Slumberland Read online

  My legs are so weak, I’m barely able to make it up the steps without getting winded.

  Dr. Lane sees me when he sits at an empty table.

  “Sierra,” he says, standing again, “What’s the matter? You should have made an appointment.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense to schedule an appointment if you’re not there.”

  “I’m sorry,” he replies. “A patient of mine has passed away.”

  Without giving away confidential information, he tells me this patient of his died unexpectedly. A sweet old lady whom he just saw on the same day as my last appointment.

  I remember.

  I can still feel her watching me doodle circles on the back of a magazine.

  The elderly woman with the walker who confronted me only minutes ago.

  My stomach sinks and my face flushes.

  “But I just saw… I mean…What happened to her?”

  Doctor Lane invites me to sit with him. Chewing a bite of his sandwich, he swallows before telling me the old lady came to the emergency room by ambulance. She was at home when family found her in bed.

  “It was just her time,” he says. “She went to sleep last night but didn’t—”

  “Wake up,” I whisper.

  The ceiling above the cafeteria is made of stain glass with patterns of white clouds over a light blue sky, lit from the daylight outside.

  My eyes look down from them and lock to the table.

  Tucked under the corner of Doctor Lane’s tray is a lottery ticket.

  The numbers come into focus:

  05, 08, 13, 21, and 34.

  He tells me no one has won as of yet.

  “You and I both know you should have a ticket,” he says, wiping the corner of his mouth. “How is your wrist?”

  “Sore. Really sore. It hurts to move.”

  He asks me if I’ve been moving it too much and I nod.

  “I’ve had to. It’s the hand I write with and there’s something important I’ve been working on.”

  Finishing another bite, Doctor Lane watches me massage the fingers of my injured hand.

  “You shouldn’t be working on anything,” he says. “Any other problems? Hallucinations? Visual disturbances? Coordination?”

  “Yes.”

  Doctor Lane tells me what everyone else tells me.

  “You need sleep.”

  “I can’t. The circles mean something. The math. Nothing is adding up. I have to find the correct variables. It’s too important.”

  He takes a sip of soda and asks me how long it’s been since I’ve had a decent night of rest.

  My eyes flood looking to his. My mouth opens to speak but the words don’t come out.

  “You’re kidding me,” he replies.

  The doctor pulls a prescription pad from his pocket and clicks his pen.

  “Get this filled,” he says. “Sleep for at least eight hours; that’s all you need.”

  Scribbling his signature, he tears the sheet and hands it to me.

  “When you wake up,” he adds, “Make an appointment to see me as soon as you can.”

  As I take the prescription, Doctor Lane looks at his watch.

  “Get that filled. Take it as soon as you get home. Make sure you sleep or the side effects could make everything worse.”

  This medication, the television advertisement says it ‘works like a dream.’

  I’m so shaken, I can’t even thank him. My hands are to the point of trembling.

  As I hold tight to the handrail, my feet are weak making the steps down to the lobby.

  Outside, through my sunglasses and blocked by my hand, the sunlight floods everything with white. The outlines of the sidewalk are barely noticeable. It’s not until I’m in my car that my full vision returns. The engine starts and my foot presses the brake. After shifting from park, I look to see if any traffic needs passing before driving into the street. No other vehicles are coming but I don’t move. The sight of the man on the corner catches my eye.

  Gray sneakers. Dark denim jeans. A gray shirt. A shaved head and light facial hair. A man I’ve seen before. Because of his shades, I can’t see his blue eyes but I’m certain it’s me he’s looking at.

  no rain, no thunder

  15

  Take one tablet as needed for sleep.

  ‘Works like a dream.’

  Since sundown, the five pills I’ve ingested haven’t phased me.

  All I have now is myself, alone. Legs crisscrossed on the floor with my back against the edge of the sofa. Staring off and beyond the walls of my living room. Torn pages from notebooks scattered beside my bare feet. Tapping my eyeliner pencil and the plastic cap of my lipstick together.

  Tap… Tap… Tap.

  By this time, I imagine Randi is coming into work. Olivia is caking on her hairspray. Doug is flirting with the new intern. These things don’t bother me in a jealous sense. What’s frustrating is having to take a giant step back from everything I’ve worked so hard for. My job. My friends. My hobbies. My parents would come running at the drop of a dime, even this early in the morning. But the last thing I need right now is to be babied.

  Tap… Tap… Tap.

  Every train of thought I follow derails. The thin glass of any new idea shatters before it has a chance to light up. Stuck in a trance. A daze. It’s like writer’s block but for my life.

  For a moment, in a blank thought, my eyes weigh heavy. The slow release of support from my neck tilts my head farther down. The tapping of my makeup stops as the pencil and lipstick fall from my loose fingers. For a moment, I may be falling asleep.

  Tap… Tap… Tap.

  Inhaling deep through my nose, my head lifts and I blink a few times. The same tapping continues but it’s not from me. Looking over my shoulder to the kitchen, a thick shadow sways in the window. My legs feel like an arsenal of needles being fired at them but I’m still able to walk. At least some part of me fell asleep.

  With each step, I creep to the sink. The tapping becomes louder, the closer I get. Moving back and forth, faster and faster, the shadow is from a tree caught in high wind. Rain drops tap the window. The bigger they get, the more they sound like pellets showering the glass.

  CRACK!

  A bolt of light blinds me and I fall to my knees, covering my face with both hands.

  BOOM!

  The thunder, so loud, it rattles the walls. Framed photographs and artwork crash to the floor in the living room.

  Ducking to the ground, I fold my arms, holding the back of my head. The howling wind haunts my ears. But in less than a second, all of the sound swoops to a silence. Like a vacuum, it seems to have taken the air with it.

  Gasping for a breath, I slowly raise my body and look around. The silence is almost too quiet.

  There are no swaying shadows.

  There’s no rain.

  There’s no thunder.

  Just broken shards of glass on the floor of my living room.

  Now I’m getting somewhere. The weather, it’s trying to tell me something.

  This is ridiculous. Something has to be done. I’m not sure what, but my only thought goes to my colleagues, who by now should be prepping their stories for the morning news.

  Snatching my keys, I rush out the door. Sleeveless yellow shirt, blue jeans and barefoot, I hop in the car and start the engine.

  This song from 1958 sounds familiar, even through radio static. Music my parents used to listen to when they were younger. My lips move to the words but the singing comes from the man on the radio.

  When I feel blue in the night, and I need you to hold me tight… Whenever I want you, all I have to do is…

  In the back lot of the station, my front tire crosses over the line of a parking space.

  My heels and toes smack the concrete. The moisture in the air is heavy and hard to breathe.

  Inside, Kurt Steven’s face is buried in his computer screen. With headphones covering his ears, he’s jotting down the latest scores.

&nbs
p; You don’t need to see Olivia to know she’s here.

  All you need to do is follow the scene of perfume and hairspray.

  My feet slap and my eyes narrow as I pass Mark who’s unwrapping a loop of cable across the studio floor. We lock eyes but I’m not stopping.

  From the dressing room, my dressing room, comes Doug and the new intern.

  Her makeup is set just right but the color of her dress isn’t going to work.

  She and Doug stop flirting when they see me.

  “Where’s Randi?” I ask. “She’s not in her office.”

  Somebody give Doug an award. His acting is superb, like nothing is going on between them.

  “I’m not sure,” he says. “What happened to your wrist?”

  Why this intern, with her lucky charm clover jewelry, is so frightened, I don’t know. There’s no reason for her to get so quiet all of a sudden.

  "You can’t do the weather report.”

  Doug lowers his voice, stepping toward me.

  “Sierra, she’s a substitute until you get back. Somebody has to do the weather.”

  "Not wearing green,” I reply.

  “It’s pastel,” says the intern.

  “It’s still green.”

  I’m going to assume Doug wasn’t teaching her anything about Chroma key while they were alone. Now it makes sense. Doug was suggesting me for the primetime weather forecast because I’m useless to him. I’m not giving him what he wants. This new girl, this intern, for him it’s a fresh start with someone else. She is a substitute. Somebody to take his sexual advances. He thinks this is jealousy talking. These brows bunching together between my eyes. These tight lips of mine. The tone of my voice. Doug thinks I’m upset because I want him to be the one getting his personal attention. But that has never once been the case, nor will it ever be.

  “You’re a married man,” I say.

  The interns teeth edge together. The ring on his left hand is a dead giveaway but sometimes people need things explained to them.

  “Sierra,” says a woman’s voice. “What are you doing here?”

  Turning, I see Randi standing behind me. Her arms filled with clipboards and bulky stacks of papers, rubber banded together.

  She and I need to talk in her office. Now I didn’t say Doug needs to come along but he follows. Randi takes a seat on the corner of her desk as Doug closes the door. It’s just the three of us. Two of them waiting to hear what I have to say.

  “There’s a massive storm heading this way.”

  They look to each other and then back to me.

  “Don’t ask me how I know. I’m trying to find a way to prove it.”

  “You haven’t been sleeping,” says Randi. “I can tell from the bags under your eyes.”

  “This is why I can’t sleep. This is too important.”

  “The computers show nothing of the sort,” says Randi, glancing at her clipboard.

  Doug folds his arms and leans his back to the wall.

  “They may not,” I reply. “I haven’t found the missing variables yet. I’m still working on that.”

  “How are you predicting a storm the computers can’t?” asks Doug.

  This is where I should stop talking. No one is going to believe me. Deep inside, I know what I’m saying is true. But with no calculation and no proof, they only hear what I believe.

  Randi stands, her arms still folded.

  “Sierra, the forecast hasn’t shown any chance of precipitation or anything else for the past few days. There’s nothing to suggest any severe weather in the near future.”

  “What about this morning? Right before I came here?”

  Randi doesn’t move but her eyes look again at Doug. His shaking head hangs to his chest.

  Tears bead in both my eyes but wait to be released.

  Randi hesitates with her words for a brief second.

  “I want you to go home,” she says. “I want you to get some sleep. And I don’t want you to worry about the weather. That’s not what’s important right now. Your job is to get better. When I call you, then you can come back and we can see about getting your spot back.”

  Tears stream down my face. Both of them at the same time. One racing the other to the bottom of my chin.

  “How long will that be?” I ask.

  “When I call you,” she says.

  Doug opens the door and lets Randi leave ahead of him. He doesn’t look at me. He says nothing.

  And for me to speak, there’s nothing for me to say. Nothing to say that won’t make myself look even crazier. The taste of saltwater leaks in through the corners of my lips. The steps I take from her office don’t smack the hard floor as loud as they did when I came in.

  Mark’s face is straight. He looks concerned, not that he should. He’s never cared before, so why should he now?

  There’s no reason for me to acknowledge him.

  Like everyone else, I have nothing to say to him.

  There’s nothing to say to anyone.

  But Mark keeps watching as I pass by.

  BIRDS OF A FEATHER

  16

  It doesn’t matter to me if my phone is dead from missing calls. I’m not sure what is real anymore.

  The potted sunflower in my kitchen doesn’t like that I have all of the lights on. It doesn’t move or speak to me, but I feel it. Just like you can feel when people are irritated with you.

  “I know,” I say, “I’m wasting electricity. I know you want me to sleep. But I don’t care what you want.”

  The lights are a must. With the thick blackout curtains over the windows, I can’t tell if it’s day or night.

  Occasionally, I space out and stare at the wall and my home is dead silent. There’s a fear someone is outside listening for any noises I make. The neighbors. The police. People from work. My parents. Total strangers. What they would be here for, I don’t know, but no one can know I’m awake. They might be irritated with me. Angry because I’m not asleep. Upset because I’m not getting rest.

  The texture of my walls appear to swirl in strange patterns and once in awhile, if I look close enough, I can see the old lady’s face. Her mouth moves but I can’t hear her voice. She knows not to make noise. She’s not looking at me when she speaks, so I don’t know if she’s telling me or someone else who’s hiding behind the paint.

  “Would you stop talking?” I whisper.

  My eyelashes flutter to the sight of something flying toward my face. It lands on my hand, my wrist with the brace. A ladybug.

  A knock at my front door rattles me and the ladybug flies off. If I don’t make any noise, whoever is here will think I’m not home and they’ll go away.

  My bare feet take slow, careful steps across the living room. Now I’m stuck. Any closer to the door and they can see my shadow. If I turn off the lights, they’ll know I’m here for sure.

  My body trembles the harder I try not to move.

  I’m terrified to breathe, afraid the air I move is as loud to anyone else as it is in my head.

  Listening carefully, my eyes never leave the doorknob. I wait for any sign the visitor has left. Scuffing shoes. A sigh. Anything. But I don’t think silence can get any quieter.

  A second knock, four times, and a man’s voice.

  “Sierra,” he says, “it’s Mark.”

  Is this a new trick my imagination decided to play on me?

  Of all the people I worry about showing up, Mark is the last person I’d ever think of.

  Screw it.

  I lean my face toward the peephole.

  It is Mark and he’s not watching for a shadow.

  His head is tilted with his ear to the door.

  If I whisper soft enough, he might not hear me.

  This isn’t real, is it?

  “It’s me,” he says. “Can I come in?”

  He must be real. Or maybe, he didn’t hear me and it’s my own hallucination giving a response.

  Maybe this is a peephole to someplace else like an alternate realit
y.

  Maybe he’s standing at someone else’s door, and somehow I’m able to witness.

  Cautiously, my fingers grip tight around the doorknob, trying hard not to rattle it.

  The thumb and index of my other hand slowly unlock the deadbolt.

  All I need is a small gap to see outside.

  A short cool breeze hits my face and the daylight almost blinds me.

  Mark sees me. This isn’t in my head. As afraid as I am of what my sunflower will think about this, I unlock the chain and open the door. Him being there is drawing too much attention to anyone else who might be watching.

  He steps inside and looks around the room while I close the door.

  He tells me I have a nice place; a weather girl’s salary pays for nice things.

  “You’ll have to excuse the mess.”

  The only mess, contained to the living room.

  What extra notebooks I bought from the pharmacy have already been filled with equations, scribbles of theoretic solutions. Violently scribbled, red circles. Calendars and stacks of paper decorate my floor and sofa. Drained ink pens scatter across the coffee table with crumbs from a big, empty bag of cracker wafers. A glass sits empty next to three empty bottles of wine and a bottle of sleeping pills.

  “You’re not mixing those are you?” he asks.

  “Take one as needed for sleep.”

  “How many have you taken?” he wants to know.

  “Since I filled the bottle yesterday…maybe eight or thirteen. I think. They don’t work.”

  Mark reads the label and pops the cap, eyeing the pastel blue pills inside.

  “Half of one of these would knock me out for hours,” he says. “There’s a reason they are prescription. And downing them with wine? I’m surprised you’re not dead.”

  Mark Owens, who I once thought of as a buddy, what does he care? He’s not my friend. As of now, he’s not even my coworker. Not until Randi, the producer, says so.

  “Somehow I can’t think of you bothered by that idea,” I say.

  Mark tells me to shut up; the last thing he wants to see is me dead. He thought I came close and wasn’t sure how to handle it. He tells me why he didn’t visit the hospital. The guilt of the last conversation we’d had grew heavy knowing I may never hear him say he was sorry.