Лиза Макманн - Wake

As always.

Janie cries. For Carson, for Carrie. But mostly for herself. She feels like she’ s about a hundred years old.

9:16 a.m.

Carrie nudges Janie.

“ I gotta go,” she says.

Janie grunts. Her body aches.

Carrie closes the door softly, and Janie sleeps.

The carpet scratches her face.

11:03 a.m.

There is a soft knock, and a lets-himself-in noise of the door. Janie thinks she’ s dreaming.

He checks to make sure she is alive, on the floor. Then he sits on the couch and waits.

Janie’ s mother walks by.

And walks by again, the other way, carrying a tinfoil-covered tray and a glass bottle.

12:20 p.m.

She rolls.

Groans.

Curls up in a ball on her side, clutching her belly.

“ Oh, God,” she moans, eyes closed. Her head aches. Her muscles scream every time she moves. She is weak and empty. Light-headed. Exhausted.

And he is there, picking her up. Taking her to her bed. Covering her with blankets.

He closes the door.

Sits on the floor, next to her.

12:54 p.m.

He goes to the kitchen. Makes her a cold chicken sandwich. Pours milk. Pours orange juice. Puts it on a plate. Takes it to her room.

Waits.

1:02 p.m.

Until he gets scared because she’ s sleeping so much. And he wakes her up.

Janie groans and slowly sits up.

She drinks the juice and milk.

Eats the sandwich.

Doesn’ t look at Cabel.

Or speak to him.

1:27 p.m.

“ Why do you keep coming here,” she says dully. Her voice is rough.

He measures his words. “ Because I care about you.”

She chuckles morosely. “ Right.”

He looks at her helplessly. “ Janie, I’ m— ”

She gives him a sharp look. “ You’ re what? Dealing drugs? Fucking Shay Wilder? Tell me something I don’ t know.”

He puts his head in his hands and groans. “ Don’ t believe everything you hear.”

She snorts. “ You’ re denying it?”

“ I am not fucking Shay Wilder.” He shudders.

“ Oh, really. Only in your dreams, then.” She turns to the wall.

He stares at the back of her head.

For a painful amount of time.

“ You didn’ t,” he finally says.

She doesn’ t respond.

He stands up. “ Jesus, Janie.” He spits the words.

Stands there, accusing.

“ Maybe you should leave now,” Janie says.

He moves to the door, opens it, and turns back to look at her. “ Dreams are not memories, Janie.

They’ re hopes and fears. Indications of other life stresses. I thought you of all people would know the difference.” He walks out.

November 21, 2005

Janie and Cabel don’ t speak.

Janie goes about school and her job mechanically, feeling emptier than she’ s ever felt before in all her life. The one person who knows about the dreams, the one person she really started to care about, feels like her worst enemy. Janie spends a lot of time thinking about being an old maid forever, like Miss Stubin. Preparing herself for a very lonely life.

Working at the nursing home.

Commuting to college.

Living with her mother.

Forever.

At school, the number of sleeping students increases with the waning of daylight hours and the onset of colder weather.

As Thanksgiving approaches, in one especially rough study hall that follows too light a lunch, a science geek girl named Stacey O’ Grady takes a rare nap. She’ s driving an out-of-control car with a rapist in the backseat for almost the entire class period. Fifteen minutes into it, Janie is already fully paralyzed.

Luckily, Carrie is not there to notice when Janie falls off her chair and shakes on the carpet, back in the corner of the library.

Luckily, Cabel notices.

He picks her up, sets her back on the chair.

Rubs her fingers a bit until they move.

Pulls a king-size Snickers bar from his backpack and sets it next to her hand before he leaves for government class.

Distracts the teacher when she slips in late.

Doesn’ t look at her.

Janie swallows her pride along with the candy bar. Writes something in her spiral notebook in a shaky hand. Rips the paper off the spiral.

Crumbles it into a ball.

Hits him in the back of the head with it.

He picks it up and opens it. Reads it.

Smiles, and puts it in his backpack.

On Ethel’ s windshield after school is a section of newspaper— the classifieds. Janie looks around suspiciously, wondering if it’ s some sort of joke. Seeing no one, she pulls it out from under the wiper and gets in the car. She gives it a cursory glance, first one side, and then the other. And then she finds it. Highlighted in yellow.

Having trouble sleeping? Nightmares? Sleep disorders?

Questions answered. Problems solved.

It’ s a volunteer sleep study. Sponsored by the University of Michigan. For scientific research.

And it’ s free.

When she gets home, she calls immediately and signs up for Thanksgiving weekend, at the

North Fieldridge Sleep Clinic location near school.

November 25, 2005

It’ s the day after Thanksgiving. Janie worked Thanksgiving Day and today, for double pay. She has tomorrow off, anticipating trouble at the sleep study tonight. Wondering if this is going to be a repeat of the bus ride to Stratford. Wondering if this is going to turn into another big mess.

10:59 p.m.

She grabs an overnight bag from the backseat of her car and walks into the sleep clinic. She removes her coat and registers under a fake name at the desk. Through the tinted glass window, she can see a row of beds with machines all around. There are people already in some of the beds.

This is a very, very bad idea, she thinks.

The door to the sleep room opens, and a woman in a white lab coat stands there, looking at a chart. Janie stumbles. Puts her hands to her face. Grimaces. She reaches blindly for a chair before her body goes numb.

11:01 p.m.

She is on a street in a busy city. It’ s raining. She stands under an awning, not sure who she’ s looking for. Not yet. She doesn’ t feel compelled to follow anyone passing by. Eventually, her stomach lurches. She sighs and rolls her eyes, and looks up.

Here he comes, she thinks.

Through the awning.

It’ s Mr. Abernethy, the principal of her high school.

11:02 p.m.

Her vision defrosts. The lab-coated woman has moved into the room and is staring at her.

Janie stares back, just to freak her out. She looks around the room at the others who sit there, waiting for their names to be called. They all look at the floor as her gaze passes from one to the next. She knows what they’ re thinking. There’ s no way they want to be in that room with me, the freak.

Janie sets her jaw.

She’ s tired of crying.

Refuses to make any further scenes.

When the feeling returns to her fingers and feet, she stands up, grabs her coat and overnight bag, and stumbles to the door.

Her voice is hoarse when she turns to speak to the receptionist. “ Sorry. I’ m not doing this.” She goes outside into the parking lot. The air is crisp, and she sucks it into her lungs.

The woman in the lab coat chases out the door after her. “ Miss?”

Janie keeps walking. Tosses her bag back into the car.

Over her shoulder, she yells, “ I said, I’ m not doing this.”

She climbs behind the wheel. Leaves the lab-coated woman standing there as she drives away. “

There has to be another way, Ethel,” she says. “ You understand me, don’ t you sweetheart.”

Ethel purrs mournfully.

11:23 p.m.

Janie pulls into her driveway after the incident in the sleep study waiting room. Wonders if she should have given it a try. But there is no way on earth she wants to know what her principal, Mr.