Dream Me Off My Feet (Sex, Love, And Rock & Roll)

by Kisner, Stevie

  Another tick echoed through the messy room, and she did a slow count to ten before the answering tock sounded, punctuating her impression of the odd old clock. Kori shrugged. Nothing in the house felt quite right any more. She wasn’t used to the half-demolished, echoey rooms and walls bereft of anything but the vague and dirty outlines of what used to hang there.

  Well, I guess photo albums should be next. I don’t want to leave those behind. But they’d better have their own box. They would definitely smash anything they were packed with. She turned back to the unmade boxes stacked against the wall, took one off the top, and flexed the sides to square it. “Now, where’d that tape run off to?” she mumbled, glancing around the carpet near her feet, vaguely recalling letting the roll drop to the floor after taping the last box.

  An odd sound intruded and she paused, her humming gone quiet again as she cocked an ear toward the front of the house. The noise stopped then picked up again, sounding almost but not quite like the wind rushing through the sycamore trees lining the street. Again it paused and resumed. Kori tried to identify the nearly familiar sound, but couldn’t place where she might have heard it before.

  Well, I’ve heard stranger things than that in this neighborhood. It sounded kind of far off, anyway. Probably a neighbor outside with a leaf blower, or maybe repainting his house with one of those powered paint compressors. It’s a lovely day for it, unseasonably warm and windless for April in New Mexico. Good luck to ya, whoever you are. I hope the weather holds out.

  She put the sound out of her mind (although it kept recurring at intervals more regular than the ticking of the ancient clock) and bent down to fold the flaps on the new box. The brown cardboard suddenly blurred and she listed toward the wall, bumping the box with one uncoordinated thigh. Her lethargic limbs refused to cooperate; her thoughts raced by and left them in the dust. The floor wavered and dropped a quick slant to the left, the walls rippled and stretched impossibly high, and the floor beckoned her buzzing head to come nearer and stay for a while.

  Great. Welcome to the funhouse on acid. Bracing a shoulder against the wall, she dropped her chin to her chest and screwed her eyes shut. Forcing several deep breaths to restore her mental equilibrium, she chanced a squint at the floor. It was solidly horizontal again and the walls had retreated to their usual places. I have got to get some rest. She sighed, knowing what she needed was impossible for at least the next few days.

  Kori chuckled softly as she looked down on the tops of her favorite ratty old housework tennies. There, on the floor near the dingy toe of her left shoe, was the rogue roll of tape. She must have plunked the box down on top of it, hiding it from herself until she bumped the box with her leg. She picked it up and slid the roll over her wrist to keep it from escaping again while she finished bending the flaps.

  Kori started for the sunny little office space, mildly irritated with her slow-moving feet. Her thoughts bounced and ran while her limbs dragged through pudding-thick air. I swear, things ought to be moving faster than they are. Kinda like that ancient clock up there on the wall. She let out a frustrated grunt as she stood in front of the tall oak bookcase at the entrance of her private retreat. Sit, she thought. There was a definite, perceptible delay before her legs obeyed and she plopped down on the floor. She dragged the box into her lap and silently cursed both her sluggish movements and her own impatience, glancing around the room as her hands sought out the first stack of albums.

  This room was as deconstructed as the rest of the house. Once it had been hers alone, her private retreat within her home, and the only place that truly reflected her normally sunny nature in every knickknack and decoration. Now Zach’s lumpy kindergarten clay pinchpot and the when-was-he-ever-that-small handprint in plaster, those gifts clumsily perfect and given with shining eyes, were tucked away with all the little baubles and figurines. Precious mementos of a life lived by some other woman, safely wrapped, boxed, labeled and ready for shipping.

  Kori stacked the albums in the box, one by one and a little quicker than before (is time speeding up, or am I just getting used to it?) while her eyes continued to wander the room. The many houseplants dotting the windowsills and hanging from the ceiling remained. A few neighbors would be coming by in the morning to say their farewells and take custody of the plants. Until then, they soaked up the spring sunshine and lent normalcy to the chaotic disarray.

  She slid a thick photobook into the box, automatically reaching for the next in the stack. Cool and sleek, the satin binding in her hands interrupted her musing and she looked down at the faded pink cover. Smoothing her fingertips over the embossed lettering on the front, a chiding smile touched the corners of her lips. The baby book I’d tried so hard to wrench from his hands. What was I so afraid of? That he’d find out the real honest truth that imaginary friends aren’t always imaginary, that sometimes they’re just very far away? That I’d known all along he was a real person? Well, actually I’d thought he was two different people, but I hadn’t a clue what his name was nor what he looked like? And all for what? The only problem turned out to be in my own head.

  She tucked the book of her childhood into the box with the others and noticed it was now nearly full, and there was still another stack waiting to be packed. Then there’s all those shoeboxes of negatives. I’d forgotten about those. Guess it’s time to make more boxes. She rose and went back to the stack of cardboard, feeling more out of sync with her body than before. This time it was reversed; she was moving a little faster than her thoughts could keep up with. Her feet were heavy, their motions awkward, and her hands swung clumsily at her sides. What in the hell is going on now? I know I’m overtired. Next should come those color-trails when I turn my head.

  Testing, Kori swung her head to the right (slower, dammit! don’t want to lose my balance and throw up from optical overload) as she walked, anticipating psychedelic lines and vapor trails of color. Everything stayed clearly defined, their hues refusing to bleed and drift with her expectations. Her neck, however, twinged angrily at twisting too hard and fast and hurled spasmic insults at her brain. She reached up, intending to rub the threatening muscle, and soundly smacked the back of her head. I’m losing my parameters, that’s what it is. Working too hard and long. I need a break, and I’ll take one just as soon as these two boxes are made and filled.

  She looked up at the old clock in the living room and was surprised to see the pendulum now swinging steadily and almost too fast, its alternating tick and tock nearly overlapping. The cruising pendulum and her disjointed coordination were bringing back the vertigo; she quickly looked down again, grabbed an unformed box from the top of the stack and flexed it open.

  Maintain, Kori. Just keep it together for a little while longer. And where in the hell are JT and Zach with the hamburgers? In her condition, anything but a straight posture seemed risky. A clumsy turn to the right brought the box to rest on the back of the nearby recliner and she bent two of the flaps inward.

  Constructing boxes had become a nearly mindless task, something she’d done so many times these last few days that her hands were on autopilot. And that was beginning to be a problem Her hands were in the cockpit of a trans-Atlantic jetliner but her brain was flying a four-seater Cessna. She shoved down the last flap just a little too fast and crammed her hand into the narrow gap in the middle, trapping her arm up to the wrist inside the box. Softly cursing, she yanked her hand back out and nearly tore off one of the flaps. “Jesus, Kori. Get a grip,” she muttered. As if chastising herself would make any difference. Getting a grip was the very thing she was having trouble with.

  Holding the box steady, Kori let her head drop back and she pulled in a slow, deep breath. Her staccato exhale plainly showed that her attempt hadn’t wrought its usual calming charms. She growled, frustrated, before trying again, this time pausing and holding the height of her inhale. There’s that sound again. Like a manic librarian in caffeine overload. The shushing held her transfixed and she cocked her head, straining to make out mo
re detail. Her lungs were burning, needing to exhale or burst, and she let go the breath she had forgotten she was holding. This time, her reward was a satisfying, even rush of air.

  Better. She turned back to finishing the box.

  She fumbled with the roll of wide tape and nearly dropped it. Again, she willed her hands to behave. I can’t tell if I’m thinking through mud or moving in fast-forward. Not that it matters. The result’s the same. She pulled the tape faster than her brain could get her fingers to coordinate and the long strip tangled and stuck to itself in a giant wad.

  Shaking her hand to fling it off, she became more entangled instead. “Fuck,” she muttered, frustrated by her impatient fingers and slow wits.

  The siren’s call of the amphetamine metronome tick-tocking on the wall bade her move even faster. Her limbs tried desperately to comply but it was impossible with their control center creeping steadily into reverse.

  Lightning fast, she swiped her hand across her leg and stuck the tape to her jeans.

  The sound of the clock was becoming more erratic, sometimes pausing, then catching up again with an almost overlapping tick and tock. Irregular though it was, there was no mistaking the steadily increasing pace. It was too loud to miss.

  Once again, Kori felt her vision waver and the walls canted in. The roll of tape slipped from her fingers, the box tumbled to the floor. Her mind twisted, the disjointed tangle of slow motion and rush blowing everything from her grasp with each hiss and wheeze from God-knew-where.

  Make it stop. Please, just make it go away… Why aren’t you back yet, JT? I need you…

  The world slanted into black and she felt herself begin to fall.

  ****

  The shadows coalesced and shifted, drifting into a hazily solid form before scattering back into the depths. A practiced eye would have noticed it. So might a person possessed of a good squint and a burning need to stare into the dim and misty corner of the room. It was scarcely more than a deeper shade of the gloom, really; an indistinct outline in the dark. With a little imagination, it was almost possible to envision a man’s head and torso fading down into the dusky nothing below.

  In the space between the bed and the shape (which may or may not have really been there, depending), monitors on tall poles flashed their warning lights, the clicking of the bulbs an abstractly loud contrast to the low, intermittent hiss of an oxygen feed. On a computer screen down the hall and around the bend, the silenced alarms flickered brightly on the display.

  Kori twitched in the makeshift chaise, murmuring incoherent syllables and frowning deeply. She settled back into relative quiet, only occasionally nodding her head or sighing softly, her frown supplanted by a blank look of sleepy peace.

  The lights on one of the monitors ticked on, followed after a moment by another, then another. They were all turned back off with an audible click. Again, one at a time but with a little less delay between them, they flicked back on and were immediately shut off. It didn’t take long before there was almost no pause between the three bulbs sequentially brightening; the only wait was for them to be switched back off. Even that was coming along almost as fast as they lit. They began going on in quick succession, the clicking of their consecutive illumination nearly overlapping. Following hot on their heels was the loud sound as they all popped off once more. Through it all, the rhythmic whisper of the oxygen as it flowed through the tube under Mark’s nose maintained a steady backbeat. His breathing was beginning to hitch and falter, however, unable to keep time with the muted hiss.

  An anguished gasp breached the peculiar symphony in the room and Kori jolted upright in the chair. The pillow behind her back plopped to the floor as she kicked at the chair under her feet, her legs wrestling with their cocoon. Clawing at the blanket, her head whipping wildly, she thrashed her way free and flew to her feet. Heavy gulps of air helped her to toss off the lingering sensation of falling and she finally noticed the insane light show flickering throughout the room. Underscoring it all was the sound of her husband’s breaths, wheezing and pausing for much too long before picking up again.

  Oh fuck oh shit no. Not yet! I’m not ready!

  Moving as fast as she had at the end of her dream, she took Mark’s hand in one of her own and frantically pressed the call button with the other.

  “He’s… Oh, God, JT…” She choked on her whispered plea and had to start again. “He keeps forgetting to breathe! I’m losing him. Please, if there’s a God, you’ve got to let him hear me…”

  Zach bent down to pick up the neat tube of socks that had tumbled from JT’s fingers, peering up through his bangs and pretending not to be watching him. Not that he expected JT to notice, anyway. If Zach’s perception was correct, then JT wasn’t even aware of what room he was standing in. He was next to Zach’s dresser, stock still and wearing a peculiar, faraway look. Zach knew that expression well. His mom had it once in a while, and he knew he’d worn it himself sometimes in class. Those were the times the teachers had accused him of zoning out or daydreaming.

  They couldn’t have been less accurate. What he was experiencing was the most personal of realities; what Zach thought of as antennae time, when the emotions and thoughts of someone else were beaming into his head with such force that his own self was momentarily pushed aside and external awareness dropped away. For him, that usually meant feeling the frustration of his teachers as they noticed the class had pretty much stopped paying attention and had begun to drift.

  Zach sat on the edge of the bed, letting JT have the extra moment of connection while he pulled on his socks and stuffed his feet into his still-tied shoes. “JT?” he said, reaching out to tug on his sleeve, “We’d better leave now. It’s too late for you to tell my dad goodbye, and I did it last night, but my mom’s gonna need us a lot by the time we get there.”

  Zach watched as JT’s face fazed back into itself, the long-distance link-up broken. “Yeah,” he whispered, “let’s go.”

  Twenty-Seven

  JT sat at the small kitchen table, twiddling the two new passports in the intense January sunlight glaring through the kitchen windows. There had been a third just a few moments earlier, but Kori and taken that one away and hadn’t come back. He heard a dresser drawer slide closed after she left the room, and he assumed she went back to lying on her bed again, just like she’d spent most of the last several days.

  JT had caught the midnight flight to Albuquerque after the last show of the tour. Kori had insisted that JT finish the final three shows while she made the funeral arrangements alone. He did a lot of arm-waving and shouting but couldn’t override Kori’s quiet persistence that her loss should not mean calling off a year’s advance planning. To the band’s amazement, in the end her stubbornness actually beat out JT’s. It was a testament to habit and professionalism that the audiences never knew how shredded he was inside, or just how much it took for him to haul himself up onto that stage and be the showman they’d paid to see.

  Distant. Not the most accurate word for her, but not really off the mark, either. He hadn’t expected anything else, to be honest. She just lost the man she’d shared her life with for the last fifteen years. JT had steeled himself for an emotional barrage when he’d arrived on her doorstep at three in the morning, but she’d just opened the door, fully dressed in jeans and a ratty flannel shirt two sizes too big, dropped her eyes and stepped away. And since then, there’d been nothing. No outbursts, no crying, no mind invasions. And while there wasn’t any resistance when he’d tried to poke into her head, there wasn’t anything there to find. Not even sadness. Just… a big blank empty.

  And then there was the silence. Other than the few necessary words on the phone with the funeral director, she’d not spoken at all since JT got there. Except when he’d asked where the blankets were so he could settle in again on the too-short sofa and she’d asked him to sleep next to her in the bed so she wouldn’t be alone. He knew he’d fallen asleep as he held her, but in the morning the purple circles under her eyes we
re heading for black and JT was pretty sure she’d lain awake all night.

  Silence picking up the band at the airport and taking them to the resort hotel where they’d stayed before. And other than murmured thank-yous to condolences, she remained stoic and quiet during the memorial service. Silence when the band played an acoustic version of Queen’s Save Me at the end of it and JT’s voice broke on the last verse. JT saw her lips move as she laid a single long-stemmed rose on the casket at the crematorium, but there was no telling what she might have said. I’ve got Mark’s letter in my bag, but I don’t know if now is the right time to give it to her. Maybe I really ought to read it first…

  JT was at a loss. Dealing with death wasn’t something he’d ever needed to do. Until now, every person who’d ever meant something to him was still alive and well. Despite their convoluted circumstances, he’d really liked the guy. And while he was saddened that Mark was gone, he also found a sense of relief that the man was finally released from his terrible pain.

  Today the passports had arrived, and JT thought it was time to distance Kori from the house and all its memories and now he actually could. He picked up Kori’s, thinking how much happier she’d looked just a month ago in the passport photo. He set it down with a sigh and rooted around in the kitchen drawers for the yellow pages. An hour later, the three were booked to leave for England on Monday afternoon.

  I still need to read that letter.

  He wanted to, but couldn’t find the time alone to do it. As far as he could tell, Korina still wasn’t sleeping. She’d lay down with him, let him hold her, but he always woke up alone, finding her staring out the kitchen window or on the sofa in the living room, mutely ignoring whatever channel had been left on the television the night before. I can’t fix it, and I can’t rush her grief, but I think it’s time she stopped steeping in it.