What Makes You Think You're Awake? Read online

  “I’ll just give it a look to make sure,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” she said.

  “Really, it’s no trouble.” He was already stepping off the porch and onto the grass, heading to the back of her property. Anxious that he might discover the shed’s secret, she followed him, insisting again that she didn’t need the inspection, but he waved off her polite protestations.

  She quickened her stride to outlap him. She considered insisting that he couldn’t enter the shed, but in the flurry of the moment, she thought that would appear strange to him, and she wanted everything associated with the shed to seem casual and disinterested. She unlocked the padlock and propped the door wide open with a large stone she had kept there for that purpose.

  As soon as he crossed the threshold, she realized that her desk was strewn with portraits she had drawn of Fran. They were drawn from memory. She didn’t want Fran to know, not yet anyway, that she fixated on capturing her likeness on paper, her profile especially, when her eyes were cast downward, examining her tea, fingernails, or stolen flowers. The most prominent drawing on the desk was a large charcoal piece with Fran’s bone structure roughly rubbed into the grain of the thick, beige paper. In this portrait, Fran’s head was bowed, but her eyes were focused sideways, peeking at whoever was holding her in this two-dimensional form.

  She tried to put her back to the desk, obstructing Joe’s view as he squatted in front of the shelf, running his fingers along the edge of each plank of wood. He plucked a couple of books from the shelf, pulling them away by hooking his finger on the spine, a gesture that bothered Amy, but she would never say so, at least not now while trying to avoid deeper revelations.

  “May I?” he said, already clutching a few books and pantomiming his intention to remove them all.

  “Sure,” she said, not moving to help. Not daring to leave the desk as he pulled dozens of books and piled them on the floor.

  He peered behind and beneath the shelves. He lifted the bottom edge and examined its underbelly. After he’d touched all the surfaces, he wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans and sighed.

  “You’re lucky,” he said. “I think this piece is clean.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He leaned against the shelves, peering down at her. She felt suddenly small and girlish.

  “I never did get to take you to that barbeque.”

  “I’ve been real busy these days.”

  “A girl’s gotta eat.”

  Amy could see that there was no gentle way out of this. She gripped the edge of the desk behind her, steeling herself. “I don’t want to go out with you, Joe. I’m sorry. But I’m not looking to start anything.”

  “Like, now, or ever?”

  Amy couldn’t help but laugh a little, a nervous, involuntary response. The question was so off-putting. He’d cornered her into lying or hurting him.

  At her brief chuckle, he shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “You’re just being cruel now.”

  “I’m not in a healthy place for anything serious. That wouldn’t be fair to either of us.” She shifted her weight away from him, preparing to pivot past him.

  He surprised her by smiling. “Who said anything about serious? I was just looking to spend some time with you, is all. I’d just like to converse on things, have a friend, maybe go fishing. No need to make it this big dramatic affair.”

  “I have to put in hours at the writing center on the weekdays.” Amy knew the barbeque spot was only open for lunch.

  “What about Saturday?”

  Amy had made plans with Fran that day, but she didn’t want to tell Joe that. She didn’t want him to know more about her personal life than he did already. “I can’t,” she said. “Not this week,” she added, hoping that would be enough.

  For a moment, he stared with no discernible reaction. Then he gave a quick nod. “Okay. Then I’ll shoot you a message next week to find a time.” He tapped his fingers on the bookshelf. “Could you recommend a book for me? Let me borrow it? I’ll give it back at lunch next week.”

  “To the Lighthouse,” she said. She just wanted him gone, and she could see the title on top of the stack nearest him. There’d be no need to search for it, no need to linger.

  He plucked the book off the pile and tipped the bill of his cap at her. “See you soon.”

  With the book sandwiched under his armpit, he left her alone in the shed. She waited until she heard the truck’s engine fade, then she shut the door so that she could rest her mind and ease her breathing in the stillness.

  She told Fran about Joe and his last visit. They were making bruschetta and dicing tomatoes Fran had walked over from her parents’ garden.

  “That doesn’t sound right,” Fran said. “Besides, it’s nearly July. I don’t think termites swarm this time of year.”

  “You think he’s lying to me.”

  Fran shrugged. “I’ve only talked to Joe in passing. He’s ten years older, so it’s not like we overlapped any at school. But I hear things. When he’s sober, he seems to lay low. But he has his drunk spells, and then people will talk about some trouble he’s stirred up. Nothing serious that I know of, but this pushi-ness you’re describing? Sounds shady. I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. He hasn’t technically done anything.” Amy put down the knife and slid the chopped tomatoes and onions into a bowl.

  “Want me to stay over?” Fran asked without even looking at Amy. She poured some olive oil into the bowl and raked her fingers through the vegetables.

  “You going to be my bodyguard?”

  Fran looked up and smiled. “I can try.”

  The offer felt earnest and unassuming. Amy felt, for the first time in years, that someone was offering to shoulder her burden. “Okay,” she said, scooping salsa onto crostini.

  They had their dinner on the front porch. It was Fran’s idea. She wanted to watch the sun set. They spread a blanket for their dishes. Amy gathered citronella candles and lit them along the edge of the porch and on each step leading to her front walkway. They shared wine.

  Despite the candles, Amy could feel the bugs biting her, already leaving welts on her arms and legs, but she didn’t want the night to end.

  “I want to show you something.”

  “Now?”

  Amy nodded.

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s eight thirty,” Fran said. “Why?”

  “Leave your phone here.”

  Amy motioned for her to stand up. She picked up two candles, handed one to Fran to carry, and then led her around the house and across the overgrown yard to the shed.

  “Are you going to paint me or something?” Fran said with a cocky smile.

  Amy unlocked the door and led her inside.

  “What did you want to show me?”

  Amy shut the door behind them. “It’s hard to explain, especially since it’s dark out. It’s hard to tell by just looking outside.”

  “Tell what?” Fran said, her smile fading.

  She put their candles on the window ledge, above the desk. In the flickering glow, Fran could see an unfinished portrait. When she recognized it for what it was, a portrait of herself, she lowered a candle to look closer. She touched the lips, which were so artfully drawn they appeared to be glistening.

  “Be careful with touching it,” Amy said. “I haven’t set the charcoal yet.”

  Fran put the candle down and pulled Amy into her arms. She hugged her so that Amy’s face was cradled against her shoulder and she breathed deeply of the nape of her neck.

  When Amy finally lifted her head, she found Fran still looking down on her.

  Amy kissed her. She rose on her toes and pressed into Fran so that she stumbled back against the desk, and they both laughed. Then Fran grew serious again.

  “What did you mean about looking outside?”

  “It’s not important,” Amy said. “I’ll explain in the morning.”

  She kissed her a
gain, guiding Fran to the bed, pulling her down with her. Fran peeled away both of their shirts and traced her fingers in a spiral around Amy’s breast, lightly closing in on the nipple, then kissing it. She ran her lips along the ridge of her ribcage, grazing the top of Amy’s jeans before pausing and cocking her head to the side.

  “Something’s not right,” Fran said. She climbed off of Amy and lay beside her.

  “What do you mean?”

  Fran held up her finger to shush her. After a long silence, she asked, “Do you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m surprised you’d let that stop you.”

  “No, it’s weirdly quiet, and not just that.” Fran gestured between their bodies. “This doesn’t feel right either.”

  Amy felt panic rising. “I thought you wanted this.”

  “It’s not like that. I do. But don’t you feel it? Like I can barely feel my heart beating,” Fran said. “Is there a leak, carbon monoxide, some sort of gas?”

  “There’s no gas hooked up to the shed,” Amy said. “Hold on.”

  Amy scooped their shirts off the floor and handed Fran hers. As soon as Fran was dressed, Amy opened the door. A profound wind swept through the shed, and Fran placed her hand to her neck, like she was feeling her own pulse.

  “Are you alright?” Amy asked.

  Fran nodded, but her eyes still showed too much white. Her gaze roamed around the room, zigzagging, unable to land focus.

  “There’s one last thing I need to show you.”

  Amy led Fran back to the porch and handed her the phone.

  “What time does it say?”

  “Eight thirty-five,” Fran said, “but we were in there for at least twenty minutes. Maybe longer. Weren’t we?”

  “I know how this sounds. It’s why I had to show you first,” Amy said. “The shed, it stops time.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  Amy explained what she knew about the shed. Her experiments. The effect on her hunger. The long hours she had dedicated to reading and art, living outside of time. She explained how it made her feel safe because no one could harm her if the outside world was still.

  She told her about the time someone had drugged her. She’d been at a bar, celebrating a friend’s promotion, but the friend left before she did, and she wanted to have one last drink. She was always careful, only ordering drinks from the bar, never taking drinks from strangers. But the bartender was the one who did it. It didn’t take long for her memory to fail. She had flashes of stumbling in front of a crowd of people, of him scooping her up. Quick bursts of memory of him on top of her. Then nothing. She woke up in a cheap motel. Her first conscious thought was the raw pain between her legs. In the following days, she would find bruises and scrapes from the way he had handled her — like a doll, an object, something to drag over carpet. She later learned he’d paid the motel in cash, that he wasn’t even a bartender. He was just some guy who’d hopped behind the bar. She would never be able to identify him in a lineup, so she just had to live with it. There was nothing to be done.

  Fran held her until she fell asleep that night. In the morning, Fran was already awake, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, watching her.

  “I don’t think you should use the shed anymore.”

  “The shed gives me peace. Maybe you just need to see it in the daylight — ”

  Fran shook her head. “What if there are side effects?”

  “I need it.”

  “It felt like sinking,” Fran said.

  “You were only in there that one time,” Amy said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Fran reached over and squeezed her hand. “I just want you safe, is all.”

  Amy laughed at this, at the absurdity of casting the shed as the primary threat out of all she had just shared.

  Fran pulled away, rose from the bed, but lingered at the door to say, “Does it really not scare you?”

  Amy shook her head, but she wasn’t sure if she meant it.

  After Fran left, Amy returned to the shed, wondering if she could feel what Fran felt — some sense of inherent wrongness — but the void of any outdoor noise soothed her. She experimented by working on her portrait of Fran with the door open and then closed, in alternating intervals. The right side of her face was etched within the flow of time. The left side was the product of the anomaly, constructed entirely with the door closed and with time frozen. Was there a difference, she wondered? Or had Fran’s insinuation burrowed into her subconscious, weighing her hand more heavily on the left side’s lines, making the charcoal thick and jagged on the page? She had meant to reflect admiration, maybe even love, but what else guided her hand when she was in the timeless space?

  Some days she would do anything to make the weekend come sooner, to be with Fran. But Amy worried that the shed — and therefore she herself as the defender of its virtue — had scared Fran away. Sometimes this would trigger an adolescent desire to obsess over each possible outcome, and then she’d return to the shed and imagine what may or may not be, and when she’d leave the shed, an anxious thought would recur: at least now she could look forward to Saturday, but if Saturday led to an end of some kind, if Fran no longer wanted her, then what use would the future hours be now that she’d grown attached to the idea of Fran in her life? She had known Fran for less than three months, but she had thought about Fran for much longer. She had carved out the hours where none existed.

  Saturday came without any word from Fran, but she received texts from Joe on each day leading up to the weekend. At first, they presumed their plans were made. “When should I pick you up?” he wrote, as though she had already consented to the date and inked it in her calendar. When she failed to respond, he wrote a series of increasingly erratic messages: what a flake — I’d still like to see you though — At least let me return ur book — what changed? When her cell chimed, she read the name of the sender with disappointment, then with mounting apprehension. The last message lit up her phone at two in the morning, and she finally responded with: Never text me again.

  So when she walked out to the shed that morning and found the door torn from its hinges with a chunk of a plank missing where the lock once was, she immediately thought of Joe. Inside, the bookshelf had been toppled over. Her art was scattered on the ground, some papers torn to pieces. In the middle of the rug, Fran’s likeness was split in half.

  She saw a shadow fill the rectangle of light cast on the floor by the empty door frame. She knew it was him. Who else would it be?

  “You’ve ruined it,” she said, her voice thick with grief.

  “I’ll help you fix it,” he said. “I’ll fix everything.”

  She finally turned to look at him. His eyes were red with spent tears; his shoulders, hunched. His hands cradled his elbows.

  “I don’t know if you can.”

  He lurched into the room, then swayed, and she realized he was deeply inebriated. She backed away from him until her body was against the desk. To her surprise, he collapsed to his knees and began picking up papers, placing them in a pile. He tidied them into something resembling a stack and then offered her damaged art back to her.

  She took the pages and placed them behind her, on the desk, while keeping her sight trained on him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice full of remorse until he continued, “but you weren’t honest with me.”

  “Please, you need rest,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “We can talk about this later.”

  “You won’t talk to me.” He grabbed the fabric of her pants, pulling slightly to steady himself.

  She felt her chest tightening, like she couldn’t get enough air. If only she could shut the door and have the stillness, but then he’d be in here with her, in the timeless place forever. He had tainted it. He had stolen her one thing.

  “I will,” she told him. “But not when you’re like this.”

  He peered up at her,
his chin grazing her waist, his pupils dilating as his vision took in the window light then readjusted to render her visible.

  The drawers of the desk were askew, some left gaping open. She hid her hand behind her back as she explored the crevice, feeling the various writing utensils she’d come to know so well during her countless sessions here. She knew the rough metal grid of the X-acto. She slipped it out, palming it, nicking herself in the process.

  “Now,” he said, then repeated it. “Now!” He stood quickly, shoving off her to get his footing.

  She lunged, sliding the knife into his neck, the long arc of her swing creating an equal and opposite arc of blood spraying in a stream, spiraling as he stumbled and staggered, then pooling over his fingers as he pressed on his own neck. He fell to his knees, and she watched the blood gather on the rug. It misted the window, refracting rosy-hued light. The blood kept flowing, even after his startled eyes lost focus. She thought she saw them flatten.

  She was still holding the knife, staring down at him, when Fran found her. She had no sense of time. Fran screamed, then knelt to check his pulse. She looked up at Amy, her hands covered in his blood.

  “Did he hurt you?” she asked.

  Amy nodded.

  “We need to call for help.”

  “No, you can’t.” Amy grabbed Joe by his feet and tugged on him, pulling his body over the loose drawings and torn pages.

  Fran was sobbing. “Stop this. Please.”

  But Amy had already crossed the threshold. Joe was lying in the grass, his blood marking a wide path back to the shed. She ran to the door and propped it up, then struggled to jam the damaged hinges into place. Maybe that would be enough. Maybe that would work. Or maybe if she added a piece of wood and nailed the door shut from the inside. Then he would be frozen on the outside, maybe not dead yet, and she would be in the timeless place. She and Fran. She could make her understand.

  “Help me put it back,” Amy said. “I just need time to think.”

  MILKING

  She and Kyle were caviar farmers. It always made for a good introduction at parties. What does it take to farm caviar? someone would always ask. Now, Diane would say, a total commitment. At first, she thought farming meant being in control of the fish, the pH levels, the water temperatures, and the schedule of the harvest, but you had to be ready when the fish were ready. You had to care for them with the all-consuming devotion of a parent, which was funny, funny in the way that something is the opposite of funny, because that was the thing they really wanted and the thing she could not provide.