Never Wake

by Gabrielle Goldsby

  Her legs felt stronger with every step she took. Whatever she had been given was wearing off a lot faster than she would have expected. She hesitated and put her hand on the door. She pushed through the door and peered out into the fluorescent light of the hallway. There were two doors to her left and three to her right. At the end of the corridor was a red exit sign.

  Unease caused her to glance behind her once before entering the hall. She was very tempted to peek into some of the rooms along the way but decided not to. There would be someone at the front desk and she would explain that she felt much better and would like to check herself out. As for the bill—if they were lucky and reasonable, with the interest, she’d have them paid off in about thirty years. She almost snickered but didn’t quite make it.

  She rounded a corner and found herself in a small waiting room, half of which was taken up by a crescent-shaped front desk. The desk and the small room behind it were empty.

  The clock on the wall confirmed that it was early, but not so early that a hospital wouldn’t be staffed unless… Troy walked toward a set of double doors marked “Conference Room.”

  Of course. How many times had she walked into the deserted lobby of an office because there was some kind of meeting? That’s why she couldn’t find anyone; they were all in a meeting or something. “That’s just too damn bad,” she said, and ordered her sore muscles to move.

  The door swung open with so little effort that she almost fell into the room. Oh no, she thought to herself as the first balloon caught her eye. A Happy Birthday banner hung from the ceiling and a cake stood uncut on a table that looked identical to the one she had lain across during her last pap smear. Paper plates, napkins, and forks sat in neat little undisturbed piles. Five people—three women, two men—sat with their backs toward her. Their bodies were too still.

  “Excuse me?” Troy expected them to turn and look at her embarrassed or angry, but no one moved. Troy tried again. “Hey, look, I don’t mean to interrupt, but there’s no one out front…” She stopped speaking because none of the five people sitting in front of her responded. Dread crept along her back and over her shoulders. “Hello?” This time, Troy heard the fear in her voice—the soft pleading in her voice. Please be all right. I don’t do dead very well. Troy walked part way around the couch, half expecting to see perfect bullet holes in each of the silent people’s foreheads. Her anxiety eased as no such wound appeared. Her footsteps faltered, and she became aware of two things at the same time. There was a half-full bottle of vodka sitting next to the punch bowl and an unopened present sitting on one of the women’s laps was moving in unison with her ample breast. She was breathing. They all were. Anger bloomed in Troy’s chest.

  Drunk! They were all drunk. Fuck these people. She’d be damned if she would pay for this kind of care. Troy pushed through the door and padded barefoot toward the desk. Her intention was to leave a note, but a pair of scrubs still wrapped in the dry cleaning bags caught her attention. She snatched them off the hanger, and with one last angry look toward the conference room, she headed toward the front door.

  The parking lot’s lone light washed out the colors of a late-model Lexus, a classic VW, a Ford Explorer, and a small Toyota truck. Frigid air pushed through the scrubs as if they were gossamer.

  “Damn, why didn’t I get some shoes while I was in there stealing shit?” Her eyes settled on a bike rack half hidden in shadow. She frowned against the dull ache in her head and hobbled closer to the bike rack.

  Her bike was yellow, brown, and burgundy depending on what side you approached from. She would have to walk around the other side to see the burgundy, but she knew it would be there, the same way she knew the tires would be white-walled before she got close enough to see them. This bike looked like it was held together with bungee cords and well-placed strips of duct tape. Electrical tape was wrapped around the handlebars for the grip and the color contrast. All of it was for show, for those few occasions when the clock left her no time to lock Dite up and she needed to move faster than carrying her on her shoulder would allow. No one would steal a bike that looked like that, and if they did, they would be spotted before they got more than a few miles away. Dite was one of a kind. Troy reached her bike. Her hand hovered over the seat. She didn’t need to touch it to know that it was Dite, but she did touch the seat. She stooped down, her knees groaning like a gate that hadn’t been used in years, and ran her hand along the body.

  Troy shivered and flipped over one of the pedals. Seeing her initials scratched underneath the pedal was anticlimactic. She already knew that this was her bike, but how the hell did she get here?

  “So much for the accident theory. You look about as worn out as you always do, huh, girl?” Troy stood and placed her hands on her hips. Had she ridden her bike here? Maybe she had begun to feel ill and had decided to get herself checked out. No, that didn’t make sense, either. She knew of at least two free clinics within riding distance. Whatever this place was, it didn’t look free, which meant she couldn’t afford it. Why would she have come here?

  Troy eased Dite out of the bike rack. Her U-lock and chain were wrapped beneath the seat but had been left unsecured. A chill that had nothing to with the temperature settled over her. She could count on one hand the number of times she had been forced to leave Dite unchained in order to make a deadline. It didn’t make sense that she would take the time to park Dite in a rack but neglect to lock her up. As unattractive and as hefty as Dite appeared to be, Troy treasured her. She provided her a means to make a living. She wouldn’t risk losing her if she didn’t have to.

  A chill scraped long, jagged nails along the back of her neck, and Troy turned toward the hospital. The windows were like dark gaping mouths, she thought. Something flickered in one of them, and Troy gripped Dite’s handlebars hard. She waited to see if the motion in the window would repeat itself. It didn’t, but Troy felt the urgent need to be away from this place and out of the view of those windows.

  “Freaking yourself out for no reason,” Troy said, and swung her leg over her bike and began to pedal away. The headache was tolerable now, and the cool, damp air in her face made her feel almost human. It wouldn’t be the first time a messenger was almost killed and the bike survived. Hell, that’s how she’d ended up with Dite’s current seat. Troy felt her shoulders relax. She was overreacting. Still, as she made a turn that would put the hospital out of sight for good, something told her that she had been right to leave when she did.

  *

  The air conditioning kicked on, although the room was already cool enough. Abe stood in darkness watching. “Magnificent,” he thought. It was amazing the difference being awake could make in a human being. The woman, this Troy, moved as if she knew she was being watched. She was graceful, although not at all delicate. Asleep, she had been uninteresting, dull, just like any of the other thousands of people he was sure he would see when he left the hospital. But awake, she was power in motion.

  Was it the fact that everything else was so still that made her so attractive? Abe tilted his head as she squatted and leaned in to look at the bike, her bike, as if it were the strangest thing in the world. Abe chuckled. He felt like a voyeur watching a woman sunbathe in her own backyard. The idea stirred him like his wife, Teresa, never could. Abe felt an odd thrill that he hadn’t experienced since grade school. Teresa’s skin was so pale that it made this woman dark in comparison. But then, hell, Teresa made Europeans look dark.

  Abe watched Troy Nanson trace the bike’s frame as if searching for a wire. Her biceps were more defined than his were. Teresa was so thin that she could be mistaken for a model but for the fact that she was in her mid-thirties. Troy was anything but thin. Muscular, but not at all mannish. Abe thought back to her chart that he was sure still lay at the end of her bed. She weighed a hundred and twenty-eight pounds, but she looked so powerful. “That’s what it is,” Abe decided. She looked like she could handle herself. Unlike Teresa, this woman wouldn’t be afraid of anything he asked
of her in the bedroom.

  The thought caught him off guard. She was nothing—a plaything, a hamster in a cage. Abe watched as Troy swung her leg over the bike and settled on the worn seat. She sat there for a moment and then with a sudden movement turned toward the hospital. Toward him. Abe caught his breath. He almost hoped she would see him. No, that would ruin everything. You’re here to observe. The thought was enough to keep him rooted to the spot. She turned and began to pedal away. There was a rattling up above. Abe moved away from the window and frowned up at the ceiling. Had he left a window open up there? He returned to his position at the window just as she turned the corner and rode out of his sight. Abe straightened up and walked out of the room. No need to hurry. He knew where she would go. They always did—eventually.

  *

  Emma awoke on the inhale, eyes wide, body stiff with apprehension. She was able to cut the scream off before it came to fruition—before it, like many other waking screams and the memories that came with it, could haunt her for the rest of the day.

  Her curtains billowed out and the world outside her window seemed to hold its breath until she released hers. She did, and relaxed against her pillows. She ran her hand through tousled curls. Not so bad this time, Emma. Not so bad. But it had been bad. They weren’t all as detailed. Sometimes she woke up before she walked out into the parking lot. Sometimes she didn’t hear the sound of— Stop it, Emma. It’s over. It’s been over for a long time.

  Emma sat up, groping for the end table before her eyes had adjusted to the dim light. If she turned her head to the right she knew she would have a clear view of her alarm clock, but she didn’t need to look at it to know what it would say. Five-forty or five-forty-one. Perhaps even five-forty-five. Any later and the sound of traffic would be floating through her window. Any later and she would feel like she had gotten a decent night’s sleep. Any later—Emma frowned and forced herself to focus on her end table. Her heart seemed to slow. Even half-comatose from sleep deprivation, she always left her cane in the same place—hooked on the end table where she could always reach it. Emma’s knee began its slow, dull throb. Don’t panic. It’s got to be here. It’s got to be close; you wouldn’t have gone to bed without it. She took two deep breaths before looking over the edge of her bed. She reached down in desperation. Her cane blended with her wood floors in the darkness, but she had faith that it was there, and sure enough, her fingers found the smooth curved handle.

  Emma closed her eyes and yawned. A soft breeze swept between the blinds and settled in her mouth as tangible as cotton candy. She wallowed in the peace and silence that she always felt before her neighbors began to stir. She rose from the bed and limped into the kitchen, looking forward to a cup of raspberry Tazo tea. Emma put a teapot full of water on the stove to heat and limped through the great room, as her mother called it, and settled onto the window seat. The great room was just that, a large room. Emma’s only concern had been being able to walk through her own house without obstacle. Her intention had been to remove the wall beside the bedroom, leaving the bathroom and the kitchen as the only walls in the condo. But that would have required workmen—or worse, she would have had to stay in a hotel until the work was done. She wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t sure she ever would be. Emma sighed and gazed through the rust-colored bars covering her window to the street below.

  The world was so quiet that Emma could hear the water in the teapot as it began to boil. She rose from her window seat without using her cane and limped into the kitchen. She had taken great care in deciding where she wanted the movers to place the desk, couch, and rug when she had moved. By positioning the back of the couch against the front of her desk, her mother had convinced her she would be able to gaze out the window from any of her three seating areas. Emma had agreed, because that was what one did with Darby Webster. You agreed in the hope that she would soon move on to “helping” someone else.

  Emma was careful to only fill the cup halfway. Her gait on a good day was uneven, and past experience had taught her how painful filling the cup to the top could be. In moments, the streets would begin to bustle, and the scent of truck fumes and damp asphalt would drift up to her. The occasional car, running on bio-diesel, would go past and Emma would experience a fleeting regret. Not for French fries or kettle chips, but for the freedom to run out and get either of those things. She had been so wasteful. Eating half bags of chips and leaving them until they were stale, or ordering large orders of food and tiring of it after a few bites.

  Emma leaned back against the pillows, brought her cup up to her nose, and inhaled deeply. The sun would slide over the tops of the buildings soon and the first few cars would begin to line her street. She would watch distracted men and women get out of their cars. Sometimes she’d catch a whiff of perfume, cologne, coffee, or a breakfast sandwich from BurgerCity.

  Other times she would catch an indistinct feeling of anger drifting up from them. She guessed it was because they had had to leave their warm beds and go to a job they felt no great enthusiasm for. Only once had she sensed excitement coming from someone on the sidewalk below her window.

  Emma still remembered her. Pigtails, dyed an unnatural shade of red, poked from beneath a rainbow beanie cap. She wore a backpack—like everyone else in Portland—black jeans, thick-heeled shoes, and a white shirt. She walked, no, she swaggered, as if she were in no great hurry, but Emma sensed that she was looking forward to something. Emma longed to know her story. Did she work at a used bookstore? A coffee house? Perhaps she was one of the many cooking school students who seemed to permeate Portland. No, she would be wearing the checkered pants and white smock if she were a cooking school student. Emma had watched her until she was no longer in view.

  Emma blew into her cup and then sipped her tea. She loved being awake at this time of morning. It was as if the world was on hold, and then, almost to the second—it would begin to move, almost too fast for Emma. It was at those times that she would turn away from her window. She’d watch as the streets awakened. After that, she lost interest.

  Emma glanced back at the wall clock her mother had insisted she have. It was the wrong style for the condo. It was as if her mother had bought the clock in order to point out the poor job Emma had done decorating. Emma had not planned her décor. The condo was a wide-open floor plan. Her furniture was understated and comfortable, in shades of browns and tans. The clock was gold, ornate—and like nothing else in the condo. It was, however, accurate to the second. That bothered Emma, because if the clock was to be trusted, it was just past six now. There were always two or three early birds plugging the meters instead of using a garage, and then trudging off into the cold morning to God knew what kind of desk job. Emma would watch them and tell herself that any one of them would change places with her in a heartbeat. But deep down, she knew that none of them would want to be what she had become.

  Emma took a deep breath, picked up the quilt her great-grandmother had sewn, and wrapped it around herself. She wasn’t cold, but sometimes the quilt was enough to push the anxiety away. I’m safe. I’m safe. There’s no need to be afraid. Emma ignored the pain that shot through her knee and back as she drew her legs up. She placed her chin on her knees and closed her eyes. She hadn’t felt this anxious since her mother’s last phone call. So where was this coming from? Was it the nightmare? No, although she could guess the nature of the nightmare, she didn’t remember it. Emma gazed at the bars that covered her windows. She could have had the bars removed when she moved in; most of the other tenants in the building had and would no doubt take up a collection for her to do so, too. The bars were an eyesore, she knew, but Emma gave her realtor the excuse that they added to the mystique of living in an old factory. If you got rid of the bars, it was just any other apartment-style home. But Emma was glad of the bars for other reasons. The unease wafted over her and settled. Something was wrong.

  Emma swallowed and stared at the street below, looking for the root of the dread that was stealing over her. She
would not panic. What was it? There was nothing there, nothing she could see that would be giving her this odd feeling of…

  Where were the trucks this morning? There were always trucks. It wasn’t a weekend or a holiday. There should be trucks delivering products to stores. Emma should hear men unloading and yelling things to each other from blocks away. She could never make out exactly what was said, but the sounds were always there in the background: doors slamming, brakes squealing, and the faintest smell of fumes. But today there was nothing but the wind. Nothing at all. Nothing.

  Emma’s heart quickened. She hadn’t felt like this in… She stopped herself. That’s what was making her so uneasy. This feeling of disquiet, this warning; she hadn’t felt it in so long that it was making her jumpy.

  “You’re eighteen months too late, you fucker,” she said, and then felt ridiculous at how angry she felt.

  Maybe there was a strike or a parade. Emma’s mother had complained that Portland seemed to have a parade for just about everything. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe they had the streets blocked off so that trucks couldn’t get through and people couldn’t park. Emma almost had herself convinced and raised her cup to her lips. She took a large calming gulp of tea that stung the roof of her mouth and the back of her throat as she swallowed. That would explain the lack of cars and even the lack of trucks. But not the complete silence. Emma leaned forward and listened harder than she ever had in her life.