Late one night, Sophie Duggard, gets shot going into an all night convenience store. During the several weeks of convalescence to follow the incident, Sophie becomes first increasingly alienated and then scattered as she starts to put things into perspective. She challenges her thoughts on love, drug use and her sexuality.
Set in Northwest Portland, Sophie meets the people in her neighborhood, those who she spends her time with, and those who save her. No matter where a person is in life, emotionally high, or emotionally bankrupt, there are always people to be with.
The Excerpt:
The air in Portland was perfect. It was perfect. The rain of the day
had settled and now, there was just the lessening puddles on the
pavement. The leave mash of the autumn was gone now, now in January,
and in the quiet nooks of vacant lots, small patches of forests and
in the derelict neighborhoods, spring was already beginning. Small
blooms even at night were here and there, like the hints and nuances
of dreams.
The Max whizzed to a stop on the tracks. The night outside the
windows was dark despite the early hour. In winter, closer to the
North Pole than not, and being in the western part of the timezone,
the nights come early. Early darkness, and days that come to light
later begin to fail directly after the solstice in January. Each day
gets longer than the last, and this will always be noticeable because
it happens by minutes.
The same thing happens in the summer too, only the days become darker
sooner and the nights last longer. This was something that she had
noticed when in Sacramento. This was something that she had tried to
articulate to Greg, that the days didn't seem to change very rapidly
in Sacramento. They did not change as quickly or as noticeably as
they had in Oregon.
The windows on the inside of the light rail were mirrors, too much
fluorescence inside and the dark, dark night outside. The vacant
seats when she first sat down at the airport quickly filled at each
stop. At the Lloyd Center, she pulled the small bag behind her legs
and squeezed it to the seat, and she put the larger bag on her lap.
Across the river, the city was lit up and bustling. This was not the
same sort of excitement and flush of activity Denver had been. Denver
had seemed dizzying, lively yes, but dizzying. Denver seemed like it
was on the go, even if the go was up and out like a 1950s military
atomic bomb recording. Portland, although well lit, well appointed
moved slower, more sluggish. People were not in fear of freezing on
the street corners with the panhandlers and preachers. In Portland,
there was plenty of time and plenty of pace to move slower,
diligently.
At the Pioneer Square stop, almost everyone got off, and a whole new
crop of everyone got on. As Sophie looked around the crowd, taking
notice of them mostly by their reflections, she recognized no one.
She was not a frequent user of Tri-met, the public transportation
system and she was not generally out and about during this hour.
At the library stop, the very next one, she got off the train. She
has a long walk of about a block up to streetcar stop. There would be
a small circling ride through Northwest Portland under the freeway
and by the hospital ultimately, home. The streetcar would go all the
way up NW Lovejoy Street. At NW 23rd, she would get off
and walk the last two blocks toward home.
The bags became heavier. There was this moment of wistfulness when
she hoped she would not miss the contents of either bag and should
she leave the bags, one or the other on the side of the street, and
if she would miss them.
A small rain, a warm misting drizzle began as she waited at the
streetcar stop. She thought about the taxi she should have taken.
This was no way to spend the evening. She looked at the pavement at
her feet. Be more present, she thought. Be here in this moment, she
thought. Looking down seemed to make that sentiment more real. As she
looked up into the buildings and passing cars and people, the future
seemed more and more consuming.
When the streetcar came, she got on without ceremony. She stood
nearest the door and looked through her reflection into the darkness
making out the places on the night that were more brightly lighted
than the interior of the car. The thing moved slowly and suddenly,
she felt sick, like she should feel. There had not been any food,
only alcohol since breakfast.
Breakfast had been in a dirty little Interstate mountain town in the
middle of the country, a completely foreign place where she was
unlikely to see or visit ever again. This was the sort of thing that
might make a memory, and if nothing more, it might make a story she'd
be loathed to tell.
The mountain towns of Colorado, at least the one she had just seen
did not seem all that different than seaside towns. There were the
same shops, the same restaurants, the same tourists, the same
taffies. This town, this Idaho Springs had something worse, it had a
crime scene which was now becoming more and more obvious to her.
She had not slept with Greg or any other reason than she was lonely
and had been for some long.
The loneliness was something that came on in small waves than just
kept growing and growing. It was like all of her childhood friends
had either grown up or moved away during their college years and none
of them seemed to want any friendship with her. Her work associates
were not friends. Many of them, aging old men, had different ideas of
what the world was like and they seemed very out of touch. She had a
few neighbors in her building she was on good terms with, at least in
the hallways and laundry room.
There were the few dates.
It was all a disaster.
And Greg? Well Greg was the same old son of a bitch that he had
always been and as she suddenly realized it, she was the same old
stupid easily manipulated bitch he always took advantage of. Things
should change.
Getting off the streetcar, she heaved her bags up and began to walk
up the hill, the last two blocks toward home. The lights of NW 23rd
faded into the darkness of the neighborhood. At her apartment
building, she unlocked the back door and walked up the back staircase
toward her door. As she opened her door, she was grateful to release
the bags. She was home.
The air inside the apartment was stale, just like the air in a
non-lived in apartment might smell. The smell of her soap or her her
coffee had made way for paint chipped radiators and dusty old carpet.
She walked the length of the hall from her door to the interior of
the apartments and turned on lights as she went. In the kitchen, she
looked into the refrigerator. The box was empty. It was generally
empty, but more empty now that ever.
It was not a difficult decision. She had dined alone often enough.
Somehow, tonight, it was not as tolerable a thought as it should have
been. It was like she was back home, in the same old place and it
would have been okay had she not had the last several meals with
someone else. Now, she would be forced to eat alone again.
She went to Sammy's. This was not the sort of restaurant where
she would ever go. It was certainly not the sort of restaurant where
she would take guests, or go on dates or eat alone. This was the sort
of restaurant where couples go on weeknights to find a little peace
or a little drama in a relationship.
She sat at a booth near the window. She looked out on the street and
ignored the interior of the place. She ordered a small steak and the
waiter did not ask about any of the trimmings. It was hopefully going
to be good enough. All that mattered now was having a full belly and
a good night of sleep. This would be good enough if she was not going
to be able to leave the past behind.
The salad came. Bland.
The entree came. Over-salted. She ate without relish.
The brandy at the end of the meal already tasted like bad memories.
She looked out the window as the bill came. She had thought about the
basic home economics that they had learned in Girl Scouts. There was
no reason to eat extravagant meals like this when this one meal came
to the same price as what a week of groceries would have come out to
should she had eaten at home.
