You, mademoiselle, have a gift for this.
What are your plans, once you leave here?
Are you in love with the young sculptor? Willard his name is?
Will you return to New York with him?
Where you came here from, correct?
Think, though.
Because I have seen what happens to the girls.
They do not always honor their gifts.
He blew plumes through his thick lips.
Color is my competency.
The stomach could be a pale orange, maybe.
ABBY, JANUARY 31, 2015
Black dawn on a Saturday. I flung myself onto the shore of consciousness, desperate for it. Dreams of a plate-glass department store window, splintering and shattering, valuable goods exploding into flames, falling, falling. The realization that I’d triggered this horror, via something hot and unstable and atomic, born of my body.
That phrase—born of my body—was still echoing in my mind as I lay there, awake.
Relinquishing a cozy bed on a dark frigid morning was preferable to this.
Dennis turned over, a heavy log rolling in a deep current of sleep. On his bedside table, his phone, packing tape patching its cracked screen, and the salted-ginger chews, an obscure brand from India that he bought online, many boxes at a time, because they were the only thing that helped when his old craving for cigarettes kicked up.
Dennis is my final man. I met him after I’d been in Providence a few months, still stunned, lost, still emerging from whatever I’d left behind in New York. A handsome hale soldier of art, he seemed, in the Sturm und Drang of the welding studio, decked out in canvas coveralls, covered with grease and paint, an old pair of safety goggles pushed back into his wild blond hair. A cheerful tank commander. I was awed, as were plenty of our classmates, by his brawny constructions, scrap metal cut and bolted into puzzling and brash aquatic forms, and the prestigious scholarship, and the unassuming confidence of this creative savant of southern California, who read no art theory and swept up many student prizes. When we started talking marriage, I hesitated, because I thought my art would perennially fall in the shadow of his.
That was my fear, when it was clear that our destinies would be linked.
I needn’t have worried, though. Not about that, anyhow.
Perhaps I’ll get up and sketch. Perhaps I’ll draw.
Funny thought to have. It had been a long time. Neither Dennis nor I made much art anymore. In fact, we made none.
A splash of water on my face and then a long hot shower. In the kitchen, I sat at the table with a blank sketchbook open. I warmed my hands around my coffee mug and I thought about her.
Before Dennis, before Providence.
So many of the events are lost, vanished. Most of 1990, 1991.
But certain visuals stay.
Eli Hammond’s face.
The building on West Twelfth Street—the five flights of pitted marble steps, the paint-peeling cast-iron banister to help you along the way. At the top, a fire door with a round glass eye in the center.
Now I wondered: What if I stood in that hallway, peering into that peephole? Would she be there on the other side? Would she see me?
Of course not. This would be how I could rid myself of these sightings.
These hauntings.
And so, I find myself there, standing on West Twelfth Street, before dawn on this ice-crusted January morning. A Saturday morning. Just me and the well-padded deliverymen steering their dollies of dairy crates into the grocer on the corner, faces blurred by exhaled clouds. I study the panel of buzzer buttons. No names next to them, only remnants of ancient labels, old bits of tape. But of course I know it’s 5B. I hold my breath and I buzz.
Silence. Long silence. Relief seeping in. I could go to that twenty-four-hour coffee shop on Greenwich Avenue—still there? I think so—and have scrambled eggs and wheat—make that rye—toast and still be home before my household begins to stir. The boys will sleep adolescently into early afternoon. Even Dennis, on the weekends, rarely raises his head from the pillow before ten.
And then the door buzzes. Loud. And then the lock opens with a clunk.
Now is the time to run. But instead I enter the foyer, with a grim sense of simply getting past this personal trial. I realize: Whoever had buzzed me in and is currently waiting by the door of 5B at 6:45, now almost 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning, is likely to be testy. I slip my phone out of my pocket, punch it to glance at the launch-screen photo of Dennis, Pete, and Benjamin, in front of last month’s Christmas tree. Holding it in my hand as a security measure, I climb up the stairs.
I round the fourth flight and there she is. Peering through a crack in the chained door at the head of the stairs. There I am, just a sliver of young me. Mussed hair, ratty pink pjs, prettily pointed chin. Squinting out of a dark slit at the fluorescent blaze of the hallway.
At me. It is me. Look at that freckle above the eyebrow.
Hello, I whisper.
She pulls the door open just an inch or two more.
I whisper. I’m just . . .
I can’t think of a way to explain. What am I just?
Warning you, I say.
She frowns, pursing her lips.
Something gets broken here.
Her eyes widen. Then she shuts the door, a sharp retort. A lock thunks. And then another, and a third.
Many locks on every door, back then.
SESSION NOTES (CONFIDENTIAL)
* * *
A could not regain sleep that morning.
She showered, dressed.
At the coffee shop down the block, she ordered scrambled eggs and rye toast. She found a pencil in her bag, turned the place mat over. She began to draw.
Dr. Tristane Kazemy, JANUARY 31, 2016, Critical Care Surgery Fellow, Neurological Institute and Hospital, Montreal
The blood-brain barrier. La barrière hémato-encéphalique. She swerved toward the wide lane up Montroyal, wishing she could choose the steeper way through the woods, but it was too icy this day, this season. In fact, her fingertips were aching, and once again she swore she’d find time this week to stop at the shop on Rue Stanley for real running gloves, something microfiber and heat-retentive.
The light on the snow made her eyes go all spots, but then she had spent the last hour in the dark lab, streaming video. The buffering was stuttered, but the images of Alexandre Carpentier performing his 2008 thermal ablation, crossing through la barrière hémato-encéphalique on a sentient patient, had moved her deeply. Quite profound, quite astonishing, to be able to gaze into a man’s open, questioning eyes—to speak to him even—and peer at the same time into his skull. The mind and the brain, at the same time. A la fois.
She needed a fleece gaiter too. The scarf Maman had knit for her, though so lovely and rose-pink, scratched her face as she bounded up the path. It collected a damp frost where her breath passed through.
Even now, at her desk, the massive files from the case in New York were downloading, terabytes worth being gulped from the vast cloud. This police official, Leverett, had found—and read!—her doctoral thesis (Lesser-Known Behavioral Impacts of Congenital Neuropathological Abnormalities) online. So. Despite the scoffing of Laurin and Buccardi, her seniors at the lab, despite their dismissing her theories as outré, she’d sent her best thinking into the universe. And apparently, the universe had taken notice. As if it understood much better than she did the force of her will. As if its attention had been lured by the ferocity of her desires, as if it had been inspired to engage with her narrative. Because the ink was barely dry on her degree, and still the universe had seen fit to send her this stunning opportunity. The uncanny case of a wife and mother of two, a working person with a workaday job, an ordinary person brutally overtaken by the extraordinary. The deep stream of data was cascading this very minute into her hard drive. The thought made her run faster.
2/2/2/2
ABBY, FEBRUARY 4, 2015
On my coffee ru
n, in my afternoon stupor, they jolted me awake. Boots thwapping on the pavement. Shouts in rough unison. Their flags were scraps of red and black, flown on poles that swayed drunkenly above Third Avenue, above their shaved heads and topknots and hoodies. Three or four dozen people, dressed in black, faces covered bandit-style with bandannas and balaclavas, coalescing out of the air, seemingly, and doing their very best to stop traffic. Trucks and cabs nosed around them, unimpressed. I stood at the corner of Forty-Third Street, waiting to cross to the coffee shop, to pick up my customary Americano with steamed whole milk. This anarchic marching band flowed past me, me and my fellow office workers, we who require potent infusions of caffeine to make it until evening. The air around them crackled. Smack in the middle of Midtown, they were flat-out misbehaving, playing in traffic, barking like a riled-up dog pack. I have to admit, my heart revved as I watched.
Then I spotted Pete’s new school friend, Dmitri, his bandanna pulled down around his chin. A short boy, with arched dark brows and a peachy-golden complexion, a fleshy soft face with a round chin, almost pretty. He moved at the center of the marchers, who surrounded him like black plasma. He seemed to be in a position of power, this kid.
He was holding a large hammer in his hand.
As they passed, I called to him. “Not smashing windows, I hope?”
“Just heads,” he said, and he laughed. I wondered whether he recognized me as Pete’s mom.
Inside the café, the queue meandered from the door to the counter manned by harried baristas. I took my spot at the end, sliding my phone from my pocket, resigning myself to its distractions.
“Working your nine to five, Mrs. Willard?” I turned to see Dmitri joining the line. With him was a compact, powerfully built young woman in black combat boots and coils of fuchsia hair.
“You bet,” I said. “And is this your after-school activity?”
He grinned and nodded. “And this is my comrade Twiz. Twiz, meet Mrs. Willard.” He still had the hammer in his hand.
“Hey, Mrs. Willard.” Her smile was wide, quick, swooping cheekbones and deep brown skin, and her hot-pink locks waved like antennae around her head.
“Abby,” I said.
“I didn’t realize Pete’s mother was a Midtown prole,” said Dmitri.
“Prole? As in proletariat?” I couldn’t stop myself from chuckling. “Are you two communists?”
“You could say we’re refuseniks,” he said, glancing at Twiz. “We refuse to take part in a fascist police state that supports killer cops.”
“We’re trying to communicate that killer cops are part of a bigger pattern,” nodded the girl. “The global rise in authoritarian violence.” The café’s pendant lights reflected in her eyes, which were slightly tilted, adorably doe-ish, and fiery with conviction.
“Belarus is like ground zero for the next wave of fascism,” Dmitri said excitedly. “Anders Breivik, the Norwegian mass murderer? You know he learned how to kill in a neo-Nazi training camp in Belarus?”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“And did you know the consulate is right over there?” Twiz pointed to a bland office building across the street. “The president is visiting today. Which is why we’re marching. Lukashenko,” she added, helpfully. “A soft dictator exporting white fascism. Right there above the Banh Mi place.”
“And I’m sure you know the American oligarchy supports the police state, keeping us all in line,” said Dmitri. He gazed at me, frowning. “By cashing a corporate paycheck, you’re kind of buying in.”
“Or kind of buying groceries,” I said.
Twiz nodded sympathetically. “The system is rigged against all of us.”
I felt myself getting annoyed now. “I admire your passion, both of you. Your willingness to put yourself out there.” I turned to Dmitri. “But I wish you’d leave Pete out of this.”
“Pete’s his own person, Mrs. Willard,” said Dmitri, with an abashed shrug.
“Abby,” I said, grimly.
“You want to march with us, Abby?” said Twiz. “You have nothing to lose but your chains.” She flashed her wide smile again, then she jerked her chin toward the counter behind me, causing her hair to toss like a flowering shrub in a breeze. “Heads up—it’s your turn.”
I turned to see a barista glaring. “Ma’am,” he barked. “I’ll ask one more time. What do you want?”
A FAIR QUESTION. Consider the detective, and the email that arrived just as I sat down at my desk again, having refused their invitation to march, sitting back to sip my Americano.
Looks like charges will be dropped, so chief wants me to close this circle. Come in, please, just a few forms to fill out.
Pete is on a trip with his US history class to the Boston Freedom Trail, I replied. And he wrote, let Pete learn his history. He’s a minor, you can sign on his behalf.
I’m in Midtown and I work full-time.
I’ve got a division meeting in Midtown later. I know a place we can meet and get this done. 6 p.m.?
So while Pete trailed a tour guide in a white-powdered wig and Dennis cheered Benjamin at JV basketball, I found the detective in the bar of a steakhouse near Grand Central. He wore another perfectly cut jacket, ash-gray tweed this time. He tipped his head and smiled when he saw me approaching. I felt nerves. Or maybe the tremoring was simply a train rushing by, racing through the tunnels not so far under our feet. A mostly empty highball glass sat in front of him, his hand wrapped languidly around it. He offered to buy me a drink, but I declined and asked the bartender to bring me whatever was on the nearest beer tap. “And how is young Pete holding up?” he said. “Keeping his nose clean?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “No more trouble. He just fell under an influence, I think.”
“They’re good friends, he and the other one?” In the low light of the bar, his eyes looked darker, but still very keen.
I shrugged. “He just started at Pete’s school a few months ago.” I took a sip of beer. “It’s so tricky when you don’t like your kid’s friends. If you try to keep them apart . . .”
“It makes the other kid a rock star,” he said. “That is tricky.”
“You have any of your own?”
He nodded. “Two little girls.”
“Just wait. The teen years are too interesting,” I said. “But I want you to know, Pete is a good kid. A great kid.”
“Seems so,” he nodded, downing the rest of his drink. He waved at the bartender and ordered another—bourbon neat. Then he said, “I’ll give you some free legal advice, from a member of the New York bar. Take the time to get this record scrubbed.”
“OK, yes,” I said. “I appreciate your helpfulness.” I sipped my beer. “So you’re a lawyer too?”
He nodded. “I come from a line of cops and drunks. I thought I might improve on that. Graduated from Syracuse then Fordham Law, got myself a Wall Street gig.”
“Oh, that explains the excellent tailoring,” I said.
He glanced at me and gave an abrupt laugh, seeming to appreciate the flirty toss. “Hey, the suits were habit forming. I just looked too good to go back.”
I smiled. “So how did you end up in the precinct house?”
“I’m walking to work one sunny morning and a plane hits the tower right over my head,” he said. “I signed onto the force the next day. Which was probably a fucking idiot move.”
“A noble move, in my opinion,” I said. “And you’re a lieutenant? Sounds important.”
He shrugged. “Well, rank up from me and you’re chief of detectives, and that’s where swank really kicks in, plush digs, plenty of dollars. Not sure if I’m gunning for it or not.” He sat back and drained his glass, eyeing me. “I mean, I’m kind of a conflicted human being,” he said. “I think I might be cursed with a romantic streak.”
He unspooled that slow-rolling dimpled smile, and it made my chest warm a bit, in a way that I enjoyed. It made me feel a bit loosened. “Oh, I know all about that,” I said. “I’m what you might call a
thwarted creative.”
“Well then, we’re both fucked,” he said. “But tell me something. What exactly thwarts a woman like you?”
I guess I talked too much. My art, and the fact that I’m not making it, is a subject I have discussed with myself for many years, and almost never air. An outpouring was not appropriate for that moment, but I was a bit loosened, after all, and maybe I needed to air it, and there he was, holding me in his keen and handsome attention. I told him about the coming of the babies and the money woes, how these forces chipped away at my time and energy, how my easel now stood draped by a bathrobe in the corner of our bedroom, my tubes of paints in a box under the bed, hardened, unused. How this was nobody’s fault but my own. How the road dipped and swerved and how I should have navigated the curves better. Gradually I became aware that the bar had emptied out, the happy-hour clusters disbanded into commuter trains and taxis and subways, and we were still there in the murk, he and I. His hand was resting heavily over mine on the bar. I felt drunk. Four empty glasses in front of me. I stammered something about needing to get home, about the forms. He spread the papers out on the sticky wood. I signed them. When he held the bar door open for me, I stepped out into a very cold, very black night. That surprised me. A few icy flakes blew around. In an unlit passage under construction scaffolding he took my arm, slowed me, and cupped my chin in his hand. In the steam from our excited breath, a small microclimate we created together in this freezing dark sanctum, a long kiss.
Then I pulled back. “I don’t do this,” I blurted, miserably.
He looked embarrassed. “Me neither. Really. As in, never.” He took a long shaky sigh. “What you were saying, it got to me.”
And then, this morning, a text: Lunch?
I regarded those letters on the screen for a long time.
She would’ve said yes. The experience junkie.
I don’t think it’s a good idea, I replied.
Then let’s just keep talking, he wrote.
You Again Page 3
