Circadian Summer

The first time it happened, I was buying a six-pack of beer at the corner store. An elderly man and what I imagine to be his grandson purchased candy bars and some scratch-offs. When I stepped up to the counter and placed the cans down, the cashier asked if I wanted anything else. 

“Cigarettes? Lottery tickets? Condoms?” he asked. 

I shook my head and grabbed a few bills from my breast pocket. He rang me up and I took the cans, turning towards the door. Then I heard a high-pitched, overlapping chirp, like something you hear out in the woods. I turned back. The cashier was extending a handful of coins. 

“I was just saying you forgot your change,” he said after we stared at each other for a few drawn-out seconds. I nodded politely and accepted the coins. There were no other customers in the store at the time. 

I walked a few blocks home and replayed the odd sound over in my head. By the time I entered my apartment, I chalked it up as a sign of sleep deprivation. Sleep was trouble to come by around that time. 

After the funeral, I had the same dream every night. In the dream, as the matching caskets housing the remains of my mother and younger sister are lowered into their dark pits of earth, my ears go deaf, and I collapse to the ground. The excited sun of late-May beats down and sweat pools into my eyes. Other funeralgoers circle around me, eventually blocking the sun out, and my hearing returns. Then I would always shoot up in my bed, sweating as I read all twelve alarm clocks in my room. 

I did actually collapse at the funeral, and everything in the dream actually happened. Every single detail. Can something still be considered a dream if it happened in real life? 

***

The following day, I took the bus to a church across town. My friend urged me to speak with the pastor of this non-denominational church he joined last year. Lord’s Light, it was called. 

“But I don’t believe in God,” I told my friend when he brought it up at a coffee shop. 

“It’s not a tactic to convert you,” he said. “But Pastor Dave is a great listener. I explained your situation and he was more than happy to talk over tea.” 

“I don’t drink tea,” I told him. 

He rolled his eyes. “Listen, you said it yourself. You can’t afford a therapist right now. And you’ve already shut down with me. Please just give it a try?” 

I eventually agreed, though I wasn't excited about it. As we exited the coffee shop, he pointed at a plastic bag in my hand. “What’s that?” 

“A new alarm clock,” I said. 

***

We sat in the middle of a large auditorium with carpeted floors. There was a stage along the back wall, its curtain drawn. Rows of soft floodlights lined the ceilings. Pastor Dave adjusted his legs, crossing one over the other, and blew on his styrofoam cup of tea. I held a glass bottle of Coke. We each sat in a foldable chair, facing each other. 

“You live alone?” Pastor Dave asked after sipping his tea. 

I nodded. 

“Any other family around here? Father? Cousins? Grandparents?” 

The cold glass of the Coke bottle started to numb my fingers, but I refused to switch hands. “My father was an only child. He left us for a seventeen-year-old. I have an uncle who’s been divorced twice and never claimed any of his kids. So, in a way, I do have cousins somewhere. And my grandparents are all dead.” I took a sip of my Coke. 

Pastor Dave looked unfazed. He rolled his thumb and forefinger together as he thought. “Do you ever question why your father left?” 

“If I say yes will the conversation eventually lead to ‘God has a plan for us all’ or something like that? I’m sure that’s what you preach here.” 

He crossed his legs the other way. “We do believe that, yes.” 

“That way of thinking is absurd.” 

“Absurd,” he repeated. “Believing in God’s plan is the opposite of absurd.” 

“Sure.” 

“Do you know what the idea of absurdism presupposes?”

I remained silent. 

He softly smiled. “We can skip it for now. I’m thankful you came to see me today, and I don’t want to bore you with a lecture.” 

“Thanks,” I said. 

“Let me ask you something. Your friend gave me a brief background about you. But before we go any further, are you ready to talk about what happened to your mother and sister? From what I’ve been told, it’s only been a few months.”

I suddenly felt very hollow inside. “I’m not sure how you want me to answer that.”

“I don’t want you to answer in any sort of way. I’m here to listen.” 

From no direction in particular, I heard a series of faint chirps, similar to the sound from the corner store. I glanced over at the ruffled stage curtains. Pastor Dave followed my gaze. “We play music up there before and after the service.” 

“What?” I asked, the chirping sound starting to swell. The nape of my neck felt hot. I turned my attention back to Pastor Dave. Upon opening his mouth, a chorus of chirps, buzzes, and clicks poured out, drowning out all words. I clasped my hands over my ears, but the din of strange sounds only intensified. I shot to my feet, dropping the Coke, and hurried to the front doors. 

As I sprinted down the quiet street towards the nearest bus stop, I heard Pastor Dave calling out to me. His words were discernible again. A taxi pulled up to the curb and I hopped in. The black leather seats in the back burnt my palms. 

***

Later I found myself curled up in the corner of my room. It had turned dark outside. There was half a carton of leftover lo mein in my fridge. I scarfed it down in less than two minutes and drank four beers before bed. As if earwax was the reason for hearing those sounds in the church, I cleaned both ears with cotton swabs in front of the mirror. I noticed gray bags under my eyes and patches of stubble along my face. 

After stripping down to my boxers, I began my nightly check of each alarm clock. There were nine lined up in a neat three-by-three grid on my bedside table. The front row consisted of analog clocks only. The kind that rings with a metallic shrill. The other six were digital clocks, one row with bright green numbers, the other with red. Then there was the bookcase on the opposite wall. On its top shelf, three more digital alarm clocks sat in a neat row. These displayed white numbers, but each clock also had a small metallic disc that vibrated. If I didn’t turn them off in time, the clocks would inch to the edge of the shelf and eventually clatter to the floor (though I always turned them off in time.)

I checked both power strips by the bedside table and bookshelf, and ensured each plug was secure. Satisfied, I slid under the covers and pulled a prescription bottle from underneath my pillow. I popped a small white sleeping pill and closed my eyes, trying my best to think about nothing. 

Naturally, I woke up in a cold sweat early in the morning. 

***

It happened again about a week later on a bus with my ex-girlfriend. The days before that bled into each other as I drifted along. 

My ex-girlfriend attended the funeral and checked in on me periodically after it. We had one of those relationships that moved at a rapid pace after the first date, an expedited version of love. I opened a savings account strictly dedicated to the purchase of an engagement ring. But life happened, and she ended it amicably. After the breakup, she still called my sister often, as they both had an affinity for art. 

It took some convincing, but I agreed to go to an art museum with her. The bus was nearly at full capacity. I found her towards the back and sat down. She greeted me with a smile, though I could sense the pity underneath its initial warmth. A drink tray sat on her lap with two cups of coffee.

We sipped coffee and talked about nothing in particular. As we stopped at a red light, a few passengers on the other side of the bus stood up and pointed out the window. Soon more joined in, exchanging worried looks and whispering among each other. Curious, I stood and peeked over a hunched-over elderly woman a few seats down. 

A crumpled yellow cab sat on its side in the middle of the road. Two police cruisers, flashing their blue lights, blocked off oncoming traffic across the median. Both officers were out of their vehicles, frantically shouting back and forth. There was a dented mini van just a few feet beyond the yellow cab. A woman sat on the curb, blood trickling from her temple. She consoled two toddlers and a young girl wearing elbow pads and a matching helmet. All three children were crying. 

The bus continued through the light and my eyes began to sting. My knees shook and crumpled back into the seat. I suddenly became very aware of the blood pumping through my veins and into my chest. I rubbed my eyes and looked at my ex-girlfriend. Face ashen, she shook my shoulder and spoke. The din of clicking and scraping and chirping escaped her mouth. At that moment, I realized it was the sound of insects I had been hearing. Slick, armored insects crawling over one another and snapping their sharp beaks. 

I lunged across her and tugged at the cord. The brakes screeched and we stopped at an intersection. As I ran towards the front of the bus, each passenger turned their head and stared at me, mouth agape. Their throat muscles clenched and they added to the awful symphony. 

I stumbled into the morning sun and ran down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians and overflowing trashcans. Eventually, when the sound faded away, I stopped and collapsed on a bench. Later that night, my ex-girlfriend called. She chased me for over ten minutes before losing me in the crowd. I apologized, and she didn’t bother asking any questions. 

***

The bus incident left me stuck in my apartment, flinching at every small creak of the floorboard or whisper of wind against the window. It was sweltering around the time, and thankfully I had working air conditioning. I don’t remember how many days I was cooped up, but a call from my mother’s attorney forced me outside again. He wanted to meet to discuss the will. 

I stopped at a diner for coffee and eggs before walking over to the attorney’s office. After a few cups of strong coffee and runny eggs, I tipped the waitress. As I stepped out into the street, a burly man pushed through the foot traffic like a fullback on a football field. His thick shoulder struck me in the chest and I tumbled backwards, falling to the ground. The man continued on through the crowd.

I found myself face to face with a homeless man. He was curled up on a sheet of plywood, a thick wool jacket serving as his blanket. I stared at his smudged cheeks and tufts of hair over his cheeks and jaw. He sat up, a look of worry in his eyes, and pawed at the ground underneath me. 

“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath. 

I rolled over and propped myself up on a knee. He swiped a flattened styrofoam cup from the ground. It was riddled with tiny holes. 

“No. Please no,” he said. 

He pried the cup open with yellow fingernails and emptied it into his hand. A sob escaped his mouth. There, in the middle of his palm, lay a squished cockroach. White liquid oozed from the cracks in its shell. 

“Oh, buddy,” he whispered, a tear in his eye. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I felt my own eyes well up. “That man came running by-” 

The man’s gray eyes locked with mine. “He was the kindest soul I’d ever met out here.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet, praying there was plenty of cash. 

The man wiped his nose and waved his hand. “Don’t. It’s okay. You didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said. 

I still opened my wallet. No cash. 

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “Honest.” 

***

I sat across from the attorney, sinking into a soft chair as he spoke. Much of his words went through me, as I could not stop thinking about the man and his cockroach. 

“There’s something else you should know,” the attorney said. This snapped me out of my trance. 

“The driver of the other vehicle involved in the accident passed away two days ago.”

It felt as if my heart were plucked from its cavity and dropped into my stomach. Admittedly, if I had received this news a few days ago, I probably would have been happy to some degree. 

“Naturally, should you still choose to file suit, much of the trial would fall on the testimony of the cab driver and a handful of eyewitnesses.” 

“How can you sue the dead?” I asked. 

“In these cases, you bring a wrongful-death claim in civil court against the deceased’s estate. But I will say this.” He leaned forward and interlocked his fingers. “We’d probably need you to testify as well.”

“Why?”

“It’s likely the defense would want to know why they took a cab, given the proximity between your home and the airport.”

“Then I’d tell them the truth,” I said. “I overslept.”

***

I visited my mother and sister just as the sun began to dip the following Sunday. They were buried in a quaint cemetery, about the size of a tennis court. My mother’s parents are buried there as well. 

There’s a manicured hedge that runs through the middle of the plot. Although the leaves of the trees had hints of yellow and orange already, the sounds of excited beetles, crickets and cicadas hummed among the brush. My mother’s and sister’s graves are a few feet away from the hedge. 

For the first time since the funeral I spoke to them. 

To my mother, I mentioned how it’s unlikely I will ever fully forgive myself for failing to meet them at the airport. I could be asking myself plenty of questions rooted in the hypothetical, I told her. But in the end it would do more harm than good. I promised her I’d try to live a “better” life, whatever that might mean. 

To my sister, I simply talked about how much I’d miss her and how the world would have benefitted from her energy. I admitted her being taken away at such a young age was unjust and unfair, and I’d hold onto this anger for the rest of my life. But I promised to never let it fester. I also promised to go to an art museum soon. 

I placed a bouquet down for each of them. The shadows from each gravestone now stretched thin across the grass of the cemetery. It was only when I said goodbye and walked towards the gate did I realize the insects in the hedge had fallen silent. 

They must have been listening.