Лиза Макманн - Wake

And then they slow down.

Stop. Hold. Rest.

Before one of them, or both, begins to sob.

Before they break another piece that needs to be fixed.

They stand together for a moment, collecting.

And then he finds her fingers and strings them in his, and leads her to the living room.

On the coffee table rests a stack of books.

He looks at Janie. “ This is how,” he says, his voice catching. “ You know these books now, don’ t you.”

“ Yes,” she says. She kneels next to the table and lays the dream books out.

“ I’ ve been practicing,” he says. “ Hoping.”

Dreaming, she adds silently. “ Tell me.”

He sits beside her with two sodas and an apology. “ I don’ t have anything stronger,” he says. “

Anyway. I read this book about lucid dreams and taught myself to dream what I wanted to dream about.”

She smiles. “ Yup. I did it too.”

“ Good.” He sounds businesslike. “ What about the sleep clinic?”

“ Ugh. Great idea, but not cool, as it turned out. I went in, got stuck in a dream when the lab tech opened the door to the sleep room. Walked out.” She pauses. “ It was Mr. Abernethy’ s dream. I just didn’ t want to know what that country-fried rube was dreaming about.”

Cabel chokes on his Pepsi. “ Good call.” He grows serious a moment, thinking. But then waves the thought away. “ Yeah. Really good call.”

“ Huh?”

“ Nothing. Okay, so I first tried to dream me saying specific things to you. But I couldn’ t get it to happen right. Too much” — he pauses, glancing sidelong at her— “ too much came out of my mouth. More than I wanted to say. I couldn’ t control it.” He shifts in his seat. “ So I thought I was screwed. But then I thought of writing the words on the page. I practiced it a bunch of times, and the last few nights it worked.”

“ But you didn’ t dream me into the dream. At least, not until the end.”

“ Right. Because I could control it better if I had myself alone, knowing that if— when— I dreamed it around you, you would be there.”

Janie closes her eyes, picturing it. “ Clever,” she murmurs. She opens her eyes. “ Really clever, Cabe.”

“ So you could read the tablet?” he says. His face flushes a little.

“ Yes.”

“ All of it?”

She searches his face. “ Yes.”

“ And?”

She’ s quiet. “ I don’ t know what to say. I’ m really confused.”

He takes her hand and leans back on the couch. “ I have a lot of explaining to do. Will you hear me out?”

She takes a breath, and lets it out slowly. All the reasons to hate him flood back into her brain.

Her self-protective nature percolates. She does not want to ride this roller coaster again. “ Well,” she says finally, “ I can’ t imagine I’ ll believe a word of it. You’ ve been lying to me from the beginning, Cabe. Since before, well, anything.” Her voice catches.

She looks away.

Withdraws her hand from his.

Stands up abruptly. “ Bathroom?” she squeaks.

“ Fuck,” he mutters. “ Through the kitchen, first door on the right.”

She finds it, sobs silently over the sink for a moment, blows her nose, and sits on the edge of the tub until she gets it together again. Realizes she’ s already on this roller coaster, and sitting in the front car.

When she gets to the living room, he’ s ending a cell-phone call, saying “ tomorrow” firmly, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He flips the phone off.

“ Look,” he says in a dull voice, not looking at her.

“ There’ s some shit I can’ t tell you. Not yet. Maybe not for a while. But I’ ll answer any question— any question I can right now. If I can’ t, and you don’ t like that, you are free to hate me forever. I won’ t bother you.”

She is confused. “ Okay,” she says slowly. Decides to start with an easy one. “ Who were you talking to, just now.”

He closes his eyes. Groans. “ Shay.”

Janie stands in the doorway to the living room, tottering. Furious tears spring to her eyes. But when she speaks, her voice is deadly calm. “ Jesus Christ, Cabe.” She turns and grabs her backpack and walks firmly out the same way they entered the house.

Gets in her car.

She can’ t get out of the driveway.

She thinks about ramming his pimpmobile.

But that wouldn’ t be nice for Ethel.

“ Goddamnit!” she screams, and puts her head on the steering wheel. She can’ t even drive through the yard without hurting Ethel, because of the stupid drainage ditch.

And then she hears the front door slam. He’ s running to move his car. He starts it up and pulls it into the grass next to hers so she can back out.

She doesn’ t know why she’ s waiting.

He’ s coming to her window.

She can still go now.

He taps.

She hesitates, and then rolls down the window an inch.

“ I’ m so sorry, Janie,” he says.

He’ s bawling.

He goes back inside.

She sits in the driveway, freezing, for thirty-six minutes. Arguing with herself.

Because she thinks she’ s in love with him too. And there are two ways she can be a fool in love right now.

She chooses the harder one.

And knocks on the door.

He’ s on the phone again when he opens it. His eyes are rimmed in red. “ I’ ll try,” he says, and hangs up the phone. Stands there. Looking like shit.

“ Let’ s try this again,” Janie says, angry, hands on her hips. “ Who were you talking to on the phone just now, Cabe?” Her words slice through the crisp air.

“ My boss.”

She’ s taken aback for a moment. “ You mean your dealer? Your pimp?” The sarcasm rings in the dusky house.

He closes his eyes. “ No.”

She stands there. Uncertain.

He opens his eyes. Takes off his glasses and wipes his face with his sleeve. His voice has lost all hope. “ Is there any chance,” he says evenly, “ that you’ ll come for a ride with me? My boss is interested in talking to you.”

She blinks. She gets nervous. “ Why?” she asks.

“ I can’ t tell you. You’ ll have to trust me.”

Janie takes a step back. The words ring familiar in her ears. She asked the same of him once.

She deliberates.

“ I’ ll drive separately,” she says quietly.

4:45 p.m.

She follows his car to downtown Fieldridge. He turns into a large parking lot that serves the back entrances to the library, post office, police station, Frank’ s Bar & Grille, the Fieldridge bakery, and a small fleet of high-rise apartments and condos. He drives into a parking space. She pulls in next to him.

He walks toward the line of buildings and, using a key, enters an unmarked door.

She follows him inside.

They go down a flight of stairs, and a room opens out in front of them, with a dozen partitioned offices and a separate office with a closed door.

Half a dozen people look up as they approach.

“ Cabe.” They nod, one at a time. He nods in response, and knocks lightly on the door to the office.

On the window, in black lettering, it says, “ Captain Fran Komisky.”

The door opens. A bronze-haired woman urges them to come in. Her hair is cropped short, and it frames her brown skin. She’ s wearing a black tailored skirt and jacket with a crisp white blouse. “

Sit,” she says.

They sit.

She sits behind her desk, which is littered with papers and has three phones and two computers resting on it.

The captain regards the two visitors for a moment. She rests her elbows on the desk, makes a tent with her fingers, and presses them against her mouth. Her eyes crinkle slightly with age.

She lowers her hands.

“ So. Ms. Hannagan, is it? I’ m Fran Komisky. Everybody calls me Captain.” She leans over the desk and reaches for Janie’ s hand. Janie slips forward in her seat to shake it.