When I first moved in with the girls, the apartment was thinly furnished. A few things had been left behind by the former owners: the heavy, long dining room table with its even dozen chairs; a couple of bureaus that were scuffed but well made. Billie had furnished the rooms with the tastes of the eternal teenager she was—cheap sofas and bland accoutrements and knockoffs of every variety. The four-poster in Willow’s room was an exception, and somewhere Billie had found a Tibetan altar that graced the parlor, and of course, her music room held a good piano, but the rest was tacky and hard to look at. Our mother had grown up amid beauty and luxury, then lost it all in the war. Living on a farm in upstate New York had done little to restore the life she’d known, but she taught us both an appreciation of art. Billie was always torn between her longing for the bourgeois beauties of art and the apartment itself, which our mother would have adored, and the bohemian world of her music.
I had no such conflicts. Thanks in part to my excellent salary, then pension, and the money that came in through Billie’s royalties for a long time, I furnished the apartment properly. I hung the paintings my sister had collected and left leaning against the walls, and shopped for antique furnishings that I could reupholster in delicious fabrics like plum velvet and forest-green silk. I bought appropriate side tables and beds and bedding.
The whole place is getting quite worn, it must be said. Water damage has infected some of the cornices in a couple of rooms, and the parquet floors need to be stripped and refinished. In the bathrooms, the tile work alone will take thousands to restore—if the art deco tiles can even be matched. The responsibility has become heavy, and a very tiny thread in my heart wonders if Sam might be right. Someone else could come in, bring a fresh infusion of money, and fix it all up.
The trouble is, we’d never be able to be sure anyone could love it as much as we would.
As much as I do. How can I possibly leave it?
This room is my favorite. The paintings whisper among themselves just beyond the circle of yellow light, and from my chair, I can see out to the rooftops across the street and the skyline winking beyond. The chair is covered in rose velvet that’s gone a bit shiny over the years, but the ottoman still fits me perfectly. The scotch goes on the side table, my feet cross on the ottoman, and I plump a pillow on my lap for the tablet.
It’s a nightly ritual to check the messages from Instagram. I often check things many times a day, clicking a heart to like something a viewer says, offering a quick comment, reading through the feeds of other people. Tonight, however, I’m hoping for another message from the mysterious man who sent the direct message yesterday. I sent another query last night.
There’s still nothing.
I’m stuck in a holding pattern in all directions, which is the thing I hate the most. My entire being wants to take action, do something, anything, and I’m forced for now to sit still and await advice.
To give myself some peace, I read the messages and emails that have become such a framework in my life. In the four years since I started the G-L-O-R-I-A account, I’ve made true friends online, women my age and both older and younger. They write to me DMs and emails, and I am sometimes staggered by their stories. There is Harriet Allen, who was a nurse only because her father would not let her study to be a doctor, who retired from nursing early when her husband died and left her a large sum of money. She was at loose ends when we “met,” just turned fifty-five and feeling as if life was over. She insisted it was my influence that caused her to return to school for her MD, but I think she would have made it there anyway.
There is Paulina, who took up a paintbrush for the first time at eighty, and sold her first painting a few months ago; Rita, who walked away from a long marriage at the age of sixty-three; Mary, who is spending her retirement traveling to every state in the US.
Not every story is a big one. Some have made small steps, to stop drinking wine or eating sugar, to be kinder, to be aware or start meditating. Some women have come into my life and then died, which I truly hate, but I’m glad we crossed paths this way.
Tonight, I read through the DMs and requests, and it’s the usual mix. Trolls dressed up as doctors and military men of a certain age, and other trolls who take me to task for various crimes against humanity like feminism and frankly sexual comments, as if women our age have simply given it up forever.
As if.
I wish there were another message from Isaak. He’s been so much in my thoughts, and I’ve been feeling that whisper along my nerves today. That longing for kisses, for hands on my body, for my mouth on a man’s belly.
His belly. His hands. I close my eyes for a moment and call up the details, my fingers on my lips as I remember his kisses. I have never known a man who could kiss as well as Isaak, as if all of life could be found in my lips, in the well of my mouth, and he could not help but explore every bit of it.
I do hope he’s all right. He must have access to some help or less grim circumstances if he can send a DM. Or perhaps he’s given someone else—a lawyer, a friend—encouraging words to send my way.
I scan the internet for one of the photos of him being arrested, and although he’s older, as I am, he is still so much himself. That craggy face, his crisp trousers. With the edge of my thumb, I touch his mouth.
Enough.
I open my photos and look for a shot that will express my mood on Instagram, and laugh when I find it—a soft green-and-pink amaryllis bud, just beginning to open. There’s a drop of water trembling at the tip.
I post it with the caption, All the flowers in nature know one thing is very important. And you definitely don’t need a partner. #natural #sexytimes #flowers #thisisseventy
If Willow reads it, she will laugh. If Samantha does, she’ll be so embarrassed. Maybe I need to buy her some funny sexy toys.
But mainly, I wonder if Isaak will see it. If he will know I’m thinking of him.
I’ve just started running water in my bath when the phone rings. It’s on my night table in the other room, and I am not in the mood to talk to anyone. My thoughts are tangled, and the places in my neck that get stiff at the slightest whiff of worry are starting to warn me. A hot bath with my favorite lavender oil will help stave off a torturously painful neck. If it’s one of the girls, they’ll leave a message, and I’m not going to be in the bath that long.
One more beautiful thing I will desperately miss if I have to leave. I adore this room. It’s enormous, large enough for a dressing table beneath a glass-brick window that fills the space with light. I’ve placed begonias with showy leaves on shelves and counters around the room. One old Boston fern sits where a dressing table might have gone, right where diffuse light will shine on her leaves. She’s been there fifteen years, an annoyance for the cleaners, who have to vacuum up leaves that she sheds, but a deliciousness for me, as I love her fluttery sturdiness and the oxygen she breathes out.
The tub is long and deep, now filled with slightly purple water that fills the air with a natural lavender scent. I’m particular about the form of lavender—artificial forms are tinny and horrific, but true lavender is one of the most beautiful scents in the world, relaxing and soft.
I’m about to discard my robe when the phone starts to chime again. This time, I feel a sense of slight dread. It’s possible someone has died, but I feel in my gut that it’s something to do with Isaak. Straightening my shoulders, I leave the steaming bath and pad across the soft carpet into my bedroom and pick up the phone.
“It’s time to run,” says a man’s voice. I don’t recognize the voice, but before I can say a word, the connection is cut.
I stand where I am, phone in my hand, my mouth dry. It was a code phrase between Isaak and me, back in the day, in case something had gone wrong. Back then, we each had a plan and a circuitous route that would bring us together on the far shore of hiding.
Now, I have no plan, no hope of reuniting, only loneliness and exile awaiting me.
The alternative is that I will be arrested and spend my day
s locked up in a cell, without beauty or music or anything to bring me joy. A flash of myself in a prison jumpsuit, meeting with Willow and Sam at some grim metal table, knocks the air out of me.
And if I’m in trouble, I really don’t want it spilling over on my nieces. They’ve done nothing to deserve it.
I have to get things in order here as fast as possible, then get myself the hell out of Dodge. Leaving the luxurious bath to go cold, I pick up my tablet and open the internet.
And then I worry that the authorities will be able to track me this way, through my wanderings online.
How else can I find the information I need?
Time to run.
Chapter Fourteen
Sam
When I wake up, I bolt upright, feeling panicky. What time is it? Have I slept all day and wasted all those hours? Rain is still falling, and it’s really cold in my apartment, and I have the most massive headache I’ve ever had in my life.
It also takes concerted effort to swallow past the razor blade in my throat. I need a cup of tea with honey. And I’m not really hungry, but eventually, I will be. I need to order some food before it’s too late.
It’s hard to focus. I think of the work I should be doing, the emails I was meant to send, and then I’m lost in my headache for long moments.
I do have to pee, which is a good thing. Once I dehydrated myself so badly with the flu that they had to give me intravenous fluids. I roll over onto my side with great effort and look across the ocean of hardwood. The bathroom is about five or six miles away.
This is the worst part of living alone. No one to bring you a cup of tea when you’re sick or open a can of soup for you or press a hand over your steaming-hot forehead. I really didn’t think I’d still be alone now, my eggs withering, my heart turning so hard it’s like a walnut. I think of Willow, floating through our mother’s apartment, hanging out with Gloria, and fury flickers through me. Or maybe it’s jealousy. Or maybe even longing.
I wish somebody were here.
C’mon, Sam. I force myself up. One step at a time, and I cross the vastness of the apartment.
I pee and wash my face and hands, carefully because bending over makes my head hurt worse.
A snippet of a game world races across my mental screen, electrifying and vivid, an avatar of a woman, tiny and blonde, under a spotlight. Not quite anime but . . . I try to capture it by staying very still, but it disappears with a pop. Still, it was something strong; I can feel it.
In the kitchen, I look for Advil. There are only two left in the bottle, and I put the kettle on for tea.
I remember that I need some food. I pick up the phone, suddenly afraid it’s too late to order anything, but it’s only nine. I’ve been asleep for five hours.
Huh. Am I really sick, or is this just me feeling sorry for myself? As a child I often caught a cold or the flu when I felt out of control, and to my eternal shame, it has continued into adulthood.
I put my hand to my head, and it feels hot, but I’m not sure if that’s just my imagination or if I actually have a fever. It seems like a lot of work to cross the room again for the thermometer. If I even have one. Do I?
And really, I’m probably overreacting because I’m stressed. I’ll order some food and sleep it off.
The girl in the game world of my imagination plays a chord, a hard chord, too loud, and I press fingers to my left ear, realizing that it aches. Not just aches, burns. Shit. I’m really coming down with something.
Sleep. Sleep is the thing. Opening a delivery app on my phone, I order two vats of chicken soup, two liters of 7UP, and extra crackers. LOTS, I write in the little box.
Order will arrive in 20 minutes.
The kettle whistles, and I list toward it, dizzy when I stand up, and pour water over a tea bag. While it brews, I find I’m shivering and pull the sweater around me more tightly. My neck is getting stiff from tension, and I lift my shoulders up and down a couple of times to try to shake it loose.
Such a headache!
Maybe, I think vaguely, I should call someone.
But it’s late. I don’t want to bother anybody.
I pick up the tea and head for my bed. I’ll just rest until the food gets here, then have some soup, and by then the Advil will have kicked in and I’ll be a little better. Watch something on my tablet.
It makes me think of Willow again, when she showed up with all the things to try to cure my broken heart after Eric, the full set of seasons from Felicity.
Poor Felicity should never have cut her hair. Who knew hair was so important?
The girl in my imagination cuts her hair, dyes it black. “Who takes a blonde seriously?” she says.
Pulling the covers around me like a cocoon, I drift off, and the girl on the stage stands up and walks toward me. I lean in to listen and I’m gone, into her world like Alice in Wonderland.
Gone.
The next time I surface, the rain has stopped and it’s much quieter. My phone is on the other side of the room, so I don’t know what time it is, but the tea on my bedside table is cold and untouched. Man, I really went out.
The headache is much better, but I can tell I don’t want to swallow. I know I need to drink something, however, so I force myself into a sitting position, very slowly so as not to awaken the wasps in my head. The tea is cold and too strong and unsweetened, but I gulp it down, and it only hurts a little.
Good. Maybe the worst is over.
The food!
I pad over to the door and open the locks, and there it is—a big paper bag with the soup and bottles of soda and—it makes me smile—about fifty packets of saltines. I close the door and carry the bag to the counter, pick up my phone.
There are three voice mails, two from Willow and one from Gloria.
Huh.
I listen to them and realize that they’re responding to phone calls I made, phone calls I have zero memory of making.
My cheeks flame. How embarrassing! So needy!
But now it’s twelve thirty, and I’m not going to call back and wake them up. I’ll give them each a call in the morning.
The game world buzzes to life in my imagination again, and between when I take a bowl out of the cupboard and when I pour in some soup, my brain offers up a dozen ideas, images and snippets of direction in words and code. A shiver runs up my spine. This might actually be good. I heat the soup in the microwave and find a big spiral notebook with grids—I have dozens—and start to scribble down some of the ideas that dance through my feverish brain. It’s about the girl, the avatar, on a stage. But not just on a stage. There’ve been a million games about becoming a star. How will this one be different?
She can be anything. Make her own avatar. Be a rock star or a senator or a billionaire designer, taking her place shoulder to shoulder with the guys.
The microwave beeps, and I pause to get the soup and force myself to eat some of it, staring at the drawings and notes and bits of coding that popped up—just a line, here and there. I can feel the tone and atmosphere, even a sense of what the music should be. Music is powerful. If I hear the notes from Zelda, I’m transported instantly to an era, age eleven, sitting with Asher in his room or mine, more often mine, since he has four younger siblings and they could be annoying, interrupting us all the time.
As I’m staring at the page, I see an elegant piece of design, put the bowl aside to sketch it out, and fall into the shape of the emerging game, filling page after page with sketches and notes, downloading all the crazy stuff and all the workable stuff and all the recycled bullshit onto the paper. I’m so into it that I fall asleep on the counter and only awaken when the headache has roared back to life and my neck is stiff as hell and I’m frozen solid. I pick up my phone and stumble back to bed, thinking I should drink some water.
In a little while.
I’m inside the game, trying to make my way through a forest of trees drawn in prism colors, like Mylar, beautiful but blinding. I look at my arms, and they’re dusky purple, a
nd I have a sword, but not an actual sword. A sword of words. I peer at them and see that it’s code, code as elegant as Asher would write. No one ever appreciates code, no one ever sees it, but our peers know the difference between ordinary and elegant. Asher is the best.
The best.
I wake up and stumble to the bathroom and realize again that I’m really sick. I can’t find any more Advil, so I drink as much water as I can, hoping it will wake me up again soon. I fall back into bed, and my phone is under me. I peer at it and see that my sister called again, and Gloria, but neither of them left a voice mail, and even if they had, I don’t have the energy to listen to them. My skin hurts. It’s burning. My head feels like it’s going to explode.
Asher writes the best code. How did I lose my best friend? He’s the person I would call. He would always answer.
No more.
In my dream, I am in a very midcentury modern sort of living room, but softer. I know I’m in Brooklyn, but not exactly where. Asher’s sister, Roda, lives not far away, and we planned it that way because we want the kids to grow up close to their cousins.
I forgot about this!
Here are my children—two little boys with his dark eyes, and the oldest one already wears glasses at five. They’re playing LEGOs on the dark-gray carpet. I smell food, something savory with lots of healthy vegetables cooked in ways that the children will eat, and I can see the kitchen, with pale-gray shimmering tiles, like water, and granite countertops (marble is too cold) and a Wolf stove. We must be making a lot of money, I think, and Asher comes in the room. He’s starting to bald a little bit, so he wears his hair very short now, and it suits him, makes him look lean and focused, though the rest of him is a little plump. He looks like a dad. Like the dad of my children. Like the dad I always wanted.
And then I’m in the iridescent forest again. The sword says The Way to Greatness. I think, very loudly, it should be Write My Name Across the Sky.
No, not my mother’s song.
A blinding pain shatters all the dreams, and I find myself leaning on my counter, trying to remember what I’m doing there. Why am I standing here?
Write My Name Across the Sky Page 9
