Page 63 of Stay Awake
Outside a subway entrance, a man with a scraggly beard and a knitted orange beanie strums a guitar as he sings a 1970s pop song about a Californian hotel where you can check out but never leave. His twangy voice competes with the deafening clatter of construction across the street.
I throw money onto the torn red lining of his guitar case. I’m across town now, having jumped into a passing cab after I ran from the basement apartment. My heart is still racing after my terrifying escape.
I won’t report it to the police. They’ll treat me with derision, just like that awful Detective Krause did when he mocked me for making a complaint about the break-ins at Amy’s and my apartment. As if to emphasize the point, just above my wrist is a handwritten message that saysDON’T TALK TO THE COPSEVER!!
It’s wise advice. The last thing I need right now is to explain a situation to the police that I don’t understand myself. How does one explain the inexplicable? One moment I was answering the phone at my desk in the office, the next I woke on a train howling throughthe subway. Those two moments are like bookends. Everything in between is missing.
It’s not just my memory that’s gone. My phone and wallet are also missing. I don’t recognize the clothes that I’m wearing, or the pretty beaded necklace around my neck. Or the writing on the back of my hands, so much writing saying so many strange things. It terrifies me to read it all. Mom would hate that I still scribble on my hands. She always said it was so unladylike.
A huge yellow sales sign in the window of an electronics store catches my attention. I go inside and beeline to a row of display computers arranged on a long white counter.
I choose a laptop in the middle of the row and immediately open a web browser to run a search. I want to see if there are reports about a murder last night. The man who called me at that apartment said it was in the news.
It turns out there was a murder. I click on the first article I see, which is accompanied by a photograph of an apartment window. The wordsWAKE UP!are written in red on the window.
There’s not much information in the article. It says that an as-yet unidentified man was found dead in a midtown apartment and police are investigating. The article says the killer is believed to have used the victim’s blood to write that message on the window. It’s a chilling thought.
Lower down is another photograph. The caption says it was taken from a security camera near the murder scene. It’s a grainy photo of a woman with long dark hair exiting an elevator with a man. The woman’s face isn’t visible because she’s looking down at the floor. The face of the man accompanying her is obscured by a black square, obviously intended to block out his features. I assume he’s the murder victim.
Through the corner of my eye, I notice a salesman heading toward me. I click the mouse to close the browser and it disappears just as he reaches me.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“I’m looking for a lightweight laptop that’s reliable and very fast,” I tell him because I can hardly admit that I only came into the store for the free computer access.
He takes my query as an invitation to go into an excruciatingly long sales pitch that involves demonstrating all sorts of features on the laptop. I wish he’d leave. There are so many more important things that I want to find out about, such as this murder, and how the world went from midsummer to late fall without me noticing.
I mutter my thanks to the salesman and quickly leave the store. I’m more confused than ever from the scraps of information I’ve gleaned from my web search. All I have are more questions.
I stop to look at a pile of newspapers at a newsstand farther up the street. The date on the masthead says it’s November, not July. The year is two years into the future. That makes no sense. But then neither do the headlines. They describe a chaotic, pestilent world I barely recognize.
The date on the masthead prompts me to take out the medical appointment card that I found on the fridge at the basement apartment. My appointment was today, almost three hours ago. I’ll go anyway. Maybe the doctor will know what’s happened to me.
As I make my way to the subway, I notice a public phone by an escalator. I pull loose coins out of my pocket and shove a couple of them into the coin slot.
Marco’s phone rings and rings and then goes to voicemail. He’s obviously rejected my call. He must be in a meeting. I hang up without leaving a message.
I dial Amy’s number next. Her phone rings repeatedly until an automated message says the number is invalid. In a panic, I call her mom, whose number is the same as Amy’s with a one-digit difference. Amy once told me with some embarrassment that her entire family has cell phones with consecutive numbers under a family plan.
Amy’s mom answers on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Is this Margaret Decker?”
“Yes, this is Margaret,” Amy’s mom sings down the line.
“This is Liv Reese.” I wait for an indication of recognition. There is none. Just a deafening silence that makes me squirm. “I’m Amy’s roommate.”
“I know who you are. What do you want?” Her voice is icy.
“I’m trying to get ahold of Amy. Her phone isn’t working.”
“Are you serious?” Her voice lashes me into silence.
“I really need to talk to Amy.” I pause, confused by her belligerence. “It’s kind of an emergency.”
“You have some nerve.”
Her tone stings like a slap across the face. “I’m sorry if I’ve called at a bad time, Mrs. Decker. It’s just that I need to speak to Amy urgently.”
