Slumberland Read online

  “There is no help,” I reply. “I’ve exhausted all my options. Pills. Therapy. I’m pretty sure I’ve drank enough liquor to kill a sailor.”

  Okay, Mom might cry but she puts up a good fight.

  Dad tries to think of solutions while his hand strokes my back a few times. Being babied is not what I need; it’s not what I want, but resting my face on dad’s chest settles my nerves. The creak of my bedroom door stops me just before my face touches his shirt. The three of us look to see a bed-headed Mark standing at the end of the hall. His t-shirt is wrinkled. The hems of his blue jeans stuck under his socked feet.

  After leaving Mr. Bridges’ office last night, Mark drove me home. He didn’t think it was safe for me to be alone in my condition. He tried to stay awake but the guy never gets enough sleep. My bed is of no use to me, so I let him sleep there. Besides, he couldn’t rest on my couch, not with me fumbling around living room all night.

  He and Dad shake hands. The old caretaker of little CC meeting the younger, newer one. Even after watching over me for only one night, dad appreciates him being there. But really, I think it was me watching over Mark despite the fact I forgot he was back there.

  “I’m going to go,” he says. “If you need anything, give me a call.”

  As embarrassed as I am over the crawling ladybugs he steps through, even though he can’t see them, Mark seems to be even more ashamed for being seen with me. My family doesn’t judge. Any friend of CC’s is a friend of Mom and Dad’s. But the guy friends and boyfriends my parents met in the past looked nothing like Mark. They were thought of to be higher glass. Guys with expensive cars. Big houses. Six-pack abs. The kind to take their rich friends on a boat for the weekend. Better groomed. More fit. Mark isn’t unattractive by any means, but it’s his low self-esteem that weighs on him.

  “What can we do?” asks Mom.

  My head shakes. Trying to come up with ideas is exhausting.

  Dad’s arm stretches around my neck and he pulls me close. My arms around his waist. His chin rests on my head. He holds me tight. So tight, I can hear his heartbeat.

  In one ear, the pounding of my dad’s heart and in the other, the faint ticking of his wristwatch. By listening for a few seconds, I calculate his heart beats two point five one times faster than each second. That’s one-hundred fifty beats a minute. Doctor Lane said the normal range for an adult heartbeat is between sixty and one hundred.

  The volume of a heartbeat can sense a person’s blood pressure. The top and bottom numbers of a blood pressure, within range, should be close to one twenty over eighty.

  “Every problem has a solution,” says Dad.

  A month ago I interviewed a specialist who gave me an interesting presentation on how medical conditions are detectable from a person’s voice. Their tone. The changes in frequency, range, pitch, timing. The human voice is measured in Hertz. Without the proper equipment, it’s hard to distinguish these changes. I’ve heard Dad’s voice for twenty-nine years. But like my eyes, staying awake this long gives my ears sensitivity.

  The fundamental frequency of an adult male’s voice ranges between eighty-five and one-hundred eighty. The difference in dad’s voice is barely noticeable, but it’s there.

  Something is wrong.

  His heart works too strong and too fast for a man doing nothing more than hugging his daughter. Also taking into consideration he’s in his fifties, he’s within the age bracket for poor cardiac health.

  “Mom,” I say. “Call an ambulance.”

  Dad sees my concerned expression and both parents think the call for help is for me, but it’s not.

  His pale face beads with sweat.

  His soaked shirt is cold to touch.

  He tells me there’s no pain.

  He says I shouldn’t worry so much.

  He would know if anything were wrong.

  But his worrisome face says otherwise.

  His dizzying gaze says he could pass out any minute.

  THIS IS WHY YOU’RE CONFUSED

  19

  After the wailing sirens and bright flashing lights subside, Annie’s brother, the paramedic, tells me dad is in good hands. After a quick evaluation and a fast trip to the cath-lab, after a stent is placed in dad’s heart, after recovery, the nurse tells me dad has to be admitted for a few days while he gets better.

  Visiting hours for immediate family members run around the clock. But after Doctor Lane sees me wide awake at my father’s side, after he learns I haven’t had sleep, he tells me to go home and rest. Had my father not been there, Doctor Lane says he would admit me right now and keep me in a chemically induced coma. But one dramatic recovery at a time.

  Somehow I think they could fill my bloodstream with every drop of sedative and I’d still be waiting for it to kick in. Dad would be worried either way and that’s not what he needs right now.

  Driving is out of the question. Mom offers but she needs to stay with Dad. They insist I call Mark to take me home, but there’s a block on all cellphones inside the building. I’ll have to call when I’m outside.

  Walking through the lobby, passing these people who once saw my face on their televisions, I realize none of them notice me. By now, I look how I feel. Drained. Empty. Weak. Miserable. By this point, I’m more paranoid somebody will recognize me. The only explanation I could give would be something they wouldn’t believe.

  Outside in the chill of late night air, one person walks the streets who I’m familiar with, even though I know nothing about him. The man with gray sneakers. Hair shaved short. The thin-framed lenses of his glasses never turn my direction. Of all the times I’ve seen him eyeing me, maybe he doesn’t recognize me anymore either.

  It’s a long shot. Possibly dangerous. But talking to him is a chance I’m compelled to take. A call to Mark for a ride will have to wait. I’m following this guy on foot. Keeping my distance behind him. Trying not to attract attention. He leads me into the streets of downtown.

  At night, it’s a display of the people we take for granted. The people we ignore. Those less fortunate. The homeless begging for change. The prostitutes doing what they have to do to survive. Potholes in the streets, never fixed unless complained about. Unlike other parts of the city, downtown is the safest place to be.

  The mysterious man leads me to walk for blocks. Staying close but not too close, I’m able to see the bar he walks into. Through the glass door, I watch him order a drink as he takes a seat. A napkin goes down before a glass of whiskey. The man watches the news on the television mounted to the corner of the room.

  With my head facing down, I walk in. This way, if he looks up, it won’t be so obvious I’m following.

  As my hand reaches for the door, a sharp pain shoots through my head. My body twitches. My eyes squint and a bright number flashes in the darkness:

  39.1031

  My vision is blurred and the pain grows stronger. With another flinch, comes another number:

  84.5120

  Then, as quickly as it came, the pain vanishes. Everything comes back into focus.

  This tiny hole-in-the-wall tavern is almost empty. Only a couple of people play darts. The pool tables sit empty. The waitress thumbs her cellphone over a table of newly wrapped silverware. Aside from a lonely drunk in the corner, the mystery man is only other person sitting at the bar. As I walk toward him, the jukebox plays. This song from 1955 sounds familiar. My lips move to the words but the singing comes from the man on the radio.

  Life is but a dream… it’s what you make it…

  I take a seat at the bar, leaving an empty stool between us.

  He still hasn’t noticed me but the bartender does.

  Wine is usually my drink of choice but here, a glass costs almost as much as a bottle. Something stronger would be nice, even though it’s doubtful it will have an effect on me.

  “Red Flags,” says the man to my left, the mystery man. “It’s whiskey. A darker brand than most people are used to. It’s got a bad history. One you might no
t want to know about. It’s not the best but it’s the first one I ever tried. Some people like it, some people don’t.”

  His eyes never leave the television. Nodding to the bartender, I see what’s on the screen. It’s a news report. The lower third graphic reads: ‘Information leaked from anonymous source.’ Anonymous is spelled with zeros replacing each O.

  The mystery man snickers.

  The bartender sets a napkin and my drink in front of me. I’ve only had whiskey once before and I regretted the first sip after the hangover it left me the next morning.

  But what am I worried about? Nothing works anymore, anyway.

  The liquid burns all the way to my stomach. With a taste like this, it’s bound to give me some sedative effect. At the very least, it allows me work up the courage to say something to the man beside me.

  He tips the rest of his drink into his mouth and sets down the glass for the bartender to refill.

  The bartender slides a full glass across the counter where it comes to a stop in the man’s hand. On the edge of the bar rests a single ladybug.

  In normal circumstances, I’m a people person. Starting a conversation with someone is a challenge I’m usually fortunate enough not to have to overcome. I’m not shy. But here and now, it’s difficult for me to think up anything to say to break the ice.

  There’s having a sense about someone and then there’s a certainty which overcomes you. Something you know for sure can benefit your life somehow. An immediate sense of comfort. But still, the certainty won’t let me make small talk. This certainty leads me to use a language unspoken by the majority of people. To say words I would never say otherwise.

  Your glass slid from a start at one point and ended by stopping at another. Between the two are an infinite number of points. If you cut a string in half, you have two strings. If you cut one of those in half, you have two more. So on and so on.

  Who in the hell am I? This is how I start a conversation with a total stranger? Someone I’ve been frightened of for days? And mentioning things I’d never considered before? Things I had no concept of?

  With the smallest tool, you could continue to cut a half into halves forever. Numerically, it’s the same concept. Between zero and one are decimals. Dividing them in half leads to more decimals. So on and so on. An infinite number.

  The man won’t look my way. It’s like he’s accepted the topic and listens as I continue.

  So, if you can’t count to infinity, and infinity exists between two points, then motion has to be an illusion.

  Are these the words coming from my mouth or are they only thoughts? Maybe that’s why he’s not answering me.

  The news turns to a commercial and the man’s eyes find their way to his glass. His fingers wrap the rim and he scoots it a short distance.

  “Since you can’t reach an infinite number, I can see why you would assume motion is impossible,” he says. “However, the points in the distance are always halved and the time it takes for the glass to travel gets halved as well. It’s impossible to reach infinity, but you can’t infinitely divide physical reality.”

  Anymore, it’s hard to tell what’s real. Is he answering my thoughts? How is this possible?

  My attention sticks to what he explains and I’m amazed it’s soaking in. Before this week, I’d have no clue what we were talking about. Before this week, these were not my thoughts.

  He chuckles and takes another sip. This is the first time I can see his blue eyes up close.

  “But you’re half right, Sierra,” he says. “Most things are only illusions.”

  The burn of whiskey isn’t as bad the second time around.

  Before my lips open to ask how he knows my name, I remember I’m a public figure. People know me as the morning weather girl.

  Pointing to his glass, he asks, “Half empty or half full?”

  Last week I would have said half full. The way things have been going for me lately, I’d say half empty.

  “It doesn’t matter if you’re an optimist or a pessimist,” he says, “After a long enough period of time, the contents of the glass eventually evaporate…”

  He finishes it off with one swig.

  “…or get swallowed.”

  Raising my glass to my lips, I hold my breath and do the same, taking the rest of the whiskey down with one big gulp.

  The bartender sets us both up with another round.

  “This is why you’re confused,” says the man. “People need to believe in something. Whether it makes any sense or not, they don’t want real answers; they want hope. You can show someone rock-solid evidence the world doesn’t get any crazier when the moon is full than when it’s not. It’s just a space rock reflecting the sun’s light. You can show someone hard facts the alignment of the planets and constellations in the month they were born, have nothing to do with the characteristics of their personality. The calendar years and its months and days are based on the Earth’s revolution around the Sun, not its position in the cosmos. But people will still believe what they believe because they want to. The story can leak water but they only want to cover the holes. They would rather spend their lives in the comfort of their made-up dream world, than to know the truth. They would rather make tragedy something pleasant. To tell them any different would be offensive. So, if someone claims to predict the future and ends up being right, who am I to steal their thunder?”

  He wets his whistle with another sip and so do I.

  By now, the taste isn’t so strong anymore.

  Everything he says I get but it doesn’t satisfy me. Unlike most people, I do want answers.

  “The universe,” he says, “it’s an endless algorithm. It’s uncontrolled. It’s chaos. We all strive for the perfect life. The perfect job. The perfect lover. The perfect body. The perfect car. The perfect house. The perfect friends. We surround ourselves with the same like-minded people because reaching a goal as a group is easier than going at it alone. We need others to keep us inspired. We need them to tell us bad things happen for a reason or because of some divine plan. That everything will be okay… until it’s not.”

  A week ago my life was on the verge of becoming perfect. Now, I feel like I’ve been sent back to the starting line.

  “Life isn’t perfect for any of us,” he says. “Some seem to be ahead more than others. This gives them the delusion they’re perfect. Along the way, you reject people who don’t fit in with this delusion. Those less fortunate. Those not as perfect as you want them to be. You ignore them and forget about them. But in the end, you’re no better than they are. You’re only as strong as your weakest link.”

  This whiskey doesn’t seem to be working.

  “The smartest people will never try to inspire you,” he adds. “That’s because they know how things work. They don’t live in a dream; they live in reality.”

  The mysterious man has finished another drink. As he hands the empty glass to the bartender, my eyes are drawn to the napkin in front of him. The moisture has left a perfect circle.

  This mystery guy, this loner, he tells me he was once like me. He had the perfect job at the perfect company. The perfect car parked in the garage of the perfect home, built in the perfect suburban neighborhood. He had the perfect wife and two perfect children, a boy and a girl. Then it all changed.

  Truth can be devastating on so many levels.

  The facts, the evidence, it took everything away.

  He was driving with his family when a severe thunderstorm made its way through town. Power lines fell. Tires could barely grip the roads. Tree limbs broke free, landing on homes. It rained so hard that day, the driver of another car couldn’t see through his windshield and drove through an intersection. The two vehicles collided, sending the mystery man into a telephone pole. His wife and two children were killed and he was knocked unconscious. It wasn’t until hours later in the hospital he woke up. It wasn’t until days later he woke up even more.

  Soon he began learning things far beyond his comprehensi
on. Advanced mathematics. Numbers seemed to pop out everywhere. His only problem were the people around him. The ones who didn’t want an explanation. Instead of grieving, he struggled to make sense of it all. How everyone he loved was taken from him. How everything he worked for was gone. How he couldn’t have the life he wanted. Soon his job went away. His colleagues and friends turned their backs. Other people, they don’t want the truth.

  The bartender slides another glass to him. Mystery man sets it aside and pulls the napkin close to me. My body scoots closer. He draws with a pen, outlining the perfect circle left by the condensation of his previous drink.

  “Life has an algorithm,” he says. “An entire system of decisions to be made. Everyone thinks the rainbow ends at some point where they can find a pot of gold. They don’t want to be told the rainbow never ends. This algorithm, it can take you anywhere, good or bad, but never the end.”

  He retraces a section of the circle, making the lines darker.

  “Everything in space, from the planets to our molecules, is circular. If an astronaut spills water in a place with no gravity, the water becomes a sphere. It’s just the way the cookie crumbles. And by cookies, I mean the round ones.”

  His silly joke makes me smile. This guy is not so bad. Not so creepy. I kind of wish I’d met him sooner.

  He bolds another section of the circle.

  “Pi is a mathematical constant,” he says. “It’s irrational, like the human way of thinking.”

  My eyes close to brace for what feels like a headache but the pain never comes.

  The ratio of a circumference to its diameter. Circumference divided by the diameter.

  When my eyes open again, it’s like they’re doing so for the first time.

  Now, I can see.

  The three bold sections of his drawing are identical length, stretching around the circle and leaving a thin line of space where the circle is supposed to connect.

  In math, performing this calculation, the number you are given is Pi… it’s endless.

  Decimals count off into infinity.

  The rainbow never ends.