Or simply comes—to whatever she is. Darkness fraying at the edges, like a raw hem.
Popeye. Spinach, the metal lid peeling back. Gulps of green.I yam what I am.Yams. Buttered, soft.
No—no food. Not now. Her stomach feels heavy, a dull ache in it.
Christ. Where am I?
Darkness shrinking, there’s light, clarity—there!—in her grasp. And then it’s gone, a snatch of dream morphing into another, into the absurd: a word, a color, a shape that’s abruptly no longer a shape.
There are beeps, steady beeps. An alarm clock that won’t quit.
Five more minutes, she thinks. She is so damn tired.
Voices murmur around her. Near but distant. Background chatter in pockets, drifts of conversation, people talking on atrain. On a bus. In an airport. In an alarm clock, in a clock—She is in a clock!—swinging from the bar of the second hand, spiky metal wheel machinery shifting behind her.
It’s so loud, too loud. The wheels turning, the alarm thundering. She wants to cover her ears, but she can’t. She finds she can’t move, her body like cement—though suddenly sheismoving, springing from one dial number to the next, a series of stepping stones. In a clockwise motion.
There’s something she is propelling toward; something she needs to tell someone. Something massively important.
But she can’t remember what it is—only that it exists.
She continues to jump forward as the wheels of the machinery grind methodically. Ominously. Each crank marking the onward passage of time. Time it feels like she doesn’t have.
Then—the ground beneath budges, cracking like an egg. Water streams in. The stepping stones are now lily pads, softly cushioning her landings.
How quickly the world can change, she thinks, looking around. This phrase feels poignant, fitting, in a way she can’t quite put her finger on. The air has become wet, misty. Swollen with an earthy scent. But still—the tick, tick, tick persists.
Then—a voice, a young woman. Floating from above, beyond the clock. Beyond the misty sheen that surrounds her, like a bubble. The woman’s familiar. Both her voice and her scent: floral. Sweet, but sickly sweet. Like cheap perfume. Or shampoo? Or is it the thing sprayed on hair to make it hold? What’s that called, again?
“Vivian,” the woman-from-above says, her voice silky, smooth, like the water running beneath the lily pads.
Vivian. A pretty name. Familiar.Hername, she realizes with a start. More darkness edges away.
Yes, Vivian wants to answer. But she can’t. Her throat is too sore.
Sprayhair. No—no.Hairspray.
The woman-from-above fiddles with the alarm clock. Fingers rap against plastic, like the typing of computer keys. She must be hitting snooze on the alarm. Vivian feels grateful. The stream gurgles; the sound is peaceful.
“Vivian,” the woman-from-above repeats. “It’s Taylor. You’re in the hospital. We met yesterday, when you were admitted. You’re safe. You had an accident.”
Accident. Hospital. Yes, Vivian wants to say. She remembers.
It’s not an alarm clock—it’s an IV pump. Her throat sore because of the tube lodged in it.
What kind of accident?she wants to ask. Is Peter—
The water picks up suddenly, splashing against the lily pads, pelting the bottom of her legs. She looks down: the green surface is slick, speckled like wet paint. It’s slippery—she is afraid she might fall.
There’s something I need to tell someone.
Vivian
Early February
Vivian is standing on the cobblestone sidewalk in front of the Knox. It’s a few days after Xavier paid her a visit at the store, a few days since she’s concocted this harebrained endeavor.
She’s walked by the Knox countless times throughout her life—it’s located mere blocks from her antiques store, after all—but she’s never approached. She’s never had reason to. Her buyer Michael—the only member she’s met, or rather the only member she’s met for certain—always comes to her. And unlike her other clients, the Knox prefers to arrange for delivery and pickup on their end.
