What Makes You Think You're Awake? Read online

  Praise for What Makes You Think You’re Awake?

  What Makes You Think You’re Awake? is a wonderful debut; a collection of frank, funny, and heartbreaking stories that delve into the mire of human loneliness.

  —Carmen Maria Machado, In the Dream House and Her Body and Other Parties

  What Makes You Think You’re Awake? invites us into an uncanny, atmospheric world, where violence lurks under the surface of daily life and portals abound, beckoning characters into the midnight logic of the surreal. Maegan Poland’s surprising, incisive, and powerfully imaginative stories make for an unforgettable debut.

  —Laura van den Berg, I Hold a Wolf by the Ears

  This is my favorite kind of collection, beautifully written and full of surprises. Maegan Poland is a terrific new talent. Her stories make strange normal and normal strange.

  —Tom Franklin, Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter

  Maegan Poland’s strange and extraordinary short stories exist in a world like ours but not quite: a shed can literally stop time, a nest burns down to barbed wire, solar flares knock out the power, and a pandemic doesn’t quite put a damper on infidelity. All is not well in this world where Poland’s characters, straight and queer, struggle with trauma and loneliness while searching for love and connection. What Makes You Think You’re Awake? is a prescient and eerie collection that perfectly captures the surreal quality of our times.

  —May-lee Chai, Useful Phrases for Immigrants, winner of the American Book Award

  Reading one of Maegan Poland’s stories feels like walking through a familiar place at dusk with a bright flashlight in one hand and a big, beautiful magnifying glass in the other. Everything you see is so clear, so fine. So much closer than before. And so hard to look up from. But later, when you do, you are surrounded by darkness, even—especially—after you finish reading.

  —Maile Chapman, Your Presence Is Requested at Suvanto

  WHAT MAKES

  YOU THINK

  YOU’RE

  AWAKE?

  WHAT MAKES

  YOU THINK

  YOU’RE

  AWAKE

  ?

  MAEGAN POLAND

  BLAIR

  Copyright © 2021 by Maegan Poland

  All rights reserved

  Printed in Canada

  Cover design by Laura Williams

  Interior design by April Leidig

  Blair is an imprint of Carolina Wren Press.

  The mission of Blair/Carolina Wren Press is to seek out, nurture, and promote literary work by new and underrepresented writers.

  We gratefully acknowledge the ongoing support of general operations by the Durham Arts Council’s United Arts Fund and the North Carolina Arts Council.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  These stories are works of fiction. As in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience; however, all names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Names: Poland, Maegan, 1981- author.

  Title: What makes you think you’re awake? / Maegan Poland.

  Description: Durham : Blair, [2021]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020049883 (print) | LCCN 2020049884 (ebook) | ISBN 9781949467505 (paperback) | ISBN 9781949467512 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Short stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3616.O5567 W48 (print) | LCC PS3616.O5567 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020049883

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020049884

  For Michael

  CONTENTS

  The Shed

  Milking

  The Neighbor’s Cat

  Spores

  Like the Love of Some Dead Girl

  Overnights Welcome

  Landline

  The Way They Saw Her

  Modern Relics

  What Makes You Think You’re Awake Right Now?

  Acknowledgments

  THE SHED

  At first, Amy didn’t even notice the worn shack that sat in the backyard on the edge of a deep ravine. It was easy to overlook. Groves of waist-high grass and thick vines of wisteria had nearly swallowed the tiny box of a building. When she discovered the shed and its secret, she pored over her inspection report and the sales contract, but there was no mention of it. Nonetheless, the shed was on her land. She decided it belonged to her, that it was a gift for her alone.

  Before she witnessed the anomaly, before she knew what the shed could do, Amy resolved to make use of the unexpected space. Inside, a rusted bed frame was pressed against the wall, and a pile of old twine and rope sat near the baseboard, frayed and faded. She found a bottle of ink stashed in the corner, surrounded by old tools without handles — saws, hammers, screwdrivers — as though the handles had been made of wood and termites had feasted upon them long ago. Yet the weathered floorboards remained intact, worn smooth in areas as if by heavy traffic, marking paths between the bed, the door, and the only window. The glass was so old that you could see it for what it was: a fluid that had gathered thick like molasses at the base of each panel.

  She scrubbed the floor and walls and coated the wood in thick oil, allowing it to dry for days with the shed’s door propped wide, letting the humid spring air swirl through the room at intervals when the wind was blowing from the south, from the gulf two hundred miles away. The window, warped by the years, would not open. She untwisted the ropes she found on the floor and made oakum to fill the gaps in the walls. Wary of the frequent storms that blew through town, she caulked all the crevices she found, sealing the shed tight.

  She was charmed by the simplicity of the space and found herself spending more time renovating her shed than decorating her house — a midcentury ranch with a gravel drive set a mile away from the street. Before she left the city, she had suffered from unpredictable panic attacks. She felt jittery inside, like too much energy was coursing through her, waiting to short-circuit her brain or zap her into oblivion. Her decision had been methodical. She needed somewhere with a slower pace where she could have a more flexible schedule. One of her work friends, someone who knew what she’d been through, called in a favor for her with her alma mater, a small community college five hours away, deep in the hills of Alabama, and landed her a job with a flexible schedule. Most days, she could work from home, prepping materials and engaging with students online, but twice a week she had to log hours at the writing center on campus, forty-five minutes away. It wasn’t much, but money stretched a little further in the country, and she no longer felt she had other options.

  She bought a desk at a used furniture store down the highway, not far from the town center, and paid the man who ran the place to haul the heavy, walnut piece to her house on his truck. He had to drive into her backyard, where she guided him to the front of the shed, then helped him unload the desk and narrowly squeeze it through the entrance. For a moment, before they’d positioned the desk below the window, she realized she was trapped inside the shed with this man, and even though he’d done nothing to indicate malicious intent, she became suddenly aware of how remote her property was and how removed the shed was from the drive.

  He used his flannel sleeve to wipe the sweat off his brow and surveyed the room, barren except for the metal bed frame and the desk he’d just deposited.


  “This a mother-in-law suite?” he asked.

  Amy grimaced at the antiquated designation. “No, it’s just for me.”

  “Why’re you wasting time on this little hut then?” he said.

  “I like the smallness of it,” she said. “The house is nice, but it can feel empty sometimes.”

  She immediately regretted saying the last part, because now there was an implication: the emptiness needed to be filled.

  “If you ever need a hand with anything, let me know.” He gave her a business card with a phone number, his name, and the embossed title of his store.

  “Thanks, Joe.”

  She pocketed the card and watched as he backed his truck out of her yard, leaving twin tire tracks in the grass. She used her hands to rake the blades upright and hoped they’d survive.

  It was her first time owning a yard, or a shed, after years of renting a city apartment, and she reveled in the quiet space that belonged to her. Toward the end, before the move, even the helicopters would wake her. Often, she’d emerge from sleep soaked in her own stale sweat, even though the helicop ters had nothing to do with her trauma. If a car backfired, if a drunk person hollered out in the street, or if a neighbor’s door slammed, she would feel her chest tighten. Eventually she discovered that it helped to sit in her closet with her hands grasping the top of her head, fingers interlocked, counting as she breathed as slowly as she could. Perhaps the shed was an extension of this need, but, she reasoned, this was more mindful. She was making this space her own.

  She hauled a chair from the house across the lawn, set it in front of the desk, and sat down. The window faced the ravine. The kudzu and oak leaves shook in the wind, sending shadows dappling across the dark gulch below. The breeze chilled her, so she crossed the room to shut the door. When she returned, she laid her head on the smooth desktop and set to the task of daydreaming.

  It was only then that she noticed the stillness. The leaves no longer rattled. The shadows were perfectly still. The ravine appeared as if in a photograph. At first, the uncanny resemblance to nature, distilled into artificial permanence, filled her with a sense of dread manifested as nausea and a scratch of electricity running up her spine. She ran out the door to the back of the shed and observed the trees lining the edge of the ravine, now rustling in the wind. When she went back inside and peered at the window, the light was still shifting, oscillating in brightness as clouds drifted by.

  It was when she shut the door that the world stopped. Once the knob clicked tightly into the frame, it was as though she had pushed pause on the outside world and the scene beyond the window. She sat and watched for what felt like an hour, eyes straining to find any detail of change: a shifting leaf, a lower angle of sunlight, a flitting insect. Nothing.

  When she accepted the nothingness, she felt an ache in her muscles melting away. Her shoulders dropped and her back unseized. She inhaled deeply, suddenly realizing that she had been taking only shallow breaths for who knew how long. When she left the shed, she felt the breeze, and the small shuffling movements of the foliage resumed.

  She had to know the nature of the anomaly. She bought plants that were already half-dead, with spotted leaves and yellowed stems. She put them in the shed and made a point of keeping the door closed as much as possible. Several days passed, and the plants persisted, still sickly but never dying. When she wore a watch in the shed, the hands stopped moving as soon as the door was closed. Numerous times, she would sit in the shed and count the seconds — saying One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, and on and on — and she would mark off the minutes on a notepad. After she’d done this for more than an hour on three separate occasions, she decided that the anomaly was real, because each time she left the shed and entered the house, she would see that no time had been lost. The world had stood still.

  The last day she’d done the counting exercise, she’d chosen the final minutes before sunset. She counted for two hours, but when she emerged, the sun was still hovering just above the horizon, its nimbus streaking the sky.

  She dragged the unread books from her nightstand to the shed and read two in one sitting. She discovered that hunger did not affect her. Although she remained as tired as she had been upon entering the shed, her fatigue neither waxed nor waned. It seemed that all biological processes froze in their current state. Entropy did not exist here.

  Amy went back to Joe’s furniture store and bought a used bookshelf. This time, she had him park in the front of the house, and together they hauled the shelving unit across the lawn and into the shed. Amy made a point of propping the door open, letting the breeze carry away the magical cessation of time. Joe observed the new mattress on the rusty frame, the braided rug spanning the length of the room, and the photographs lining the desk. In particular, he lingered over the picture of an older woman wearing a sun hat, beaming in a garden.

  “My mother,” Amy said. “She’s not around anymore.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Joe said.

  Amy shrugged, not to negate the information, but to make Joe feel more comfortable. “It’s been a while.”

  He nodded, then gestured at the room. “You live here now?”

  “No, but I like to spend a lot of time here, reading and drawing mostly.”

  “You’re an artist,” he said, like things were coming together. “Not exactly. But I do draw.”

  She had always wanted to be a serious artist, but the careful blending and stages of drying required of oil paints had overwhelmed her, so she stuck to graphite and — once she had predrawn so that she could safely trace her own lines — ink. These days, she mostly doodled on old furniture catalogs, drawing dogs and children and large families onto glossy pages of empty, staged living rooms and kitchens. She’d never had a large family — she was an only child — but she liked the look of it on the page.

  Joe took off his baseball cap and squeezed the bill in his hands, doubling the brim over on itself, and with a white-knuckled grip, he asked, “Can I take you for a bite to eat sometime?”

  Amy felt cornered, but not threatened, or, at least, no more threatened than she felt on a consistent basis. He looked so earnest and vulnerable in the moment that she couldn’t think of a way to say no that wouldn’t leave her feeling guilty for hurting his feelings, and yet, she couldn’t wrap her mind around an actual date: the prerequisite sexualizing of him, the implicit goal of peeling off shirts and taking the other to bed.

  She was still pondering how to turn him down when he added, “There’s a real casual barbeque spot down the street. The place used to be a gas station. I thought we could grab lunch there, when you’re not too busy.”

  Lunch was more manageable, Amy decided. She nodded and smiled. He could be a friend, she thought, as she watched him stroll back to his truck, whistling the whole way.

  Joe texted her the next day and set a time, that Friday, for the lunch.

  “I’ll meet you there!” Amy texted back, pleased with the casual distance that was unfolding.

  For Amy, she still had eons before Friday anyway. It was only Monday, and she spent the days pondering the possible uses of the shed. She could learn anything, she thought. She could read all the books in the world as long as she could bring them with her to the shed. She decided she would learn a new language, possibly French, but she soon realized that the shed would only allow her to learn how to read it, and only with careful self-study. When she carried her laptop into the shed, hoping to play the audio of a French lesson, the battery immediately drained. The same was true for lamps. It was therefore useless to visit the shed at night unless she wanted to light a dozen candles or sit in darkness, which sometimes she did.

  In the timeline of her experience, the days before Friday amounted to months. She read dozens of books. She spent more time thinking from the perspective of the characters in the novels she read than she did contemplating her own life. Could that be enough, to slip into the minds of others in perpetuity? She came to be like some sort of other, like d
ancing versions of a danceless self. Ceaselessly, she flipped the pages, the dried and pressed sheets of wood pulp pulling the moisture from her fingertips, but she only noticed when the skin cracked, leaving faint streaks of red in the margins.

  She had cultivated an almost endless present. She went to work, yes, but the work was a cyclical routine interspersed with sleeping and cooking, the days blurring together, the slippage of time deepening each session she spent reading in her secret sanctuary. She set alarms on her phone to remind her of any real-world obligations, but she had to leave it in the house so that whatever magical vortex that stopped time didn’t also suck away the life of its battery. When Friday arrived, she woke to the chime of a notification informing her that the lunch was today.

  She immersed herself in her morning tasks of work emails and marking feedback for students online. When the lunch hour neared, she retreated to the shed, shut the door, and spent an unknowable amount of time steadying herself for unscripted conversation with a stranger. She wouldn’t mind having an acquaintance, maybe even a friend. She played through the possible scripts like planning moves in quantum chess. By the time she’d envisioned all the outcomes, she felt like she’d already lived the lunch, so she returned to her house and decided to crawl onto the sofa, pull the blanket over her shoulders, and sleep. As the cocoon of fatigue swathed her brain, she tried to send a cancellation text, or an apology, but she couldn’t think of any words that would suffice, so she let the phone slide between the cushions of her couch and succumbed to drifting dreams.

  Amy woke to insistent knocking. When she opened the door, Joe was standing on her stoop looking mournful and pissed at the same time.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I fell asleep.”

  “It’s one in the afternoon,” he said, incredulous.