“Does lowering the music help you see better?” I ask.
“Attention capacity versus processing requirements,” he says. “Your brain can only handle so much. Turning down music inhibits distractions, so stop being such a smartass.”
Since when has Mark ever told me to not be a smarty-pants to him? That’s the game we play every day. He’s mean to me and I’m mean to him. Like brother and sister.
The school staff never told us what entrance to use, so I park toward the middle of the building. If no one comes to meet us once they see the big Channel 6 logo on the side of this SUV, I’ll have to go in and ask a staff member.
However, before I forget, I need to ask Mark. To change the subject and calm my nerves, I need to ask him a question.
“Are you coming to my birthday party?”
“Why would I want to do that?” he asks.
“Very funny, Mark. You can’t answer a question with another question. I’ll ask this lady by the flagpole if she knows where we go."
Mark gets out and pops open the trunk. The only other person around is this lady who doesn’t seem to notice we’re here. She just stares at the clear sunny sky.
This dark skinned lady is so thin, a stiff breeze could blow her away. On her hip is strapped a radio, so I assume she works here. Even as I walk closer, she doesn’t stop looking up.
“The kids said a storm is coming,” she says, as I approach.
Pulling my sunglasses down a bit, I see no signs of anything like that. The sky is as blue as it has ever been. There’s not a cloud up there.
“We’re here for the eighth grade math students. Could you tell me where we need to go?”
Her face pans the horizon.
“Yes ma’am,” she replies, “it sure does look like a storm is coming.”
I’m at a loss for words. Even looking in the same direction she faces, there’s nothing blowing in. I’d like to think if anyone knew of a storm moving in, it would be me.
This lady, her beady brown eyes tilt down to me.
“You want the east wing,” she says. “That’s where the students will meet with you.”
Her skinny arms lifts and points her finger to the East side of the building.
“They’ll be out in twenty minutes or so,” she adds.
It’s hard to say if she acknowledged my thanks since she said nothing. She simply walked away and returned inside. I must say, it’s been a week for me with the strange old ladies.
Mark has the lights and his camera unpacked from the trunk. But it would be easier to pull the vehicle to the East side of the building instead of hauling such heavy stuff across the lot. Helping him put the stuff back, I can’t help but ask him what he meant about my party. It’s this little Japanese fusion restaurant downtown. My friends Annie, Clayton, and some others I know who don’t work with us.
“Why are you asking me?” he says.
“You’re my friend and it’s my birthday, if you need a reason.”
Mark runs his palm down the sides of his chin and takes a look around. It’s like he’s hesitant to tell me something. He closes the trunk and gets into the passenger side. If I’m driving down to the other end of the building, I’m not turning a key until I get an answer.
“Why wouldn’t I want a friend to come to my party?”
“Let me make this clear to you,” he says, “I get paid to be with you from five in the morning until whenever the hell it is we wrap up our day and then I’m free to go about the rest of my life.”
“I wasn’t aware you had a life outside of work.”
That’s sarcasm, by the way.
He’s not laughing like I do.
“I’m sorry. Go ahead. I’m listening."
“Sierra, you and I, we are two different people. We’re not two sides of the same coin, we’re not two peas in a pod, we’re not like brother and sister.”
My stomach flutters and emotions rise in my throat, threatening to overwhelm me.
“Why would you say something like that?”
“You have this misconception,” he says, “that everything around you is part of some perfect world. If you want to live with your head in the clouds, that’s fine. But I want no part of it.”
“Seriously, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“You complain about not having the perfect life, that Randi had to set you back,” he says. “You’re impatient.”
In a way, he’s right. My dad would be disappointed.
“Not everyone is like you, Sierra,” says Mark. “Some people have worse things going on. The frustrating part is, you don’t seem to have a clue. You live in a dream world and little miss zip-a-dee-doo-dah needs to wake up.”
Before I have a chance to say anything, he’s out of the car walking across the lot. The key turns off the engine and I back up to follow behind him to a space to park on the East side of the school. When I stop, the trunk pops open and he’s pulling out cases of equipment.
“What don’t I have a clue about? Mark, you’re my friend. If something is wrong with you, then I should know. I’m there for you. You’re there for me."
Mark is hesitant for a second.
“Who was at your birthday party last year?” he asks.
“I’d have to think. There was Annie, Clayton, Melanie, and a few of our old friends from college. Why?”
Mark chuckles.
“See? You only pay attention to what pleases you,” he says, slamming the trunk. “Do you want to set up for the interview here?”
The flagpole lady is long gone. There’s no one else to ask. It’s such a beautiful day, seems like the perfect spot.
“Sure. This side of the school makes a good background. But not until you tell me…”
“Drop it, Sierra,” he says.
My mouth falls open.
“I’m not your friend,” he adds. “I’ve never been your friend.”
This isn’t sarcasm is it?
It’s easy to imagine if a breaking heart had a sound, it would be similar to shattering glass. But that doesn’t matter. The feeling of a broken heart is much worse than any noise it could make. Everything around me seems to fall under a shade, like a dark cloud passing over the sunshine.
I don’t know what to say. Mark picks up his camera and attaches it to the tripod. My lips quiver and tears form but I try to wipe them away before they have a chance to ruin my makeup.
He could have waited to tell me this until after we finish.
Clearing my throat, I try to compose myself and stand up straight for the camera. I’m not the one going on the air, but I fill in as a body for him to focus on, to make sure the lighting is good.
While he’s setting up, I plug in an earpiece and flip through my notebook. Each page noted with questions I plan to ask the kids. On the blank back of each page, doodles of red circles I’ve drawn.
It’s hard to focus on the questions I’m preparing to ask the kids and gravity feels about a hundred times stronger. Mark doesn’t look at me except through the camera. If he can see I’m upset, the viewers will too, so I fake a smile.
In my earpiece, I can hear my own voice but it breaks apart with static.
It must only be mine because Mark gives me a thumbs up the audio is coming through clearly.
A tingle spreads over my arms and down my back.
I can feel tiny peach-fuzz hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
But there’s no breeze. No chill in the air.
I think maybe it’s just my nerves.
The urge to say something to him grows stronger but I know it’s time to put aside personal business right now. His hand goes up with all five fingers spread apart.
“Stand by for a test,” he says.
There’s nothing else I can think to tell him except I’m sorry.
It hurts me for him to not know how crushed I am. Since I can’t say it now, I say the words in my head.
I don’t understand why you hate me so much, but w
hatever it is, I’m sorry.
“Five… Four...” he says, bending each finger as he counts down, “Three.”
He stops.
Only the one is supposed to be silent but he’s stopped counting to pull his head away from the viewfinder. His eyebrows curve and his forehead wrinkles as he stares at me.
“What’s up with your hair?” he asks.
Scoffing, I look away. A tear found its way loose and leads a line of mascara down my cheek.
“You don’t like me,” I say. “I get it. We’re not who I thought we were. But it doesn’t mean you have to say anything cruel about my appearance.”
“Seriously,” he says, “look at your hair.”
Just when he tells me to I see a few strands rising to the sides. It’s like static electricity and some of them start to lift outward. The tingling sensation gets more intense but for only a moment before subsiding. Then the floating strands of hair fall back in place.
Shrugging, my eyes scan around to find some sort of explanation. An exposed wire? Maybe I stepped into a thin spider web?
There’s nothing. The birds don’t chirp. The traffic on the distant freeway falls silent. From the silence arises a deep humming sound. There’s nothing nearby to cause it. The sound seems to come from the Earth.
Mark’s eyes and mine find their way back to each other and the hum fades away.
"I don’t know what that was,” I say. “Maybe it was a…”
LIGHT!
Brighter than I’ve ever seen before!
So bright!
Everything around me loses its shadow!
The grass, the trees, the camera, Mark, they’re all engulfed in the brightest white!
Even with my eyes closed, all I see is white!
HEAT!
My body burns from the inside out!
It’s hotter than the sun! A thousand times hotter!
It blasts the shoes from my feet and shred parts of clothing from my skin!
My arms reach but they’re scolded by any movement!
The only thing felt is immeasurable pain!
CRACK!
It’s the only sound I hear!
It’s the sound of a whip, only amplified a million times! The sound of air ripping apart!
It’s so loud!
Its echo ripples toward the sky, right through me!
BOOM!
A thunder rattles the Earth!
My head falls back!
The light rises from the ground beneath me!
Another comes from the clouds and the two meet in the middle!
Everything hits hard at once!
It’s unbearable!
And then… Nothing.
Blackness.
Stay tuned for more coming up after the break.
CHAI TEA
9
Everything is empty.
Black.
You’d expect darkness to be cold but it’s not.
It’s warm, like a blanket.
You’d expect it to be silent but it’s not.
There’s a repetitious beeping sound.
It’s a struggle for me to see.
Only through my lashes, a blurred digital red number from a clock: 1:44 A.M.
And then, back to nothing.
Blackness, soon interrupted by a flashing bright light. A light in the shape of numbers.
32.7157
Then the beep…beep…beeping and a woman’s voice. An older woman.
It’s hard to hear what she’s saying. It’s muffled like being heard through cotton. An old woman’s voice followed by a group laughter. Then a different woman with a deeper voice.
“Ma, the weather report said nothing about a hurricane,” she says.
“Ida Prober, down at the senior center,” the older woman says, “she woke up this morning with a leg cramp. Need I say more?”
Then more laughter, like a studio audience. Like a sitcom on the television.
This darkness is something I can control.
Before, I wasn’t aware of it. Now that my conscious has returned, now to see the light, all I need to do is open my eyes.
Slowly, though.
It’s still painful.
My vision needs to adjust.
Through my lashes is a blurry television on the wall hanging and tilted toward me. It’s beyond my feet. The voice starts to clear but only slightly. The motions of the people on the screen seem to interact with whatever they’re saying. With a couple of blinks, my eyes can open a bit wider. The wider they open, the clearer the words being spoken.
This room I’m in, it’s lit by this television.
The warmth is just as I described, from a blanket. Pastel blue.
My feet are hills under the covers at the far end of the bed. A small white clip gently presses my finger. Its cable runs to a small machine at my side. More wires are stuck to my shoulders, and it feels like my ankles and chest as well.
This is not where I was a moment ago.
Before I was with Mark. I was outside of a school.
A moment ago, I felt sadness. And then…
A cold tear streams down my temple. The beeping, it gets faster.
Focus on breathing.
Inhale and be aware of that breath.
Focus on how it feels.
Exhale and be aware of it.
Focus on how that feels.
Cycling through the pattern like tranquil waves flowing in from the ocean and back out to sea.
Concentrate on that alone.
My body twitches and a sharp pain through my head makes me flinch. Another bright number flashes like it’s coming from inside my mind.
117.1611
A crowd of people laugh on the television. By now, my eyes adjust and everything is clear, even the sound of the woman. A tiny old woman, she’s on the TV. She makes people laugh. Her hair is a ball of white above thick round eyeglasses. She’s familiar. She and her three elderly friends, they’re familiar too. My mom used to watch this show when I was a little girl. It always made her laugh out loud. I was too young to understand the jokes being told but mom laughing would make me laugh too.
My body feels like it hasn’t moved in days. Pushing my elbows back to sit up, I hear something else. The sounds of pages being turned. A woman sits in a chair, blocking the doorway with her right leg propped on the frame. The backside of her silhouette is barely lit from the hallway. She has a black ponytail. Her fingers slowly flip through pages. Sometimes, she writes something on them.
These types of rooms usually smell of hospitals. Deodorizers. Antibacterial soap. Bleach. Not this one. The woman’s perfume, a pleasant fragrance.
So, I’m up now. Rubbing my eyes improves my vision.
“Sophia,” says the woman, “She’s my favorite.”
She’s referring to the sitcom on the television. The show that’s barely lighting her appearance each time the screen flashes bright. She flips another page and makes a note, chuckling. Her left arm, from her shoulder to her wrist, is decorated in a sleeve of tattoos. I’d say I don’t recognize her but it’s hard to see her face in the shadows. Boots curve tight around her ankles. It seems like those are tactical pants and a sleeveless vest. She doesn’t watch the TV but listens while skimming through words on the papers.
Who’s there?
The woman at the door, she turns a page.
“Kansas City Police,” she says.
My voice seems to have not been used in awhile. My throat is rattly and dry. It’s hard for me to speak. It’s like she’s answering my thoughts.
There’s nothing I can recall I would have done that’s illegal. I would never hurt anybody. I’m still trying to remember what happened to me. How I ended up here. My hands are not cuffed to the bedrails. Maybe she’s not here for something I’ve done but something someone else is trying to do.
Am I in trouble?
She makes another mark on the paper and flips the sheet to read the backside.
“My daughter,” she
says, “She’s in the room next door, trying to rest. So I’m watching your TV.”
She’s not watching it though. She’s reading those papers and writing notes while listening to my television. Doesn’t she think if I’m in a hospital bed, like her daughter, maybe I need rest too?
“You’ve been asleep for fourteen hours,” she says. “A bad storm couldn’t wake you up.”
This police woman, she leans over to a cup under her tilted chair and lifts it to take a sip.
Light reflects from her lips as she sits her cup back down.
The sip she takes is short.
Maybe coffee?
“Chai tea,” she says, as her hand turns another page.
Look at this hospital gown. It’s not very fashionable. My hair is probably a mess but I can’t tell because there are no mirrors.
My mouth is so dry, it’s hard to turn my thoughts into actual words.
What happened to her daughter?
The woman takes in a deep breath and lets it out before turning another page.
“Hopefully, you’ll see,” she replies.
It’s clear to me this officer isn’t here for me. She’s pretty relaxed, laid back.
It’s nice to have someone here now that I’m awake, even if it’s a complete stranger.
The TV flashes bright enough for me to see a name stenciled to her vest but I can’t read it.
“Avery,” she says.
Is that her first or last name?
“That’s not what’s important right now,” she adds.
That must be her perfume I smell.
“Bulgari Omnia,” she says.
My legs feel like they’re made of jelly. Clearly, they haven’t been used in awhile, not if I’ve been here as long as Avery says I have. My arms are weak. So weak in fact, it’s hard to pull back the blanket. Sitting here makes me dizzy, but it’s something I have to do. When my feet hang from the side of the bed, they tingle like they’re trying to wake up too.
What are those papers she’s working on?
The audience laughs again on the television and Avery flips another page. Her eyes scan each word and the tip of her ink pen follows along.
“A friend of mine,” she says, “He writes books…”
She turns the page over and scans the back.
“…and I proofread them.”
Slumberland Page 6