Laurin, Missy Shelton Belote, Elly Blake, Natalka Burian, Kellye Garrett, Kristin Button Wright, Ron Walters, Shannon Monahan, MacKenzie Cadenhead, Jennifer Grunwald, Eric Leibowitz, and Will Ryan (look, I stayed the course!). Special thanks to my editor Kathleen Furin and my proofreader Carol Carlisle Agnew. Jennie Nash, Laura Franzini, Jade Eby, and the rest of the Author Accelerator team, your warmth, industry knowledge, and encouragement has been incredible. Big shout out to the Table of Trust, the Crack Den, Brenda Drake, and the Pitch Wars community.
Katie McGranaghan, this story would have no spark without you; I’ll always cherish our Boston adventures.
Thank you to all the weirdoes, outcasts, lovable misanthropes, and crazy geniuses that served as my muses, companions, and even adversaries.
Finally, thank you. A writer is no good without readers. I’m grateful you took the time (and hey, sorry if the ending frustrated you; it had to be this way).
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. The novel is set in 1999. How does the time period affect the story? How might Astrid’s search be different if the story was set in the present day?
2. What importance does the Boston setting play in the story? How might it vary set in another city or town?
3. What do you think really happened during Astrid’s lost day? Which version of the story do you believe?
4. Do you think Theo was real or just in Astrid’s imagination? Do you think her romantic connection with him is real?
5. What about Oliver? How much do you trust his motives toward Astrid and vice versa?
6. Do you think Astrid goes too far in her quest? How does this search change her? How would you have handled things if you were in her situation?
7. How did Astrid’s relationship with her father impact her attitude in life
? In what ways did his remoteness help her and in what ways did it hinder her?
8. Astrid and Sally are quite different but have maintained a close friendship since childhood. What do you think each gets out of the friendship?
9. A recurring theme in the book is bravery versus foolishness. What does Astrid do that you find brave and what does she do that’s foolish?
10. Some other themes include costumes/masks, feathers, angels, rain, and fire. What do you think is their significance?
11. When Astrid tells Oliver she’s not going to search for Theo anymore, do you believe her? Why or why not?
12. Which character do you most and least identify with?
13. What do Astrid’s dreams reveal about her? Which one(s) resonated the most with you and why? How much stock do you put into your own dreams?
14. In the final dream, Theo proposes a theory that Astrid is dead and that this is her afterlife. Is there anything in the story to support or dissuade from that theory? What about the theory that he and Oliver might be the same person?
16. For Astrid, getting hit by a car sets off a series of events that changes the course of her life. Can you think of a time in your life where you experienced such a domino effect?
17. What are your thoughts on the ending? What do you think will happen next?
About the Author
Margarita Montimore received a BFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. She worked for over a decade in publishing and social media before deciding to focus on the writing dream full-time. She has blogged for Marvel, Google, Quirk Books, and XOJane.com. When not writing, she freelances as a book coach and editor. She grew up in Brooklyn but currently lives in a different part of the Northeast with her husband and dog.
Sign up for her monthly newsletter and find her online: Montimore.com, Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, Instagram.
ASLEEP FROM DAY by Margarita Montimore Published by Black Wing Books
Asleep From Day Page 29
