This Story Might Save Your Life(4)

Wiping the sweat from my temples, I tap at the side door before turning my key in the lock.

“Joy?” I call, soft-footing it across the creaky hardwood floor.

In the living room, I stop mid-step. There are leaves everywhere— on the sofa, the coffee table, the chairs. The broken swing-door window sways in the breeze.

Another tap at the side door. Another key in the lock. The shuffle of feet.

Mallory enters with a sigh. “I guess our fix-it job didn’t work.” Instead of her usual tank top, she’s mixed things up with a black fitted tee advertising her wife’s business in vintage typeface: QUINN’S CUPCAKERY.

I’m relieved she’s here. Joy may not be answering my texts, but clearly we’re still recording today.

Mallory considers me when I don’t respond. “You okay? You look—” She waggles a hand.

“I’m fine.” I’m unconvincing, so I add, “A tree smashed my shed last night.”

“Shit.”

I nod.

“Wait. Not the Zen Den.”

I nod again.

“Bummer.” She whispers this with the reverence of a eulogy.

It’s more than a bummer. That twenty-by-fifteen outbuilding was the reason I bought my house in the first place, and I’ve put a lot of money into it since. But I have bigger problems right now. Watching my feet as I proceed down the stairs, I brace myself for Joy’s face. All I need is a one-dimpled smile. If she smiles, we might be okay.

Only, she’s not here. The workstation in the main room is empty, as are the adjoining offices. Which leaves the bedroom. The door is cracked, and the bed is made. “Joy?” I call quietly.

No reply. Of all the scenarios I imagined playing out today, this did not make the cut.

“No one’s here,” I say when Mallory joins me downstairs.

Mallory scans the room, as if I might have overlooked two fully grown humans. “Are you sure?”

A worry slithers up my spine. I try Joy’s cell. Straight to voicemail. Avoiding the other unanswered messages on the screen, I write, We’re at your house. When there are no ellipses, I add, cringing, We said 11, right?

“They’re probably running an errand,” Mallory says, waving off my concern. She sits in her usual chair at the desk and starts prepping the audio equipment.

I try to do the same, but my head hurts.

Reluctantly, I reread the texts I received from Xander last night. The first, just after Joy kicked me out: Call me. And then five minutes later: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? I haven’t responded to either. Seeing that he wasn’t home when I was here, I’d hoped, perhaps naively, that his messages were unrelated to the matter Joy and I discussed. There are probably a dozen things I’ve done this week that warrant an all-caps admonition. Feeling sick, I type: Where are you?

Richie scratches to be let in from the private terrace. I open the door, and he patters past me and up the stairs. His nails click click click on the hardwood as he circles the house, and then he’s back, staring up at me with expectant eyes. I glance around, understanding. “Have you seen Potsie?”

Mallory twists her lips. “Maybe they’re walking him.”

She knows that neither Joy nor Xander would take their dog for a walk when we’re supposed to record. I humor her with a “Maybe” and slip outside.

The Santa Anas are picking up again, blowing in another round of torrid air. Fir needles flurry to the ground as Richie tails me up the stone-step pathway to the detached garage. I poke my head inside; it smells of must and turpentine. Xander’s Maserati is parked in its usual spot, but his 1964 MG is notably absent.

“Where’s your brother?” I say to Richie, kneeling down to scratch behind his floppy ears.

My head throbs when I straighten, and I shade my eyes against the dappled sunlight. What I see next confuses me. Retracing my steps down the hill, I stop to stare at the gaping hole in the exterior side wall, right between the tall firestick plant and the overgrown laurel. There should be a window here, but looking inside, I can see the glass has shattered spectacularly, violently, covering every surface of Joy’s bathroom.





Joy Moore


EXCERPT FROM UNTITLED JOINT MEMOIR WITH BENNY ABBOTT

Early Days

I can sleep anywhere. Classrooms, restaurants, movie theaters, hiking trails—you name it, I’ve probably slept there. This is not a blessing, as my friends with insomnia have suggested. Before medication and routine helped me cope, I lived in constant limbo. Sudden sleep was not an if, but a when and how and where. Medical professionals call these bouts of uncontrollable sleepiness “attacks.” I prefer to call them naps. I was napping when I first met Benny.

A neighbor’s rock band was playing the Echo that night. You may have heard of the place—concert venue in Echo Park, standing room only, everyone squished together in a rectangular black room smaller than an elementary school auditorium? It’s special.

I was on the concrete floor near the back wall, head resting on my arm. Benny nearly tripped over me on his way out of the restroom.

Most often in situations like these, I’m unaware of my environment, as people typically are when they’re asleep. I might doze for a few seconds to a few hours before waking on my own. Sometimes refreshed, sometimes not. I had no way to know how long I’d been out on that dirty floor, but when Benny came upon me I was trapped in a state of sleep paralysis: aware of my location but seeing a “dream” version of the dark club behind closed eyelids, complete with shadowy figures and flashing lights. I knew I was hovering in that liminal space between wakefulness and oblivion, but my body refused to move.