You Are Not Alone (ARC)

by Greer Hendricks

  A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it down.

  I’m about to thank them for coming when Cassandra wraps her arm around me. “Hope you don’t mind if we steal Shay.”

  An hour later, I stand in the middle of a small but stylish apartment, feeling as if my luck is finally beginning to turn around.

  The fourteen-story doorman building on East Twelfth Street has everything a single woman in New York City needs, and more, including a little gym in the basement.

  The efficiently designed kitchen is stocked with an espresso maker and a Vitamix, along with the usual dishes, pots, and pans.

  In the living room, an L-shaped sofa faces the flat-screen TV and built-in bookshelves, which are filled with novels and memoirs. Against the windowsill is an iron plant stand displaying several delicate-looking orchids, and a small aquarium with a few brightly colored fish.

  “The master bedroom is over there, but here’s the guest room you would use,” Jane says, opening a door.

  When the Moore sisters told Sean and Jody they were stealing me, I expected to go out for drinks again. Instead, they said they had a surprise for me: a house-sitting job, if I wanted it.

  Now I step inside the bedroom, knowing I don’t even need to look at it to say yes. I’d be happy sleeping on the sofa in the living room.

  The double bed is made up with a crisp white comforter and fluffy pillows. It looks so cozy I wonder if I’ll even need my Ambien. A window with a built-in seat overlooks the rain-dappled street below. In the corner, a small desk hugs the wall. A candle is on the nightstand, with a red tulip in a bud vase.

  It looks like the kind of place I’d splurge for on the Airbnb site.

  “There’s an empty closet.” Cassandra gestures. “And a little guest bathroom with a shower.”

  “It’s perfect,” I tell Cassandra and Jane.

  “I’m sorry she isn’t going to pay you for this, but you’d be doing us a favor, truly,” Cassandra says.

  “Oh my gosh, are you kidding? I’m thrilled!”

  We walk back into the kitchen again, and I imagine making my coffee without having to put on a robe—or worrying that I’m going to hear intimate noises coming from Sean and Jody in his bedroom.

  “It was meant to be,” Jane says, leaning against the granite counter.

  Everything in here is so bright and spotless. Even though it’s temporary, it feels like a fresh start. I can hardly wait to go home and pack a bag.

  “All you need to do is feed the fish and water the orchids every other day. The flowers are a little temperamental, so just put an ice cube on the soil,” Cassandra says.

  “I’m happy to do anything else your friend needs. “Steam clean her carpets? Renovate her kitchen?”

  They laugh, and I add, “I hope your friend’s sister gets better soon.”

  “I have a feeling she will,” Cassandra replies as we step into the hallway and she locks up. “And she’ll be thrilled to know her home will be watched over.”

  When we exit the building, I hug the sisters goodbye. I stand there for a moment, feeling the whisper of the sky’s last few raindrops against my skin, as if it is washing me anew, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  BETH

  Twenty-two months ago

  THE SOFT PATTER OF the shower running in the next room was as soothing as a light rainfall. Beth lay in bed, warm covers wrapped around her, listening to its gentle rhythm.

  She could stay snuggled here for another two hours, drowsing away the morning; her first court case wasn’t on the docket until eleven A.M. It was a tempting thought. Ever since her chemotherapy had begun more than a month earlier, exhaustion had overpowered her usual exuberant energy.

  But she also hadn’t been intimate with her husband, Brett, since she’d started treatments. It had been even longer than that since they’d showered together, which used to be one of their preludes to lovemaking.

  So she eased out of bed and pulled her long-sleeved flannel nightgown over her head, catching a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door. She could see the sharp edges of her rib cage and hip bones; her once-curvy body had become almost unrecognizable to her.

  She stepped toward the bathroom, wondering why she felt a little nervous. She and Brett had been together for five years, married for three; they’d begun talking about starting a family, although those conversations had been put on hold once her doctor phoned with the results of Beth’s mammogram. This wasn’t the first crisis they’d weathered. Brett supported her when her parents refused to attend their wedding, since Beth had defied their wishes by having a justice of the peace instead of their family priest perform the nondenominational ceremony. When publisher after publisher rejected Brett’s poetry collection, it was Beth’s turn to stand by her husband. She not only encouraged him to keep writing, but agreed to move from Boston to Brooklyn so he could immerse himself in literary circles. He cooked dinner, since his part-time job as an instructor at a writing center left him with more free time, and she covered most of the bills.

  They were, she often thought, a beautiful team.

  She slowly pushed open the bathroom door. Steam filled the room, and she could smell the fresh, sweet scent of shampoo. Brett’s glasses rested on the edge of the sink, and his pale, lanky silhouette was visible behind the frosted-glass shower door. His head and neck curved down, like a question mark.

  He wasn’t moving; he just stood there, letting the water beat down on his head.

  Maybe he was concentrating on the perfect metaphor for his latest poem, she thought.

  She felt a surge of tenderness for this sensitive, creative man who so loved words and could happily get lost in his own mind on the fifty-mile bike rides he took on his days off. He watched only the History Channel and old black-and-white movies; he did the crossword puzzle in ink. He was so different from her—she hated exercise and loved romantic comedies as an escape from the darkness of her job as a public defender—but that was what also made them work.

  She took a deep breath and pulled open the shower door.

  Brett was staring at the drain.

  Or more accurately, at the clump of bright red hair clogging it.

  Beth instinctively touched a hand to her head. Her hair was thinning and patchy, but she still had some.

  “Oh, hey,” Brett finally said. His eyes met hers, then skittered away. “I’m about to get out so it’s all yours.”

  She knew it pained him to see her struggle. He touched her so gingerly these days, as if he worried she might break. He packed homemade puréed vegetable soup in a thermos for her lunch—it was one of the few things she could keep down—and he’d even taken to sleeping on the couch so she could get better rest.

  But she didn’t want him to see her as an invalid or a patient today. She wanted him to see her as a woman.

  She didn’t know how to say it; he was the one who was gifted with words, not she. So she simply stepped aside to let him move out of the shower.

  When she finger-combed conditioner through her curls, a tangle broke loose into her hands. She inhaled a shuddering breath. It’ll grow back, she told herself. It’s only temporary.

  She turned off the water and wrapped herself in a thick robe—she was always cold now—then used a wad of tissues to gather all the hair from the drain and bury it in the trash can.

  The next day she met with a few clients—a woman caught soliciting an undercover cop in a prostitution sting, a nineteen-year-old charged with second-degree battery—and while she sipped her soup at lunchtime, she made an appointment to get a wig. Maybe she’d surprise Brett by showing up as a blonde, she thought.

  But he surprised her first.

  Two days later, she arrived home from work and called out, “Brett?”

  There was no answer. None of the Wagner he adored playing over the stereo, no smell of sweet potatoes roasting or bread baking.

  In the bedroom, his usually cluttered desk was clean. The ant
ique gold clock that was always atop it was missing.

  A note was propped up on the dresser they shared.

  Dear Beth,

  I’m so sorry. I can’t do this. I can’t be what you need. You deserve better. I’ll always love you.

  Brett

  She read the words a half dozen times, but they still didn’t make sense.

  She hadn’t shed a tear when her parents had railed against her for being so different—for marrying outside the Catholic faith, for being a liberal, for always speaking her mind. She hadn’t broken down when the oncologist confirmed she had Stage 2 breast cancer.

  But as she stared at the words on the ragged-edged paper she recognized as having been torn out of the leatherbound notebook she’d bought Brett to draft his poems, her body collapsed and she sobbed.

  A few weeks later, as Beth was struggling to carry two bags of groceries through her lobby—by now she could only stomach ginger ale, bread, and vanilla pudding—the heavy bottles of soda caused one of her paper bags to split.

  A bottle rolled across the tile floor. It came to an abrupt stop under the sneaker of a woman roughly her own age, clad in black exercise clothes.

  “Can I give you a hand?” the woman offered as she bent down to collect Beth’s groceries.

  “I’d really appreciate it,” Beth said, looking at the ruined bag. It would take her two trips to get everything up the stairs by herself, and she was bone weary. “I’m just up in 3F.”

  “No problem, neighbor,” the woman said, straightening up.

  She looked directly at Beth, and Beth suddenly had the sense that the woman saw straight through her, past the clothes that hung loosely on Beth’s body and the scarf that covered her now-bald head, and into her very core, glimpsing it all: her cancer, her betrayal, her loneliness.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Valerie. I just moved here from L.A. a few months ago.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  SHAY

  About one-third of all injuries occur at home, and one of the most dangerous areas is the kitchen. Two of the most common kitchen injuries include burns and knife cuts. If a wound keeps bleeding after you’ve applied direct pressure for five to ten minutes, you may need stitches.

  —Data Book, page 34

  THE BLADE SLICES INTO my skin so quickly that I begin to bleed before the pain registers.

  I grab a paper towel and wrap it around my fingertip, wincing.

  The cut isn’t too bad. I was just using a little paring knife to chop up a red pepper for my salad. But I need some Neosporin and a Band-Aid.

  I walk through my bedroom into the guest bathroom, but the cabinet over the sink is empty. My toiletries bag is stuffed—I packed Advil, tampons, shampoo, and everything else I thought I might need, but I overlooked first-aid supplies.

  A red splotch is already seeping through the paper towel, even though I doubled it up. If I keep pressure on the cut, the bleeding will stop. So I could make do without a Band-Aid.

  But I was using the knife against a cutting board I found propped by the sink. And I once read a horrifying statistic that I’ve never been able to get out of my mind: cutting boards can contain 200 percent more fecal bacteria than a toilet seat.

  I guess I could run out to the drugstore to pick up some antibacterial cream. But I’ve just stirred ziti into a pot of boiling water. And I don’t even know where the nearest Duane Reade is.

  There’s one other option.

  I walk back into the living room and look at the closed door to the master bedroom. There must be an en suite bathroom, because Cassandra described the one I’m using as the guest bathroom.

  The Moore sisters didn’t explicitly tell me not to go in there. Surely just grabbing a tube of ointment and a bandage won’t do any harm, I think.

  Still, I’m oddly reluctant.

  As I make my way across the living room, I’m aware of the utter silence. The walls here are composed of thick plaster, and the floors are lushly carpeted. It’s so different from the place I share with Sean, where noises from neighboring apartments and the street below infuse the air so regularly I barely notice them.

  I reach for the door handle to the master bedroom, wondering what the room beyond will look like. Then it strikes me that Cassandra and Jane never gave me the apartment owner’s name. I guess I don’t need the information, but it feels strange to be drinking out of coffee mugs and sleeping on sheets that belong to a stranger without even that simple formality.

  I hesitate with my hand resting on the cool metal knob. I’ll be in and out in two minutes, tops, I tell myself. And I’ll leave everything exactly the way I found it. No one ever needs to know.

  A loud rattling sound comes from the kitchen. I flinch and whip around.

  It’s my cell phone on the kitchen counter, vibrating against the granite. I hurry over and see Jane Moore flashing on the screen.

  I’m smiling even before I answer.

  “Shay!” Her sweet voice bubbles over the line. “I’m so happy I caught you! What are you up to?”

  “Just making dinner.” I wrap the paper towel more tightly around my finger. “How about you?”

  “Everything’s great. But Cassandra and I have been thinking about you, and how you don’t ride the subway anymore. It just hit us that there isn’t a bus stop that’s really convenient to the apartment.”

  I can’t believe Cassandra and Jane spent time considering my situation.

  But they’re right: My route to my temp job this morning was completely meandering. There’s a subway stop just a block from this apartment, which would make the commute so much easier.

  “Oh, it’s not a big deal,” I say, giving a little laugh.

  I cradle my phone between my ear and shoulder to free my hands. I remove the paper towel and turn on the sink tap, letting cold water run over my finger.

  “We have an idea.” Jane’s voice is soft and inviting; I feel like she’s sharing a confidence with me. “I hope this doesn’t feel like we’re overstepping. But we’ve got this friend. You’d love her, she’s really great. Anyway, she helped us with something personal that we were really struggling with a long time ago, and a few of our other friends have turned to her when they’ve had difficulties. I bet she could help you with this.”

  I already tried counseling—I flash to Paula’s rubber band—and it didn’t help. I’m not sure that meeting with their friend would be any more effective.

  But when I open my mouth, I find myself saying, “That would be amazing.”

  Cassandra and Jane have already made a huge difference in my life in such a short time, I think, looking around the serene, lovely apartment. Maybe they can find a way to fix my fear of the subway for me, too.

  “Are you free tomorrow morning? I bet she could make that work.”

  The Moore women don’t waste time. I mentioned a tough living situation, and they found me a temporary apartment. Now they’re tackling my phobia.

  And tomorrow isn’t one of my temp days; I’m completely free.

  I’d planned to spend the day searching for rental apartments because being here—spreading out on the sofa, singing in the shower—makes me realize how chipped away I feel with Jody and Sean around all the time. But being with one of Cassandra and Jane’s friends seems almost as good as being with them.

  “Sure, I could make that work. I’d love to meet her. What’s her name?”

  “Hmm? Oh, it’s Anne. Anyway, how’s the apartment? Are you finding everything you need?”

  By now my finger has stopped bleeding. It doesn’t even hurt.

  Some antibacterial soap is by the sink. I can just wash my hands with that and keep a clean paper towel around it tonight. I’ll pick up a box of Band-Aids tomorrow.

  “The apartment’s perfect. I don’t need a thing. I was just making some pasta and I’m going to flop on the couch and watch a movie in a few minutes.”

  “I’m going to do the same.” Jane laughs.

  We chat a while longer, then Ja
ne promises to give her friend Anne my phone number so we can make plans to meet tomorrow.

  A little later, after I rinse my pasta bowl and put it in the dishwasher, I walk past the master bedroom on the way to my room to grab my phone charger, since my battery is low.

  I abruptly stop a foot away from the closed door.

  A tiny splotch of my blood is on the glossy wooden floor by the bottom of the doorframe.

  I rush back to the kitchen, dampen a paper towel to clean the blood up, then I drop to my knees by the door and start scrubbing. It comes right off.

  I lean back on my heels. If I’d gone in that bedroom, I could’ve dripped blood onto the floor—or worse, an expensive carpet—and I might not even have noticed.

  But surely the owner of this apartment would have.

  I search the area around the door again, double-checking the handle. But everything is clean.

  Then I head into the kitchen to toss out the paper towel, thinking, Thank goodness Jane called at the precise moment she did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CASSANDRA & JANE

  STACEY WAITS UNTIL VALERIE texts to say the apartment is empty before she strides into the lobby of Valerie’s building, a toolbox in one hand and a baseball cap tipped low on her forehead.

  “I’m the contractor for Valerie Ricci,” she tells the doorman, who has been instructed to anticipate her arrival. He hands over the spare key, and Stacey is heading up in the service elevator within moments.

  She’ll have roughly an hour to work, while Valerie, who is posing as a woman named Anne today, distracts her houseguest.

  Stacey’s instructions are clear: Install an extra camera behind the couch where Valerie’s guest likes to sit typing on her laptop, and a key logger program on her laptop, which will automatically send everything she types to the sisters. Get the Bloomingdale’s bag from beneath the bed in the master bedroom. Find the houseguest’s leather notebook and photograph every page, making sure the words are clearly visible.