TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREEFriday, September 10, 1999
CHAPTER FOUR9/9/99
CHAPTER FIVETuesday, September 14, 1999
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVENFriday, September 17, 1999
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINESunday, September 19, 1999
CHAPTER TEN9/9/99
CHAPTER ELEVENMonday, September 20, 1999
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEENTuesday, September 21, 1999
CHAPTER FOURTEEN9/9/99
CHAPTER FIFTEENWednesday, September 22, 1999
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEENFriday, September 24, 1999
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN9/9/99
CHAPTER NINETEENSaturday, September 25, 1999
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONESunday, September 26, 1999
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO9/9/99
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREESunday, September 26, 1999
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVEMonday, September 27, 1999
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX9/9/99
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTuesday, September 28, 1999
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINEFriday, October 1, 1999
CHAPTER THIRTY9/9/99
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONESaturday, October 2, 1999
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREESunday, October 10, 1999
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR9/9/99
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVEThursday, October 14, 1999
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENFriday, October 15, 1999
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINESaturday, October 16, 1999
Sunday, October 17, 1999
CHAPTER FORTY9/10/99
CHAPTER FORTY-ONEMonday, October 18, 1999
Tuesday, October 19, 1999
For Terry, with love and squalor
“Reality” is the only word in the language that should always be used in quotes.
Anonymous
CHAPTER ONE
..................
What’s the last thing you remember?
A rumble, a static rush, the world on a dimmer switch.
Outside, everything was gray.
But inside, a galaxy of color and light. Fireflies behind my eyes, neon in my bones. A nerve net of bioluminescence.
Radiant with hope. Glorious.
Do you know where you are?
In the heart of a storm. Give me lightning. Give me the flood. I’ve bled the sky of pigment, devoured its clouds. They remain like honey on my tongue, crystalized with promise. Nothing was ever sweeter.
What happened?
Something incredible.
Something terrible.
No more color. Fade to grey.
I’ve been robbed of this elation.
Stay with me.
I have the weirdest taste in my mouth. Metallic, like I’ve been sucking on pennies, and spicy—no, not spicy. Stinging. Blood. What the—? I move my tongue and feel tiny pebbles. They’re sharp, cutting my gums and the insides of my cheeks. Not pebbles. Teeth? No. Glass.
I turn to spit out pieces of broken glass, but there’s something around my neck and I can’t move it. Okay, don’t panic. I push the glass out of my mouth with the tip of my tongue and pieces roll down my chin on a trail of saliva and blood. Now let’s turn on a light in here.
I open my eyes. Huh.
What is this place? There are shelves of equipment, strange monitors, dials, wires. Some kind of . . . storage room? The image blurs and wobbles. If my head is a handheld camera, whoever’s operating it has a serious case of the shakes. I can’t get a steady picture and I have no idea what this place is.
Have I been kidnapped?
That thought should trigger some modicum of fear. But it’s like I’m trapped in a block of ice and fear is on the other side of it. I can barely muster any curiosity to figure out where I am. The rest of it—how I got here, if I’m safe, hurt, etc.—will have to wait.
So let’s see. The room is tiny, and moving, and noisy. There are beeps, the hiss and tinny chatter of a walkie-talkie, the looped bellow of a siren.
Seriously, where am I?
Nowhere good, a black whisper warns, and a fog in my mind parts, clearing a path for fear, the belated guest.
The image finally snaps into focus and it registers: an ambulance.
Why the fuck am I in an ambulance?
I sit up with a—nope, I can only lift my head maybe an inch.
Why aren’t you panicking more?
Because it’s getting foggy inside my head again and blurry outside of it. I could really use a nap. It’s so chilly in here. And bright. Might as well close my eyes and deal with this in the morning. Ah, the dark is much better.
Hang on. Let’s get some questions answered first, maybe make sure I’m not missing any limbs. I try to sit up again and a hand on my shoulder prevents me from rising any further. No, it’s not just the hand. I’m strapped in.
“Nice to see you coming around, but don’t try to sit up. My name is Leo and I’m a paramedic. Do you know today’s date?”
I squint but can’t make out the face above me.
“September ninth, 1999,” I mumble.
“It’s actually September tenth,” he corrects me. Close enough.
“What happened? Am I hurt?” Of course you’re hurt, genius. I doubt you’re tied to a gurney, with a mouthful of glass, just joyriding in an ambulance.
“It’s going to be okay, Astrid, we’re almost at the hospital.”
How does this guy know my name? Why am I going to the hospital? Because that’s usually the drop-off destination of ambulances. Try to keep up here. What happened to me?
My head is so damn heavy. Back down it goes, more blood, more spit trickling out of the corners of my mouth. I form words but can’t speak them. I manage a garbled whisper, but it’s drowned out by sirens, rattling noises, and the tapping of heavy rain on the ambulance roof.
I need to take stock. I’m mostly immobile, but am I paralyzed? I try to wiggle the toes. Okay, those work fine. Fingers? The ones on the left hand move then seize up in pain. Blinded? Obviously not, but my vision is still fuzzy at the edges. Obviously, I can’t move my head much, but I shouldn’t anyway, in case I have a concussion. Or worse. Go away, black whisper, I don’t need you scaring the shit out of me right now.
Back to my self-assessment. Do I feel pain anywhere else in my body? Now that I mention it, hell yes. Where? Everywhere, especially my left side.
Why can’t I remember how this happened? I keep asking the paramedic, but he won’t tell me. Why won’t he answer me?
Oh yeah, because he can’t actually hear me. Because my lips are barely moving and no sound is coming out.
It’s an effort to form any more words or keep my eyes open. Is there a cold, heavy blanket over me? Uh-oh, those blurry edges are going dark. It’s like someone pushed me into a deep well and I’m falling in slow motion.
“Try to stay awake, Astrid.”
Fingers snap in front of my face.
Cut it out, ambulance man. You’re messing up my nap. It’s so much nicer with my eyes closed. All you do is boss me around with “Don’t sit up” this and “Stay awake” that. The darkness is quiet and doesn’t make annoying demands.
“Astrid. Astrid!”
His voice is like a megaphone in my ear. Where is your mute button, ambulance man?
I think I found it. It’s here, further down in the dark.
I hear two voices, growing fainter as they speak.
“She’s out again, but vitals are stable.”
I’m
not out, yet, ambulance man. Give a girl a break, would ya? It’s not my fault I have anvils on my eyelids. Besides, the light in here is too bright. And you are too loud. But I can still hear you fine . . . Mostly . . . Kind of . . .
“You’d think people would know not to drive like assholes in this kind of rain.”
“What is this, third one today?”
“Fourth. You hear about the wreck by the BQE? Five cars and a motorcycle. Two fatalities.”
“This one got lucky.”
“So to speak.”
“So to speak.”
“Want to get breakfast after this?”
“It’s lunchtime.”
“So? I want breakfast. Couldn’t you go for some French toast or pancakes?”
“Maybe eggs. Some strong coffee, bacon . . .”
“Extra bacon.”
How about taking my order, ambulance man? I’ll have—
Darkness.
CHAPTER TWO
..................
I’M IN A BUBBLE BATH, submerged to my neck, wearing an eye mask that smells of wet autumn leaves.
A city cacophony surrounds me: car horns, pedestrian chatter, police sirens, church bells.
You need to get going.
I sit up and remove the mask.
Water and suds splash over the side of the antique claw-foot tub I’m in. They should be hitting the tile of a bathroom floor but, instead, they hit cement.
I’m on a sidewalk in the middle of Boston. There’s the spire of the Prudential Tower, the façade of the historic public library, a hotel that looks assembled from candy glass and bobby pins.
I instinctively cover my chest with my arms, but there’s no need for modesty: I’m already clothed, in a blue sundress.
People file around me in their city uniforms: the students, the workers, the tourists, the layabouts, the privileged. They carry with them their accessories: dogs, children, shopping bags, toolboxes, cameras, backpacks, the cinematic cliché of the grocery bag with carrot greens and baguette peeking out of the top.
Nobody notices me.
I climb out of the tub and another wave of bathwater sloshes against the sidewalk, washing away a cigarette butt into the gutter.
You’re welcome, Boston. I just made you a little cleaner.
I brush off mounds of soapsuds like ephemeral shoulder pads and wring out the soaked skirt of my dress that was made for twirling.
I have no shoes on, but the ground is warm beneath my bare feet.
I better go. I might be late.
I start walking.
CHAPTER THREE
..................
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1999
You should’ve missed your bus.
“That’s too bad,” he said.
Who said? Who is he?
Don’t worry about it right now. Open your eyes.
I squint at the ceiling. Acoustic tiles and fluorescent lights come into focus. This room is bigger than the last one, brighter and quieter. This room isn’t moving, but the bed I’m lying in could be floating in water or my body floating an inch above it.
I turn my head by degrees, first to the right. There’s a guy lying on a bed across the room, a space for a third bed between us. He sips something from a straw stuck into a Styrofoam cup, but looks more like someone stuck a giant straw into him and sucked him dry, leaving a husk of a man. He could be thirty or sixty. His skin resembles orange parchment paper. He’s dying.
Am I dying, too?
Maybe I’ll find a better view on my left side. There’s an IV stand with a few clear pouches hooked up to it, plastic tubes trailing down from them like jellyfish tentacles, which meet up at the crook of my elbow. Whatever’s being fed into my veins burns, but I don’t mind. The new pain is closer to my skin’s surface, distracts from the deeper ache in my body. The burning gives way to a disembodied, vaguely undulating sensation. Who cares if I’m dying. Who cares about anything? I could drift away . . .
Not yet.
Focus.
Okay, so I’m in a hospital room. I don’t remember being removed from the ambulance or being brought in here. I don’t know which hospital this is or who knows I’m here or how serious my injuries are.
Too bad. Too bad . . .
Question marks ping-pong around my head, buzz in my ears like pesky insects. They demand that I be more worried, that I ask many things. I want to shoo them away.
There’s a murmur of voices past the IV stand.
“ . . . could’ve been so much worse . . .”
“ . . . can’t even . . .”
When I look for the source, a question settles at the tip of my tongue: Am I really awake?
Sitting at the foot of my bed is my father, Robin. So far, so normal. A woman cries into his shoulder. I can’t place her because of the wedding veil that eclipses the side of her face. A veil that matches the gown, whose thick satin folds, shaped like ornate cake frosting, overflow into my father’s lap.
Who wears a wedding dress to a hospital?
“Do you think she can hear us?” the bride asks. Her voice is dry and husky and would suit a middle-aged chain-smoking truck-stop waitress, but she’s sounded this way since grade school, as long as I’ve known her. It’s my best friend, Sally.
“Excuse me, sorry to bother you,” a policeman says from the doorway.
No bother, officer. Join the party.
They could be Village People 2.0: Concerned Dad, Policeman, Bride. Is it already Halloween? Jesus, how long have I been out? What should I be? Hospital Patient? No, too obvious. I’d rather go old school and be the construction worker.
“She’s awake.” Sally shoots up. “Astrid, can you hear us?”
“I want a hard hat.” My words are heavy and slurred, like someone hit the Slow Motion button on my face. Must be the drugs. I try to sit up . . . Terrible idea. Not gonna happen. Holy hell, am I in a lot of pain. It’s like I woke up the Big Bad Pain Monster and he’s having his way with me, walloping me with big sucker punches. I must’ve really pissed him off, maybe ran over his dog or slept with his wife; moving only makes him angrier, more violent.
Too bad. Too bad . . .
My eyes dart back and forth, looking for a way out because this hurts so much.
You should’ve missed your bus.
“This party sucks,” I mutter before passing out.
“I’d like to buy a vowel. An O . . . I’d like to solve the puzzle . . .”
My eyes are gritty when I open them, my mouth sour. Head feels like it’s crammed tight with jagged rocks. The room smells of chicken soup and Lysol. The orange man two beds over watches Wheel of Fortune on the small TV suspended from the ceiling. His eyes are blank, like the missing letters of the puzzle the contestants try to solve.
“Again? Why am I here again? I’m trying to wake up,” I murmur. This dream is like the last one, except now my IV is broken and the painkillers don’t work. This dream is worse than the last one.
I don’t belong here.
On TV, Vanna White shakes her head.
“I’m sorry, that’s not the correct answer,” Pat Sajak says.
“Fuck this. Wake me up when it’s over.” I narrow my eyes at the cold light and wait for sleep to take me to my next dream. Should be any second now . . .
“Astrid, honey, you are awake. You’ve been out for an hour,” my father says.
My throat clenches. Since when does he call me honey?
If Robin is here, it must be serious.
Someone takes my hand. It’s him. Since when is he touchy-feely?
All this tenderness is too much. There’s a prickling behind my eyes and—no, no, I can’t do this. But I don’t have the energy to hold back my tears. Shit. Crying in front of other people is one of my least favorite things in the world.
“Something happened and I can’t remember.” My whole face feels like it’s been stung by bees and I try to move my mouth as little as possible. “Why does it all hurt?”
Robin hesitates. “You . . . Do you need a nurse?”
“I . . . don’t . . . know.” The pain is mystifying. I’ve never broken any bones (until now?) or been through childbirth or passed a kidney stone, so I have no frame of reference, but if this was, say, a CIA torture situation, I would’ve spilled every national secret by now.
A swishing on my other side and Sally says, “There should be a button somewhere.”
“No nurse.” I don’t want more people in here, or more drugs to cloud up my thinking—not yet. First I need to get a what-the-hell-is-going-on baseline here. Though I can’t get over Sally’s outfit. “You look so pretty,” I tell her. The pale champagne of the fabric makes her long blond hair glow. “Angelic.”
Her lips quiver. “Thanks.”
“But why the hell are you in a wedding dress? Was I in a coma so long I missed your big day?”
“Don’t be silly.” She forces a laugh. “You weren’t in a coma.”
The way she says it doesn’t match my jokey tone. Was I almost in a coma?
“Aren’t we supposed to be having your bridal shower tomorrow?” I ask.
The corners of her mouth droop. “It is tomorrow.”
The question marks come marching in, and on TV the wheel is spinning spinning spinning, and I’m more than a vowel short of solving this puzzle. Everything looks like it’s been washed out, gray, like when you first learn to use watercolors and mix them all together. My cheeks are damp with tears and I don’t even know what day it is.
Asleep From Day Page 1