Slumberland

by Bradley Carter

She must make a lot of money.

  “When it comes to books, he’s still a rookie,” she says. “Hopefully someday his stories will start selling.”

  She turns another page and jots down a quick note.

  “In the meantime,” she adds, “I get to read stuff for free and I’m written as a recurring character in each of his stories.”

  My head starts to ache just a bit. Perhaps it’s because my eyes are starting to pick up on more light, even though it’s still dark in here. They adjust to see parts of her sleeve tattoo becoming more detailed.

  I’m betting her character is a police officer too.

  She nods and continues to scan the words with the pen.

  That’s a dangerous job.

  “I can’t die,” she says. “My friend, the author, he’s not allowed to kill me.”

  Fair trade, I guess.

  My eyes squint and focus more on Avery’s tattoos.

  I want to tell her I like her ink, but I’m sure she hears that a lot.

  She turns another page and sits half the stack she’s edited into a box under her chair. After lightening the load, she goes back to reading more.

  “I have a full Polynesian sleeve,” she says, “and it goes down my back and halfway down my left thigh. I also have my daughter’s name on my right ankle. A nautical star that matches the same as the one of my best friend’s on my right wrist and the Chinese Mandarin symbol for ‘Mother’ on my right shoulder.”

  She turns another page.

  Her eyes never leave the paper.

  How she’s able to listen to the show on TV, edit a manuscript, and still have a conversation with me is beyond my comprehension. Both her arms seem firm, like she works out. I guess to be in law enforcement, you have to stay fit. Me, your friendly forecaster, Sierra Preston, I’m not that strong. I’m not as tough. Heck, I don’t even have any tattoos.

  My fingers press against my temples. My vision turns red from a light shining through my eyelids. The lights in the ceiling are on. I blink rapidly to adjust and when they open again, I see Avery is gone. The chair remains, holding the door open. But there’s no box of papers underneath it. No cup of chai tea. For a second, I think maybe she was never there.

  On the table next to my bed there’s a cup filled with water and a bendy straw. I’m guessing it’s for me when I wake up. The lukewarm water can’t move through the straw fast enough.

  In through the door comes a nurse. From behind the nurse comes Doctor Lane.

  “Well,” he says. “She’s finally awake.”

  The hands he uses to feel my neck and face are cold.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  There’s no need to tell him about my headache and the flash of numbers since it only just went away. Only a few seconds pass of me drinking the water before the slurping sound of air tells me it’s empty.

  The doctor tells me my blood pressure is outstanding. My heart rate is great. My oxygen levels are within range. The scans and lab work, everything came back… perfect.

  “I think we should have bought you a lottery ticket,” he says.

  He and his nurse both look at me with disbelief. They seem amazed. With his thumb and index finger, Doctor Lane smoothens his mustache, looking curiously at my chart.

  “Do you remember what happened?” he asks.

  I’m still a big groggy from being asleep for so long, if it has been that long.

  Pressing my palm to my forehead, I shake my head.

  “The school, Mark, then something… I don’t know.”

  “You were struck by lightning,” says Doctor Lane.

  Struck by lighting means burnt skin, singed hair, dead muscle and tissue. Grabbing my hair, touching my face, examining my arms and legs, I don’t find any of those things. Doctor Lane pushes the bridge of his glasses and shrugs.

  “It’s beyond me,” he says. “Usually people with this kind of injury survive but are disabled in some ways. You don’t have a scratch.”

  That’s good to know. I’m relieved. Confused, but relieved.

  Doctor Lane tells me I need to stay another day and night for observation. If all is well, I can go home. He tells me food services bring will me anything I want to eat.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  The nurse points to the clock. “It’s 2:33 A.M.”

  That must be why there are no visitors. My mom, my dad, my friends, my coworkers; nobody else is here. Nobody waiting by my bedside for me to wake up. One person, Avery, a total stranger, but now she’s gone.

  After describing Mark, the nurse says he never came to see me. He was there when it happened. He can’t say he didn’t know. He must not be my friend after all.

  “My birthday. I missed my birthday.”

  Doctor Lane pats my shoulder. He tells me not to worry. Not to cry. That’s not what’s important right now. My friends and family can celebrate my birthday soon. What’s important is to get feeling better. He’s going to call my parents and they’ll be here to see me in the morning. He tells me to get some food and then some rest. But more rest after fourteen hours of sleep?

  As for food, I’m not hungry. I doubt I’d be able to keep a snack down.

  “There’s one thing you need to keep an eye out for,” he says. “In some cases of a lightning strike, people have reported mood swings, changes in personality, hallucinations, and different ways of thinking.”

  “I don’t feel any of those things.”

  “With this type of injury,” he adds, “the physical damage starts from the inside of the body and spreads to the surface. It’s been long enough and nothing appears to be damaged. But if things start to transition mentally or emotionally for you, it’s imperative you let me know.”

  Doctor Lane takes his hand from my shoulder and leaves the room. The nurse hands me a tissue to wipe a tears. As she follows the doctor, she flicks the lights off.

  The only sounds in my room are from the laughter on television. The only light comes from the screen and from the dim hallway. The only things I feel are emptiness and solitude. Then, it’s an uneasy distress. This feeling, it trickles through my nerves and down my spine.

  This sensation now comes from the strange man standing in the hall, leaned against the wall opposite of my doorway. He wasn’t there a moment ago. This man wears dark jeans, almost black. His shirt is gray, as well as his shoes. His blue eyes peer at me through his thin framed glasses. Late thirties, early forties, it’s hard to say. His shoulders are broad, his lips are thick. His skin is light, almost pale, as if he hasn’t seen the sunlight in years. His hair is dark and buzzed short.

  To me it seems he wants to say something but can’t. He wants to come in but only stands there, leaning against the wall, watching me.

  Some people who cross your path don’t cause this much discomfort by appearance alone. But this man, as normal as he seems to be, he frightens me. Just like lightning, a cold shiver bolts through my entire body. Grabbing ahold of my covers, I throw the blanket over my shoulders and when I look to the hallway again, the man… he’s gone.

  lightning flowers

  10

  A small and impatient group of people wait by the elevator. I’m a little anxious myself to get out of here. To get back home.

  They seem to mind their business. No one seems to recognize me from the morning news. When a hospital staff member pushes you in a wheelchair, and you’re wearing a hospital gown, people only see you as a patient. They don’t want to accept the injured. They ignore the ill, at least when it’s people they don’t know. But these people should know me. Maybe I don’t look like what they see on the television. No makeup. Hair is a mess. No trendy clothes. No bright smile.

  Doctor Lane said I’m okay to leave. He said he wants to see me for a follow up whenever I feel up to scheduling an appointment. For the time being, it’s rest. He said to avoid jumping back to my normal routine. To take it easy.

  Two older women and a business man stand together, and for the first tim
e, I’m glad not one of them recognizes me. My shredded clothes and Chuck Taylor shoes, bagged in plastic, they sit in my lap.

  “The wait wouldn’t be so bad if we knew how long it would take,” says the man.

  My eyes squint. There’s no headache but one feels like it might come.

  Our wait time, I measure not by a watch or clock, but in my brain.

  Seventeen… eighteen… nineteen point zero seven seconds.

  The elevator doors open and the others step inside. The staff member pulls me in backward as the doors slide closed. A business man, he pushes the button to the lobby.

  Zero point seven three feet per second from the third floor, that’s…thirty feet.

  Twenty-one point nine seconds added to our nineteen point zero seven seconds…forty point nine seven…

  The headache never comes and my eyes never leave the numbered buttons on the elevator panel. They light up before the next floor and then darken as we pass it. The bell dings as the number two button lights up.

  “Five,” I say, “Four… Three… Two…”

  The one is silent.

  The bell dings again as the elevator doors spread apart.

  Everyone standing around me, they look amazed. Impressed. One of them I left with their jaw hanging open, puzzled how I could calculate the timing in such a short time. Like them, I’m somewhat impressed myself. If they asked me, I don’t know what I would say to explain it. That’s never happened before. I never could rattle off math in my head but it came to me like second nature.

  The orderly pushing my wheelchair, his feet move fast. With my head down and eyes locked to the ground, I hear the legs of his scrub pants swish with each step. Counting each pace to myself, we head toward the exit.

  One step every half second.

  The distance from the elevator to the parking lot.

  The number of steps per minute multiplied by… stop.

  The hospital lobby doors come closer and from my right, I see this mystery man. The one from the hallway last night.

  He sees me and says nothing. He slides his sunglasses from the top of his head, down over his eyes and moves on.

  Outside the entrance, Mom waits beside her car with Dad in the driver’s seat. The door to the passenger side of the backseat is open. Mom extends her arm to help me with my bag.

  “I’ve got it,” I say. “I don’t need help.”

  She insists on letting me use as little energy as possible. She helps me from the wheelchair and into the car and shuts the door like she’s a member of the valet. From the rearview mirror I see my reflection for the first time.

  My hair falls as straight as always.

  There’s nothing out of the ordinary.

  No burns.

  No bruises.

  I look just how I feel— normal.

  No matter how many times I tell this to mom, she insists something is wrong. I must be in pain. Exhausted. She tells me I’ll feel much better when I’m rested.

  She questions Dad if maybe he thinks we need to stop at every store we pass. Am I hungry? Do I need medicines? How about a movie rental? Something to keep me entertained while I recover?

  Who rents movies from a store anymore?

  Ten minutes go by of assuring her I’m okay and all I want is to be at home.

  When we finally pull up to my condo, Mom won’t let me open the door. She has to be the valet again. I don’t need help stepping from the car but she offers her hand anyway.

  “Let’s get you inside,” she says.

  “How are you, Dad?”

  Closing the car door and dropping the keys in his jacket pocket, he says he’s fine. Never better.

  “You should be at home. I’m fine on my own.”

  “Not when my CC is coming home from the hospital,” he says.

  He tells me I shouldn’t worry about him. His acid reflux and nausea subsided days ago. He takes ahold of my elbow and with Mom carrying my bag, we go inside.

  Everything in my condo is almost as I left it, except for things on my dining room table.

  Get-well cards. Birthday cards. Things from work, like my makeup bag. Unwrapped birthday presents. Mom says there’s one from her and Dad. Another is a basket of goodies from my colleagues. People from work stopped by to drop off my things. They weren’t sure what they should do with them.

  Mom questions my needs for anything around my house. Do I want to rest on the couch and watch television? Do I want her to tuck me in bed?

  “Mom, all I want is to get out of this hospital gown and take a shower.”

  She agrees it’s a good idea but fears I’ll get weak and fall, so she hurries to draw me a bath.

  I can hear the water filling the tub from the kitchen.

  From the bathroom, she shouts to me if I want something to eat; it’s not a bother. She can fix me something. Anything I want. Maybe order a pizza?

  “I’m fine.”

  The more she babies me, the more irritated I become.

  “Are you sure, sweetheart?” asks Dad. “We were hoping to fix you something nice since you didn’t have a birthday dinner.

  “I’m not hungry."

  Mom comes and tells me to hurry; my bathwater will get cold. After that, we can sit down and have a nice meal together.

  “Really, I need some peace right now.”

  My parents made their own plans for when I come home. Mom says, at the very least, they would get to see me open my present from them.

  “Don’t you think it’s a good idea for us to stay awhile and help you get situated?”

  “Mother, I’m an adult! I can take care of myself."

  A dead silence leaves me feeling bad for snapping back, especially when I see Dad’s face. His eyes wander to the floor. His shoulders fall limp and he doesn’t smile.

  “C’mon,” he says. “Let Sierra be.”

  Part of me wants to say no. To tell them to stay. To apologize for being so edgy. But underneath the guilt, I still want to be alone.

  Mom hugs me and kisses my cheek. She makes me promise to call her if I start to feel bad. She tells me not to strain myself. Dad says nothing and makes his way to the door.

  “Maybe we can get together tomorrow. After I’ve had some sleep.”

  Still, he stays quiet and hangs his head.

  “Dad?”

  This isn’t like him. It’s a side of him I’ve never seen before. It’s like his CC just broke his heart.

  Mom wants to say something but doesn’t. Instead, she follows him outside.

  After closing the door, I watch her standing hesitant to leave the porch. Through the blinds covering the window, Mom’s silhouette remains. The shadow of her fist almost knocks at the door but when she sees Dad getting into the car, she leaves.

  Turning my parents away, denying their company, I feel even worse. It pains me to realize they were only trying to help. Not once in my twenty-nine years has Dad ever missed a birthday. Mom was only trying to make up for it. I’ll give them time to get home before I call and apologize.

  That’s a good plan.

  Let myself get settled and then I’ll talk to them.

  The last time I recall sitting in a tub of water, I was a little girl. Dad would make sure his CC had plenty of suds from ‘Mr. Bubble’ for bath time. I remember the pink bottle with the white cap and the silly cartoon face on the label. As an adult, with my work and activities, showers have been more beneficial. However, at this moment, soaking in a tub seems like the best way to relax and clear my thoughts.

  The water is almost too hot to submerge in, but nothing could feel as hot as a billion volts of electricity shearing its way through your body. In comparison, this water would be an ice bath.

  My toes press against the faucet.

  My eyes only see through steam as it rises from the water.

  It’s quiet, except for the plopping sound a drop makes when it falls to the surface.

  When one lands, it causes a circular ripple to push outward to the edges of th
e tub. A perfect circle.

  All I think of are the words that came from Mark’s sharp tongue.

  This whole time, I had no idea my cheery attitude was so offensive to him.

  I had no idea our friendship was so one-sided. His being my buddy was only my imagination. Still, I wish I had more answers. I wish he had shed more light on the reasons he hates me so much.

  My left big toe pushes the plug and the bathwater drains as I step out.

  In the mirror, my reflection has no injuries.

  I’ve heard of patterns left on the skin of lightning strike victims— Lichtenberg figures, or lightning flowers. Scars that stretch across the skin and appear to mimic the shape of lightning bolts. But I don’t have any. Not one.

  For what seems to be minutes, I stare at my reflection. The tips of my hair drip wet onto my fluffy brown towel wrapped tight around me.

  There’s nothing I’m thinking of. My mind is blank. I’m not even looking at my reflection anymore but more like… beyond.

  From my bedroom, my alarm clock beeps once. On the screen, the red numbers show 3:77 P.M.

  That’s impossible. There’s no such time.

  It takes me a minute to regroup my thoughts. Maybe the clock is on the fritz. Maybe it’s just a glitch. It’s the same one I’ve had for years. The bars that make up numbers blink and the clock goes blank. Staring in my quiet bedroom, I try to make sense of it. But the silence breaks quickly. My heart skips a beat when I gasp, startled by the ring of my cellphone.

  Rushing to the kitchen table, I bump a stack of papers to the floor.

  Call it a habit. My doodles of red circles.

  I’m fast to answer, thinking it might be my dad. But the voice on the other end is Randi’s, my producer.

  “How are you doing?” she asks.

  “Given the circumstances, I’m fine, I guess.”

  Randi tells me she feels out of place for calling but wanted to see if there was anything she could do for me. She and my other colleagues, their thoughts are with me. They were afraid I would never wake up.

  “Whenever you’re ready to come back to work,” she says, “you let me know. There’s no rush. Take plenty of time.”

  I’ve never been one to baby myself, especially when there’s nothing wrong.