You Are Not Alone (ARC)

by Greer Hendricks

  “Oh, that’s so great!” I hear her say something in the background, then Jane’s slightly muffled response. “Awesome, where is it?”

  “That’s the weird part.” There’s no way to ease into this, especially since they’re in a hurry. I can also see Sean walking back toward our table. “I didn’t realize it at first … but it’s Amanda’s old apartment.”

  There’s dead silence. I feel my insides tighten.

  “Oh?” It’s impossible to gauge Cassandra’s tone.

  Sean slides into the seat across from me. He raises his eyebrows and wiggles his thumb up, then down.

  I shrug. “I don’t even know if I’d be comfortable with it. But I wanted to check with you two first.…”

  “Hmm, wow,” I hear Jane saying. Her voice sounds closer now, as if Cassandra is holding her phone up between them. “That is a little tricky.”

  “I shouldn’t even have asked,” I say quickly. “It was a bad idea.”

  “Hang on, Shay,” Cassandra says. “We were just surprised … but I guess it makes sense the landlord put it up for rent. I can see how you would’ve stumbled across it. You’ve been searching Apartments.com every day.”

  I can’t remember telling her that, but I must have. It’s the truth.

  “I can find something else.”

  “The thing is, it’s really hard to get a good studio in New York,” Jane says. “And Amanda loved it. It’s such a cozy place.”

  Sean takes another sip of his beer, then leans in. I can tell he’s curious about their response, so I tilt the phone toward him.

  “Jane, I think she should do it,” Cassandra says. “Someone’s going to live there. It might as well be Shay.”

  I hold my breath.

  “It actually makes me happy to think that someone we like is going to be there,” Jane says. “Can’t you just see Shay coming in from a run and making one of her banana smoothies in that great little kitchen?”

  Sean smiles and gently nudges me with his elbow. He knows my banana-smoothie addiction well.

  “Totally!” Cassandra says. “Shay, you’ve got to grab it before it’s gone. What are you doing talking to us? Go call the landlord!”

  I laugh, so relieved my body feels weak. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it now.”

  “Text us and let us know if you get it!” Cassandra says. Any trace of discomfort or surprise is gone from her voice; she’s bubbling with excitement. “You’ll have to have a housewarming party.”

  “Definitely,” I say before hanging up. “Have fun at yoga!”

  I look at Sean, incredulous.

  “That went well,” he says. “Guess you have one more call to make.”

  By the time we finish our beer and head out, I’ve got an appointment to see the apartment tomorrow at nine A.M.

  Bring a check for the security deposit, the landlord told me. If you’re really serious, I’d like to finalize this on the spot.

  “Seems like everything’s going your way,” Sean tells me as he gives me a hug goodbye.

  I turn and walk in the other direction, imagining my bed in that alcove and the kitchen all set up with my teakettle and wok on the gas stove burners and my fruit bowl on the counter.

  I can also see myself opening the door and welcoming in Cassandra and Jane.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CASSANDRA & JANE

  Seven months ago

  “COME IN, COME IN!” AMANDA HAD SAID, pulling open the door.

  “I just gained ten pounds from the smell in here alone!” Jane had laughed as the Moore sisters hugged Amanda and shrugged off their coats.

  Amanda had baked up a storm for her gathering: lemon bars, caramel brownie bites, chocolate-chip cookies, and a strawberry-rhubarb pie with homemade crust. Her apartment smelled heavenly.

  “I can feel the butter sticking to my hips already,” Beth had groaned as she’d inhaled deeply and grabbed a cookie.

  All six of the women in the group were present: Cassandra, Jane, Valerie, Beth, Daphne, and Stacey.

  For the first half hour or so, they drank wine, devoured the sweets, and wove questions into the conversation, asking Amanda about her childhood, her relationships, and how she filled her spare time.

  Then it began.

  “So, guess what I learned the other day?” Beth had looked around at the others, her expression revealing it wasn’t happy news. “My ex has a poetry reading next week at Slam.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Cassandra said, even though this wasn’t the first the sisters had heard about it.

  “A mutual friend of ours posted about it on Facebook,” Beth said. “I unfriended her immediately, but it’s too late. I can’t get the details out of my head.”

  “What’s this about?” Amanda asked.

  Beth told the whole story about her ex to Amanda, starting with her breast cancer diagnosis and ending with her ex-husband’s abandonment.

  Amanda touched Beth’s hand, but Amanda’s expression was angry—that mix of steel and softness Valerie had noticed in the ER.

  “I’ve seen a lot of people mess up when loved ones suffer,” Amanda said. “But that is one of the worst stories I’ve heard.”

  “Beth moved here for this guy, she supported him all those years while he sat on his ass and wrote his little rhymes, and he left her all alone,” Cassandra said, watching Amanda carefully. “She had to take an Uber to and from her chemo treatments. She was down to ninety-eight pounds.”

  “So you didn’t have anyone with you?” Amanda asked incredulously.

  “A few friends offered, but I could barely drag myself out of bed some days.” Beth shrugged, but her face twisted at the memory. “I was sick and hurting and depressed and I just didn’t want anyone to see me like that. I couldn’t summon the energy to put on an act. But Valerie lived in my building back then, and one day when I was struggling to get in some groceries, she helped me. Then she knocked on my door the next day to check on me.”

  Valerie interjected, “She knew I wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  Beth pushed away her plate, even though she hadn’t taken a bite of the pie she’d just served herself. “I was so angry for so long. I thought I’d gotten past all that, but the idea that he might be succeeding … And get this: I still have to pay him alimony.”

  “That is unbelievable,” Amanda spit out the words.

  Beth shook her head. “What I wouldn’t give to see him fall flat on his face.” Her voice was shaking. “Apparently one of his poems is titled ‘Cancer.’”

  Jane reached over and rubbed Beth’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

  “We should show up and heckle him,” Valerie said.

  Cassandra took a sip of wine. Her tone was contemplative. “It would be a shame if he was told the time of the reading had changed and he arrived too late to do it.”

  The slightest hitch in the energy was in the room as the other women realized what Cassandra was doing.

  The test had begun.

  Jane smiled. “Or if he got so nauseous he couldn’t stay onstage.”

  Beth threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, sweet justice! That would be perfect. But how could we make that happen?”

  Everyone fell quiet. It was important to see if Amanda took this further.

  Amanda took a bite of her gooey caramel brownie. She didn’t seem uncomfortable with the sudden silence. She appeared to be thinking.

  “Syrup of ipecac,” she said. “People used to give it to their children to induce vomiting if the kid swallowed something poisonous. They don’t recommend that anymore, but it’s still around. Some people with anorexia use it, unfortunately.”

  Cassandra had felt a tingling course through her veins. On the walk home later that night, when she discussed the moment with Jane and Valerie, she learned they had, too.

  Valerie leaned forward, her brown eyes flashing. “How would we do it?”

  “Slip some in his drink.” Amanda shrugged. “A little goes a long way. Too much can b
e really dangerous, and even a small amount will make someone violently ill. As in, puking uncontrollably and running for the toilet. So you have to be careful.”

  “But how would we even get it?” Cassandra asked.

  “It’s available over the counter. I could pick some up from a drugstore,” Amanda said.

  The others had looked at each other.

  Amanda didn’t know it, but she’d just passed with flying colors.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  SHAY

  The chances of anyone having an indistinguishable look-alike somewhere in the world—meaning all eight measurable facial features are identical—are exceedingly rare; the odds are roughly one in a trillion. But because people see the entire face of whoever they are looking at, rather than scrutinizing each individual part, they often find striking resemblances between those who don’t actually share many measurable facial similarities.

  —Data Book, page 44

  WARM WATER SLUICES DOWN my back and I reach for the bottle of lavender bodywash. As I adjust the shower setting, making it a touch hotter, I look down at my hand on the big silver knob. I had a manicure yesterday after I finished moving. My pink, oval fingernails don’t look as if they belong to me.

  They’re the hands of someone more polished and feminine.

  Like Amanda.

  Amanda likely stood in this exact spot, twisting this same knob, every day. Including the day she died.

  I yank my hand away from the faucet. I rinse off quickly, then wrap myself in a towel. My robe is still in one of the brown boxes stacked near my closet.

  I change into sweats, pull my damp hair into a ponytail, and put on my glasses, since all I’m planning to do tonight is order in dinner and finish unpacking.

  To chase away the lingering unease I felt in the shower, I plug my iPhone into a tiny portable speaker and put on a pop playlist.

  I order a medium pizza with mushrooms and peppers via Seamless, then I quickly text my new landlord to remind him to drop off my key to my mailbox in the lobby. There are two rows of ten little bronze boxes, one for each of the twenty tenants in the building. I’ve already filled out a change-of-address form at the post office, so I should start receiving mail any day now.

  Next I grab a pair of scissors and slice through the top of the nearest packing box. I start filling my dresser drawers with my T-shirts and sweaters, then I move on to the closet. I hang up my jackets and I’m starting on my pants when my doorbell rings.

  The chime is a lower note than it was in my old place, and for a moment I mistake it for part of the song I’m listening to. Then it sounds again.

  I climb to my feet and walk to the front door, peeking through the peephole.

  I expect to see the pizza guy, but instead, a woman stands there, a bottle of wine in her hand. She’s fortyish, with a round face and warm eyes.

  “Hi, neighbor,” she says when I open the door. “I’m Mary.”

  “Hey, I’m Shay.”

  She hands me the bottle of Merlot.

  “Thanks.” I’m not sure if she wants us to drink it together, so I ask, “Would you like to come in?” I open the door a little wider.

  She shakes her head, smiling. “Nobody wants a guest on moving day. I just wanted to welcome you to the building.”

  She gestures to the open door across the hall. “I’m right here in case you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar or anything.”

  Then Mary looks past me, into the living/dining area that’s already filled with the couch I brought from the old place I shared with Sean and a small round table with two chairs that I picked up at a discount store.

  Her expression shifts as sorrow fills her eyes.

  “I know what happened to the woman who lived here before me,” I blurt out. “I mean, in case you were friends—I just want you to know I’m sorry.…”

  Mary sighs heavily. “I did know Amanda. It’s not like we were super-close, but every once in a while we’d have a glass of wine, and sometimes when I traveled, she used to feed my cat.”

  Mary’s voice seems to fade away as I flash to the lies I told Cassandra and Jane—about meeting Amanda because we shared a veterinarian, and about my fictional dead cat.

  A sense of dread begins to creep over me.

  “Amanda had a cat, too, right?” I blurt. She was holding a calico cat in the photo at the memorial service. I’m certain of that. It was the genesis for the lie I so regret, the one that keeps snowballing.

  Mary looks surprised.

  Foreboding is gripping me now; I feel a twitching in my chest.

  “No, Amanda didn’t have any pets.”

  Of course she didn’t, I think. In all of the conversations I had with Jane and Cassandra, they never mentioned Amanda leaving behind a cat.

  Something’s still not adding up, though.

  “But your cat,” I say almost frantically. “It’s a calico?”

  Maybe Amanda held Mary’s cat in the photo. Mary could have taken the picture.

  Mary shakes her head, looking confused. She turns back and calls, “Felix!” Then she makes a clicking sound with her tongue. I hear a soft meow and a small, gray cat winds through the open door and comes to stand by Mary’s leg.

  “This is Felix.” Mary scoops him up. “He’s a little stray. I found him outside one night last winter. Took two weeks of my leaving out food before he trusted me enough to let me catch him. Anyway, we’ll let you get on with your night. See you soon!”

  She disappears back into her apartment. I close my door and lean against it, breathing hard.

  Cassandra had to have known there was no way I could have encountered Amanda at the vet’s. But Cassandra hadn’t looked at all surprised by my story; she didn’t frown or ask a single question or challenge me. On the rainy day when we had tea together, I deepened my lie by telling Cassandra and Jane my cat had died. Jane had appeared to swallow my story at face value, too.

  The Moore sisters knew their dear friend Amanda didn’t have a cat.

  So they must also have known I was lying all along.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  SHAY

  Rates of anxiety and depression are at an all-time high in a number of countries—including the U.S. Exercise can help combat these mental health challenges by producing endorphins and enkephalins. Three or more sessions a week are generally regarded as the minimum effectiveness, with a baseline of thirty minutes per session.

  —Data Book, page 46

  THE MOORE SISTERS MIGHT have decided not to call me out on my lie about sharing a veterinarian with Amanda for so many reasons.

  But the most likely one is kindness.

  When I deepened my fabrication right after I bumped into them unexpectedly in the rainstorm, I was badly shaken.

  They probably didn’t want to embarrass me and make me feel worse.

  The day I saw what I know now was just an illusion of Amanda heading to the subway was my rock bottom. I’d been under so much stress, plus the Ambien could’ve toyed with my mind. I’ve heard stories about people who sleepwalk—cooking meals or even driving cars—on Ambien. So it’s not a stretch to think that those pills affected me, too.

  But I haven’t taken Ambien in a couple of weeks. I don’t need it; I want to see the world with clear eyes now. Last night was my first night in my new place. And even though I don’t have curtains or blinds yet—I taped brown packing paper over my bedroom window to keep out the light—I slept for a solid eight hours.

  I spent most of today getting organized. I’ve got all my packing boxes broken down for recycling, and my kitchen is set up just the way I like it, with my blender on the counter, next to my bowl of bananas, and my cupboard stocked with almond butter, dark roast coffee, pasta, and protein bars. And, of course, chocolate.

  My old life is back, but it’s a better version, I think as I step off the subway and onto the platform. I push through the turnstile, reveling in my steady heartbeat, my dry palms. I smile when I remember Anne making the joke ab
out her vibrator. My panic has been wiped away, as cleanly as if it never existed.

  I sling my gym bag higher up onto my shoulder as I head for the stairwell and begin to climb up. It’s nearly six forty-five, which is when I’m supposed to meet Jane. The last time I saw her, she’d asked if she could join me for a CrossFit class. “I’ve got to do something,” she’d said, pinching her flat stomach. I’d laughed and told her I wanted her secret, but I was thrilled she wanted to try it out. The class at seven P.M. tonight is hard, but I’m good at it. I can lift heavy barbells and do power squats without needing many breaks. I guess I’m excited for Jane to see me in my element.

  But right as I reach the studio, she texts, So sorry, something came up at work. I’ll have to take a rain check! But in the meantime, here are the best photos from the other day. Can’t wait to hear what happens when you put up your profile.

  No worries and thanks! I write back, even though I’m disappointed.

  The photos are good: They captured me laughing as I tried on a straw hat, and looking a little more serious as I glanced out at the water. But there are only four of them, and I recall the sisters taking dozens. I guess they just sent me the most flattering ones.

  I tuck away my phone, change in the locker room, and walk into the studio. I find a spot in the second row. The class is crowded, as usual, since the teacher has a huge following.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m drenched in sweat. My arms are shaking and I know my legs will be sore tomorrow. But my mind feels gloriously uncluttered.

  I walk into the locker room and head to the sink to splash cool water on my face and wash my hands. When I raise my head again, I notice the woman at the sink to my left.

  She looks a lot like the redhead I saw at Amanda’s memorial service.

  Our eyes meet in the mirror and she appears surprised. Maybe it’s because she caught me staring at her.

  I smile. “Hi.”

  She just nods.

  It could be the wrong woman; I didn’t get that close to her. Even if it is her, she probably didn’t recognize me. I’m no longer wearing glasses, and my hair is lighter and shorter.