Narcoleptic, Preserved in Ice

Sophie Spaner

The ceiling leaks onto Jude’s pillow, a stain growing on a stain. The basement is damp. There could be mold but Jude isn’t going looking for it any time soon. The edges of her books wrinkle and her clothes smell like mildew. This is nothing new. Jude has been in the basement for six years. Her mother lives on the first floor of the duplex. A man named Dallas rents the top floor, has for two years now. Jude doesn’t hear much of Dallas. Her mother, on the other hand, stomps and thumps and breaks plates and bed frames and bones. Sometimes she falls to the ground. A body falling sounds different than anything else being dropped. There is a weight to a body that sounds distinctly alive, heavy and full. Jude knows that sound better than she knows her mother.

Jude spends most of her day in bed. You can’t fall if you never get up. She watches the drippings from the ceilings and prays for a life above ground. A boyfriend, maybe. Higher education. A higher power than their landlord, César, who begs Jude to put her mouth to good use when her mother is on the ground. She won’t know. Clubs and concerts and nights spent in strangers’ beds and friends’ apartments. Health insurance. Kissing. Sex. Lots of sex. Drugs and pills that make Jude so happy she forgets this abysmal town and the gun in her dresser whose sole purpose is to get rid of it all, if it ever came to that. It hasn’t, yet. 

The funny thing is she doesn’t even think she’s that beautiful. A head attached to a body, with hair and a little fat and bones that are frozen right through. She keeps a job telemarketing. Hello, she says, are you interested in supporting roadside construction workers? There were over 143 casualties in the last calendar year, she says, many of our roadside workers are brutally slaughtered by oncoming traffic. And because they have names like Rodriguez and Hernandez, you have probably decided to disregard this issue entirely. But I assure you, ma’am, that this issue is of interest to us all—without these roadside construction workers, you’d hit that same damn pothole you hit every morning on your way to drink half your daily calories at a Starbucks drive-through. By this point, the other line has usually disconnected, hung up, decided that it was time to get on with their day, force-feed their children Eggos and Lunchables until their hearts pop, make eyes at that barely-legal secretary, work for three hours, and go home and fuck their spouse to one-sided completion before forgetting to connect to their C-PAP, jerking and jolting and choking the whole night through. Jude doesn’t make much in commission. It might be better, she thinks, were she to call for something people really care about. Puppies in Ghana and unborn babies. Really getting rid of the homeless, for good this time. Satanic babysitters. American Ebola. Christianity. If only she could be so lucky, she thought. But the Church isn’t hiring, so she makes the most of what she has. Says what she wants. Drinks on the job and catches up on Real Hospital: Vietnam. Loves the blood. Loves the knife. Rewind, again and again.

The ceiling leaks onto Jude’s pillow, and Jude wishes it was all over. The room is freezing over. She lies so still that ice grows on her bones. Barking, from above. Her mother has a Shih Tzu, Bobbie, with alopecia. Thirteen years old. Bobbie barks until his vocal cords wear to nothing, keeps going. RAH RAH RAH RAH! RAH RAH RAH RAH! On and on through the night. Jude walks the dog in the morning and night, eight and six, piss and shit, around the block. He barks at the houses with their lights off. Barks at the cracks in the sidewalk. Barks at Jude, before he realizes she’s no threat to him, not to bite that hand that feeds. They walk the loop and come home to Jude’s mother on the couch, snoring quietly as Frasier reruns play on the fatback TV. Jude throws a blanket over her mother’s still body. Niles says something pithy and out-of-touch and Daphne laughs. Jude retreats to the basement and sleeps through the day.

Jude lets sleep take her body entirely. Drowning. Choking on the tough dreams and praying for her brain to end once and for all. Is woken, suddenly and shockingly, a rumbling tenor shaking her out of her restless sleep. Dallas stands in the corner of the room, plugging and unplugging and switching and unswitching the breakers. “Goddamnit,” he whispers, “Fucking hell.” Plugs and unplugs. Kicks something. “Shit.”

“Is it the stupid breakers again?” Jude asks, and Dallas jumps. 

“Fucking hell,” he says again.

“Sorry,” she says. 

“I’m sorry,” he replied.

“Is it the breakers?”

“The furnace is shit here, you know that?” he says. She watches him for a moment. Tinkering and prodding with no direction. Tugs a wire or two.

“Well, I don’t own the fucking place. Talk to César.”

“I tried. He’s visiting family in Ecuador. Apparently he’s got two daughters who still live there. God. Could you imagine? Eight and twelve, he said. Don’t call, he said. Family time, he said. What the fuck. It’s the middle of the goddamn winter and there’s no heat. What the fuck!” He kicks the leg of Jude’s desk. “What the fuck!” 

Jude swings out of her bed. “Usually you should be able to restart the thing.”

“It’s gotta be forty-plus years old,” Dallas replies.

“Probably more,” Jude says, “but César has no reason to replace it. We’re gonna live here whether it’s freezing or not. There’s nowhere else,” she sighs. “The rent in this town is ridiculous. The buying market is out of the question, at least for me and my mother. I don’t know what you’re working with, though. Who knows. You could be a doctor. Or a lawyer. Or a venture capitalist. Dark-web tycoon. Who really knows.”

Dallas laughs. “You think I’m living in the attic of an addict because I’m a doctor? You think I went to law school, and this is where I am? In the basement of a — how old are you? Twenty-something?”

Jude goes dark. “She’s not an addict. That’s reductive.” Dallas laughs again.

“Right, sorry. Totally. Because she’s got a lot going for her otherwise. We can both hear what’s going on. Thunk. Thunk. You know,” he says.

“Maybe you should go back upstairs.” Jude walks over to the breakers, stands opposite Dallas, really looks at him. Gaunt features, eyes red, remarkably uniform teeth. The shadow of a beard. A heavy suede jacket with fringe and stains. 

“I could probably fix it,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “I’m a good fixer,” he says. He could consume her whole if she let him.

“You should go,” she says, “my mother will fix it when she wakes up.”

“Your mother has never fixed anything,” he says.

“You don’t know anything,” she says, “and you should leave, and call César, and if he doesn’t fix anything then call me. And I’ll figure something out. Besides, I’ve got calls to make.”

Dallas leaves, and Jude dreams are empty the whole day through.

Have you thought of donating to the miserable? Have you thought of donating to the dead? Our recommended donation is $50 but anything helps. 

She awakes to the drippings from the ceiling falling on her face, so gentle in sleep. Shifts slightly and lets the drops hit her pillow. Pneumatic failings. Cold, so cold. Something lives in the back of her throat. Something sick and sticky and chilly that just won’t quit. She coughs, once, twice. RAH RAH RAH RAH from Bobbie upstairs and it could be morning, it could be night, Jude has no clue. Laces her shoes, dons her coat, Lands End from the yard sale, pants that her father supposedly wore, but there’s no way to know. Swimming in her garments, she treks up her staircase, creaking with each unsupported poplar beam. RAH RAH RAH RAH RAH from behind the door, Bobbie shrieks and howls and launches against Jude’s leg when she opens the door. He jumps up, humps humps humps Jude until she shakes him off, humps and shakes off again. His tongue hangs wildly out the side of his mouth, the side with no teeth, and Martin says something about baseball and Frasier scoffs. Laugh track. 

The sink is piled with dishes, must have been there for a month, nearly. Counter littered with fruit in various states of rot, shit spilled everywhere—milk and beer and sauces of all indeterminable kinds. And a smell. Awful, really. Through the living room. No Mother on the couch. Eddie barks on TV, and Bobbie barks back. Barking at the TV, and the TV barking back. On and on. The carpet caked in fur, and a hole in the corner, dripping down. RAH RAH RAH RAH RAH and to the front door, for the leash, but no leash. Leash must have been in the kitchen. Back to the kitchen and RAH RAH RAH and the cabinets, the drawers, could it be in the cabinets? Junk drawer. Knife drawer, love the knife. Forks and spoons and knives (what would it be like? Really? Only requires one or two moments of bravery. Then a lot of shame). But no leash. No doors so no door handles. RAH RAH RAH and Bobbie has got to piss, probably pretty immediately, but the stupid dog would bolt so fast they’d never see him again without the goddamn leash which is not in the cabinet or the drawer or by the back door. Leaves bathroom and bedroom. 

Jude is a good daughter so she knocks. 

Shifting, breathing, maybe—but otherwise quiet. Then a familiar thunk. 

Her hand is cold and sweaty on the doorknob, gripping, slipping. Jostling to no avail. 

“Is the door locked, Mother?” Jude slams her body against the door. “Did you lock the fucking door? Open the door. Fuck. Jesus. Mom.” And the door falls open, and Jude falls with it—it’s funny, for a moment, there’s no way she was strong enough to bust the door, she’s not fucking SWAT or Army or even 140 pounds. And then she looks up, and her mother is splayed on the floor, knees twitching, arms taught to the sky. And a leash, and her neck, burning and constricted from the fucking leash and Jude’s mother looking at her wildly, eyes twisted and pink and so utterly helpless, a raging sadness. “Mom, stop,” Jude demands. Attempts to demand, begs. She wishes there was more to her, some substance, some pull. 

So Jude crawls over, lunges at her mother. Wrestles a little, tries to stop the choking, at least make the leash slack. And she does. It’s not pretty. Jude’s mother coughs, coughs, and the fucking dog barks RAH RAH RAH RAH RAH RAH RAH RAH RAH RAH like FUCK YOU I HAVE TO PISS SO GODDAMN BAD and Jude tries to cough so her voice can come out, but she doesn’t know what to say. Takes the leash. Jude’s mother lies beside her, eyes closed and breathing. Gritty breathing. But steady. Eyes, closed but twitching. Awake. 

“Mother,” Jude says. Eyes, closed but listening. Maybe. Jude sighs. Her mother sighs. “I’m… I’m going to walk Bobbie. Stay here. Don’t move, unless you start… choking or something. Just stay there. Don’t… touch anything. I love you. I’m gonna walk the dog. I’m gonna go walk Bobbie.” Stands up, and leaves.

Jude pets Bobbie’s balding head as she clips the leash, shushing her grating cries. It’s okay, Jude tries to tell Bobbie. When Jude walks out into the light, white and high in the sky, searing, Bobbie pisses all over the welcome mat. Wine not come in, it says, with a picture of a big bottle and a full glass. Soaked through. Jude’s blood is still jumping. Might jump forever. Sometimes she wishes she could forget about the blood. Other times it seems like all she has.

As Bobbie pulls Jude across and back what little greenery could be called their lawn, a car veers onto the grass. Smoke pours from the tailpipe, sputters to a halt, and the door swings open. Dallas steps out the driver’s seat in a cloud of cigarette fumes. RAH RAH RAH RAH RAH Bobbie barks at him, lunges at his leg, and he laughs. “It’s gonna snow tonight, you know,” he says, “tried calling César again but the line’s dead. Fucker left us all to freeze.”

“I don’t mind the cold,” Jude lies. Dallas laughs again, looks to the tire-torn ground and smiles. “Besides, heat rises. You’ll be fine.”

“There’s no heat to rise.”

“You’ll be fine,” Jude lies. Bobbie scurries in small circles, sniffing the cold grass for a place to shit. Circles, circles again. “Let’s go, Bobbie. Hurry up.” Dallas steps closer to her. She pauses, looks down, steadies her breath. Doesn’t look up, can’t. “Are you drunk?” Dallas steps closer, swaying. 

“I’m… I’m… no, I’m not drunk. Had some drinks. Not drunk though.”

“It’s like noon,” she says as he moves his hand, hesitates, lays it on her back. 

“Do you want to come in,” he says, and it’s not a question, not really. She does, of course, want to. That hunger of a predator burns her stomach. To eat and be eaten. 

“I… should go in. To my mother.” 

“Life really is terrible,” he says, and lets go.

So Jude cooks dinner. Sits her mother on the couch, stiff and tearful but silent. Doesn’t look at Jude. Can’t. Doesn’t laugh at the TV and doesn’t touch the dog. “It’s chicken and rice,” Jude says, and doesn’t ask questions. After three hours of Frasier, Jude’s mother shifts back, relaxes into the couch, and closes her eyes. Jude covers her with a blanket, and thinks for a moment that she looks dead — what it would be like; what would it be like? — and retreats to the basement.

Jude turns over and brushes the hair from her face. Tries to let sleep take her. Hello, are you interested in supporting the dead and dying? The poor and the Catholic? Highway workers are at a greater risk than you might imagine. We accept donations over the phone, through mail, and on our website. 

Wakes from the cold again, cold and knocking. Aggressive knocking. She treks up the stairs to where Dallas is wildly pounding the door and opens it. He stomps down the stairs, heavy boots falling dangerously on each step, creaking until the third step from the bottom finally cracks, and Dallas falls, hard. Thunk. Jude steps down, careful not to upset the infrastructure, and looks at Dallas, writhing on the ground in pain. “Fucking hell,” he coughs out. Jude kneels by his side.

“Are you okay?”

“Distinctly not okay.”

“But, like, are you gonna die from this?”

He rolls over. Laughs weakly. “I don’t know. Probably not. Fuck, it hurts though.” 

“Uh… you could… lemme help you. Just… sit on my bed for a minute,” she says. Leans down and slings his arm around her neck. “We can get up, yeah? Use your… you’ve got legs for a reason, man.” He stumbles, lurches, stabilizes, leans on Jude and hobbles to the bed. “You’re heavy.” He groans, flops prostrate. Buries his face in her comforter. Groans again. “What… what do you want down here, anyway?” Groans and coughs. 

“Checking the breakers,” he says. “It’s fucking cold. César is a fucking prick. Furnace sucks. And I hate being cold and alone.” Jude tries to remember the last time she hated her solitude, and nothing comes to mind. Now, maybe. When she wasn’t looking. 

“Make some friends, dude.”

“I don’t like anyone. I hate ‘em all. Ugly world, the whole lot.”

“The lonely misanthrope. Boo-fucking-hoo. Go to a bar and meet a girl instead of getting so wasted your dick gets soft.” 

“I’d rather stay here,” he says, quiet. Looks at her and she looks back and wants to light her whole body on fire because of the way he’s looking, burning through her body, warming up her bones. “You’re over eighteen, right?”

“Yeah,” she whispers. 

“Twenty-something?”

“Twenty-two.” 

“You’re really beautiful.”

“That’s not something I want you to tell me,” she says, and sits next to his body, sprawled on her bed. His face pinches in pain at the movement. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s so cold,” he says. She moves closer. 

“You can get under the blanket, if you want. Get under the blanket.” Dallas begins to shrug off his jacket. Looks at Jude. “Don’t take your fucking coat off, moron. What do you think is happening here? You fucking… broke into my basement. Fell, at no fault of mine. And now I’m… fucking… rehabilitating you, dude. I’m not gonna fuck a squirrel that’s been… fucking half-run-over. Get a grip,” she says. 

“Right, sorry,” Dallas says, quickly followed by: “Are you sure?” 

“Get under the blanket, man.” 

There lays Dallas on the pillow, a stain on a stain on a stain, Jude tucked against him. She breathes hot against his neck and keeps her hands under his suede jacket. “Don’t turn around,” she tells him, “this is all it should be,” she says, “my mother couldn’t take it,” she whispers. Dallas, fast asleep. Thunk. 

And when she wakes up, her face is warm with his face, close and still. He shifts and she moves her hands. They look at each other in the dark, and for a moment, Jude knows what death is like. Holds it in her hand, too dark to see, feels it. “I’m not gonna fuck you,” he says. “I shouldn’t do that to you.”

“It’s not right,” she says.

“I like you, though. I want to.”

“You know… literally nothing about me. There’s nothing for you to like. Prick.” Dallas sighed and shifted away, out of her bed. 

“I might be concussed. I should press charges against César. Shoddy construction and all. Fucking shithouse. It’s a wonder I pay anything to live here,” he says, walking away. 

“Careful. Gentle. Take your fucking boots off.”

“It would be a terrible thing to see you stay here forever.” Jude looks at him, eyes wide and scared. He looks at her like she should be looked at all the time. Like no one could look away. Like a scar or too-perfect teeth or a bad boob job. A house fire. 

“Well. You know.”

He switches the light on. “You should be awake, Jude. It’s fucking noon.”

“I gotta walk the dog.” They walk up the stairs together, careful, gentle. Dallas takes Jude’s hand as she hops the step and lets go. 

Jude raps hesitantly on her mother’s door. Doesn’t want to get mad, doesn’t want to be scared, doesn’t want to pay for a hospital, and walks in. Through the kitchen for the leash. Her mother lies on the couch. Looks at Jude and smiles. Teeth and all.

“Hi, Judy,” she says.

“Hello, Mother. I came… I came to walk the dog. I… where is Bobbie?”

“Bobbie finally stopped barking,” Jude’s mother says, and looks to the bedroom. “Finally,” she says. “I think he’s okay now.”

“I can still take him out,” Jude replies.

“No, Judy, he doesn’t need to be taken out. He’s okay. Finally.”

In the bedroom was a lump of still, half-bald flesh, no more than ten pounds. Jude’s mother stood up and followed her in. “Shame,” she says to Jude, and touches her back, tries to. Hesitates and quits. “Baby I hear the blues a-calling” from the other room, and an untimely fade to black, tossed salads and scrambled eggs. Hesitates. Someday it will stop dripping.

Sophie Spaner is a student at Yale University.

ABOUT THE ART | Sara by Katya Agarwal, 2025. Katya Agarwal is a student at Yale University.