Лиза Макманн: Wake

Miss Stubin is one of the residents, her gnarled hands curled in her lap, I.V. drip hanging from a stand next to her wheelchair. All of a sudden, she cocks her head and smiles wistfully. “ Here they come,” she says.

A moment later, the sky explodes in color.

Janie describes each one in detail to Miss Stubin.

A green sparkly porcupine, she says.

Sparks rising from a magician’ s wand.

A perfect circle of white light, which fades into a puddle and dries up.

After a brilliant burst of purple, Janie jumps up. “ Don’ t go anywhere, you three— I’ ll be right back.” She runs inside to the therapy room, grabs a plastic tub, and runs back out.

“ Here,” she says breathlessly, taking Miss Stubin’ s hand and carefully, gently, stretching out her curled fingers. She puts a Koosh Ball in the old woman’ s hands.

“ That last one looked just like this.”

Miss Stubin’ s face lights up. “ I think that’ s my favorite,” she says.

August 2, 2005, 11:11 p.m.

Janie leaves Heather Home and drives the four miles to her house. It’ s wicked hot out, and she chides Ethel mildly for not having air-conditioning. She rolls the windows down, loving the feeling of the hot wind on her face.

11:18 p.m.

She stops at a stop sign on Waverly Road, not far from home, and proceeds through the intersection.

11:19 p.m.

And then she is in a strange house. In a dirty kitchen. A huge, young monster-man with knives for fingers approaches.

Janie, blind to the road, stomps on the brake and flips the gearshift into neutral. She reaches to find the emergency brake and pulls, before she becomes paralyzed. This is a strong one.

He pulls a vinyl-seated chair across the kitchen floor, picks it up, and whirls it around above his head.

But it isn’ t the emergency brake. It’ s the hood release.

And then he lets go of the chair. It sails toward Janie, clipping the ceiling fan.

Janie doesn’ t know it’ s the hood.

She looks around frantically to see what it will hit. Or who.

Janie is numb. Her foot slides off the brake pedal.

Her car rolls off the road.

Slowly.

But there is no one else. No one else but the monster-man with finger-knives, and Janie. Until the door opens, and a middle-aged man appears. He walks through Janie. The chair, sailing in slow motion, grows knives from its legs.

The car misses a mailbox.

It strikes the middle-aged man in the chest and head. His head is sliced clean off and it rolls around on the floor in a circle.

The car comes to rest in a shallow drainage ditch in the front yard of a tiny, unkempt house.

Janie stares at the large young man with knives for fingers. He walks to the dead man’ s head and kicks it like a soccer ball. It crashes loudly through the window and there is a blinding flash of light11:31 p.m.

Janie groans and opens her eyes. Her head is against the steering wheel. She has a cut on her lip that is bleeding. And Ethel is decidedly not level. When she can see clearly, she looks out the windows, and when she can move again, she eases her way out her door. She walks around the car, sees that it is not injured, and that she is not stuck. She shuts the hood gently, gets into the car, and backs up slowly.

When she arrives in her driveway, she breathes a sigh of relief, and then memorizes the exact location of the parking brake by feel. She sees the keys dangling from the ignition. Duh, she thinks.

Next time, she will be ready.

Maybe she should have bought an automatic.

She hopes to God it doesn’ t happen on a highway.

12:46 a.m.

Janie lies awake in bed. Scared.

In the back of her mind, she hears the distinct sound of knives sharpening. The more she tries not to think about whose dream that might have been, the more she thinks about it. She can never drive that street again.

She wonders if she will end up like her friend Miss Stubin from the nursing home, all alone.

Or dead in a car crash, because of this stupid dream curse.

August 25, 2005

Carrie brings in the mail to Janie’ s. Janie is wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. It’ s hot and humid.

“ Schedules are here,” Carrie says. “ Senior year, baby! This is it!”

Excitedly, they open their schedules together. They lay them side-by-side on the coffee table and compare.

Their facial expressions go from excitement, to disappointment, and then excitement again.

“ So, first period English and fifth period study hall. That’ s not terrible,” Janie says.

“ And we have the same lunch,” Carrie says. “ Let me see what Melinda has. I’ ll be right back.”

Carrie gets up to leave.

“ You can call her from here, you know,” Janie says, rolling her eyes.

“ I-I would, but— ”

Janie waits for Carrie to explain. Then it dawns on her.

“ Oh,” she says. “ I get it. Caller ID. Sheesh, Carrie.”

Carrie looks at her shoes, then slips out.

Janie checks the freezer for ice cream. She eats it out of the carton. She feels like shit.

September 6, 2005, 7:35 a.m.

Carrie and Janie drive separately to school, because Janie has to work at 3 p.m. Janie waves from the window when she hears Carrie’ s car horn beep. This is it, she thinks.

Janie is only mildly excited to start her senior year of high school. And she is not at all excited to have study hall right after lunch.

She brushes her teeth and grabs her backpack, checking the mirror briefly before heading out the door. She is stopped by the flashing red lights of her former bus, and she smirks when she sees the noobs all climbing the steps to board it. Most of them are dressed in the styles of five years ago— hand-me-downs, or secondhand thrift clothing. “ Get jobs, and get the hell out of

South Fieldridge,” Janie mutters. At least there’ s strength in numbers.

Ethel purrs.

Janie continues when the red lights stop. A block before the “ bad” house on Waverly Road, she turns to take a detour. She’ s not taking any chances. She slows as she sees someone walking toward her along the road, wearing a ratty backpack. At first, she doesn’ t recognize him.

And then, she does.

He looks different.

He’ s not carrying a skateboard.

“ You missed it,” Janie says through the open window. “ Get in. I’ ll drive you.”

Cabel eyes her warily. His features have matured. He’ s wearing eyeglasses, the new cool rimless kind. His jaw is decidedly angular. He looks both thinner and more muscular at the same time. His hair, wavy at shoulder length, is layered slightly, no longer blue-black or greasy, but golden light brown. His long bangs that hung in his eyes last year are tucked behind his ears this year. And it looks freshly washed. He hesitates, and then opens the passenger door.

“ Thanks.” His voice is low and gruff. “ Jesus,” he remarks as he tries to fit his knees inside.

Janie reaches down between her legs. “ Grab yours too,” she says.

He raises an eyebrow.

“ Your seat adjustor, you ass. We have to pull them together. It’ s a bench seat. As you can see.”

They pull, and the seat moves back a notch. Janie checks the clutch to make sure she can still reach. She shifts into first as Cabel shuts his door.

“ You’ re on the wrong street,” he remarks.

“ I know that.”

“ I figured you were lost or something.”

“ Oh, puhleeze. I-I take a detour. I don’ t drive on Waverly anymore. I’ m superstitious.”

He glances at her and shrugs. “ Whatever.”

They ride in awkward silence for five minutes, until Janie rolls her eyes inwardly and says, “ So.

What’ s your schedule?”

“ I have no idea.”

“ Okaaay… ” The conversation fizzles.