by Lisa Unger
“I don’t know, either,” she says finally. “Let’s go home.”
I look around the apartment, most of the life I shared with Jack still in boxes. His clothes, his books, his old yearbooks, his shoes, portfolios of his photographs, our pots and pans, Christmas ornaments, collected items, his black-framed glasses, his wedding ring, which I placed in the box it came in, his lucky sweatshirt, his wallet, the bear he slept with as a baby, a picture album from his childhood. God. It’s all still in there, all the little fragments of his life and ours, the items collected so meaningless now that they’ve gone a year inside a box without seeing the light of day. Layla’s right. This place isn’t home.
“When it’s done, whatever this is,” Layla says, “I’m going to help you get settled in here. Or wherever you want. Do you want to stay here?”
* * *
“Do you want to stay here? Sleep in?” Jack whispers.
“No,” I tell him. “I’m coming.”
“Sure? You were up a lot, coughing.”
“It’ll be good for me.”
We don’t turn on the lights, just feel about for leggings, sweatshirts, socks, beat-up runners that we’ve left in hopeful piles by the door. If you turn the lights on, the magic of a predawn run leaks away. Once the lights come on, the morning has begun and that secret hour between sleep and the rest of the day is lost.
Richie, our doorman, is sleeping as we slip outside, snoring, head tilted, a paperback spine up in front of him. The morning is perfect. I already feel the fog of my cold lifting, sinuses clearing in the morning air.
We cross at the light and jog onto the path. We don’t talk much in the morning; sometimes I even wear headphones. We don’t always keep the same pace. Jack’s faster in a sprint, but can’t match me for distance. We let each other be. He looks back at me, and I wave him on. He moves off into the dark. I know I’ll catch him by the underpass. He burns out after a point, slows down. There are lots of people around—joggers, walkers, bikers zipping past. I have never, even for a moment, felt unsafe on the streets of New York City. Of course, it’s not safe. But really, what is? Bad things happen everywhere.
I slow, a cough coming up. I walk in a circle until it passes, but I feel light-headed and weak. This cold; it has got its hooks in. Jack loops back for me.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I think I’ll head back after all. I’m not up for it.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No,” I say, waving him off. “Go ahead.”
He needs it. He’s like a Labrador; he needs lots of exercise or he gets antsy, has trouble sleeping, is prone to worrying.
But he loops his arm through mine. We go home.
Jack never intersects with the man who killed him. We make breakfast, head into the office together. Our life continues, good days, bad days, fights and lovemaking, successes and failures.
* * *
It’s a thing I do, run a scenario where he doesn’t leave that morning, or where I go with him. Or he turns an ankle and comes back. Or we oversleep. Anything but him getting up, not waking me, and leaving in the dark by himself.
“Well, no matter,” Layla says now, tugging me off the couch. “You don’t have to decide anything today.”
8
Don’t you remember me?
The words dig deep into my pill-induced nap in Layla’s guest room. Sleep is an abyss, and I swim up through its murky layers, emerging to the caterwauling of Izzy’s violin practice down the hall. The clock on the bedside glows, a neon-green accusation. 5:00 p.m. Something has slipped away from me: another day when I could have been closer to that “new normal” Dr. Nash keeps promising. Like a mountain in the distance, it just seems ever farther.
I sit still for a moment, trying to make sense of it—the disjointed images of my dreams last night, this morning, my lunch with Grayson, the hooded man, my pounding on that Fifth Avenue door, the orchid in my apartment, the note, the shattered wedding photo. There’s too little difference between the things I’ve dreamed and what’s really happened, waking memory bleeding into dream. How do all the pieces fit together? Or do they? Am I so addled that I’ll never be whole again?
My phone lies slim and dark next to the clock. I reach for it, dial Ben.
“Hey.” He answers on the first ring. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The word pitches, unconvincing and wobbly.
“Layla told me what happened,” he says, his voice lowered.
I really wish she hadn’t done that.
“I let the security guys in the building know about it,” he goes on when I don’t say anything. “So, they’re aware. Layla says you’re going to hire someone, you know, for protection?”
I don’t remember saying that. But it sounds like an idea Layla would have and put into action without consulting me. Her philosophy: if there’s a problem, throw money at it. On the off chance that the world doesn’t bend to your will, start beating it with your fists. If this is something she’s decided is a good idea, she may have already made calls.
“Tell me about the day,” I say instead of getting into it.
Contracts signed, assignments late, a payment dispute. I let his words wash over me, offer comments, suggestions. I know what to do. He has questions. I have answers. Work is easy, even the problems and negotiations. At the office, everything makes sense. I guess I can relate to Mac on this point, my workaholic friend. Life, on the other hand, is a messy, unmanageable tangle, the Gordian knot I can’t seem to untie without Jack. Ben and I chat for a while. I am grateful that he’s there, that he’s been there for me this long, ugly year, picking up my considerable slack.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the week off?” he suggests. “I can handle things.”
“No.”
Somehow, planning to not go in to the office is like giving in. The agency has been my lifeline, pulling me out of bed and back into the world. I am the steward now of what Jack and I built together; it means something. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”
I can hear him clicking on the keyboard, checking the calendar.
“Oh,” he says with a click of his tongue. “What about your date on Thursday?”
I’d forgotten all about him—runner Rick, Rick who works in finance, volunteers for Big Brothers. These dates I’ve been going on, they’ve been good—easy, no strings so far. Just a little too much to drink, a stumble back to some strange apartment, disappearing into someone else’s body, life, bed where I can close my eyes and pretend I’m with Jack. For a few seconds here and there, it even works. Then I leave before the sun comes up.
“Cancel it,” I say, even though a part of me doesn’t want to, even with everything going on. Or maybe because of it. I have come to look forward to those little escape hatches, where I can slip off my skin as Poppy, the widow, and be someone new, someone not dogged by grief, popping pills to get through the day. I think again about the text I received in the cab yesterday, the warmth I felt, the excitement. I tamp it down hard. Get a grip.
“Okay,” Ben says. “Probably a good idea.”
“Messages?”
“Alvaro came by your office when he was here to pick up Maura. He wanted to see you. Asked if you’d give him a call when you have a chance.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“No,” said Ben. “He was typically reticent and brooding. What’s with that guy, anyway? I always wondered how he and Jack could be friends. They couldn’t be more different. He’s just so—dark.”
“I know what you mean.”
The truth is, I actively avoid Alvaro. And since Jack’s death, he seems to be avoiding me. People drift apart when someone dies; grief can be a schism, one that keeps widening. When I look at him, I see Jack. It hurts. And maybe we never liked each other much anyway; there wasn’t much reason to hold on, Jack the only thing that
ever linked us. I wonder what he wants, make a mental note to call him.
Mercifully, Izzy has stopped playing the violin by the time Ben and I end the call. A pleasant silence has settled, though I hear the television in the kitchen, Slade’s voice intermittently. I lie a minute absorbing the peace of the room—charcoal, dove gray and cream, every surface plush. There’s an oil painting of a cherry blossom tree, trunk bent, wind taking the pink petals away. How many nights have I spent here since Jack died? Too many. I force myself up, the room tilting, my head aching.
* * *
Even though my life is built on quicksand and there’s a persistent roar in my ear, I manage to help Layla with dinner, proofread Izzy’s essay and stare confused as Slade tries to explain how his video game works. The activity of the evening is a river that carries me away from anything that might be going on in my head. Layla and I, in a tacit understanding, don’t discuss anything that’s happening in front of the kids. That’s the beauty and torture of children; they don’t allow you to spend too much time reflecting on your own inner life. It’s all about them.
But once the apartment is quiet again—Izzy chattering on the phone with her friend, Slade finally settled in with his homework and Layla taking a shower—it all crowds back, questions churning. Having convinced Layla to let me clean the dinner dishes, I get to washing, pour all my nervous energy into scrubbing and wiping, loading the dishwasher, wiping the countertop until it gleams. Did I really see someone on the street? Who brought that flower into my apartment? Was it meant to evoke the ghost orchid? Does anyone know me that well now that Jack is gone? I dial Grayson, but he doesn’t answer. What did he find when he talked to the building staff? Why hasn’t he called?
I’m just finishing up, deep in thought, when Mac comes in. He holds two bouquets of tulips—one pink, one white.
“I heard you had a rough day,” he says. He hands me the white bouquet. “For you.”
Knowing I was here, he’d never bring flowers for Layla and not for me. That’s Mac.
I take them from him and draw in their scent, instantly cheered. “Thank you. That was sweet.”
“You deserve a little sweetness,” he says. He looks like he’s had a rough day, too, fatigue sitting on his shoulders, around his eyes. They both look so tired.
I find two crystal vases in the cabinet by the range, then clip the bottom of the stems and arrange the white flowers. I leave the pink, knowing he’ll want to hand them to Layla.
He shifts off his bespoke suit jacket and sits at the kitchen bar. He fills a room, dominating not with size—he’s tall but slim—but with a kind of intense aura. Whatever it is, it doesn’t photograph. In images he’s slouched usually, towering over Layla, the features of his face disappearing into shadows. He recently shaved his head, tired, Layla said, of trying to pretend he wasn’t losing his hair. He’s grown a goatee as a kind of hair counterbalance. Tonight, he looks a bit like a washed-out Russian mobster—embattled, his face set in its natural scowl.
“I did have a rough day,” I admit. “Are you hungry? Layla left you a plate.”
“I ate.” He rubs at his eyes. “Thanks.”
He looks toward the freezer, then casts a glance back down the hall from which Layla might emerge. He offers me a quick, mischievous lift of his thick eyebrows. I don’t need a translator. Layla doesn’t like him to drink on the weeknights. But I grab the bottle of Reyka from the freezer, and pour the Icelandic vodka into a lowball over ice. Mac and I are old drinking buddies, tossing them back long after Jack and Layla had begged off. I’m having enough problems without adding hard liquor to the mix. Still, I join him, pouring myself a generous serving. The heat of it, that blessed tingle.
“Okay,” he says, taking a swallow. “Tell me everything.”
I run it all down for him, starting from my first sighting of the hooded man, through the afternoon, my conversation with Grayson, the break-in, the orchid. He watches me, as if he’s taking in the elements of what I’m saying and what he’s seeing and entering them into a challenging equation that he’s trying to solve. He sits quiet a moment, looks down at his glass. Then:
“Can I see the photo? The one on your phone?”
I pull the phone from my pocket and find the image, hold it out to him. He takes it, puts his glasses back on, uses his thumb and forefinger to enlarge the image.
“There is someone there,” he says, handing it back. “He does seem—menacing. But it’s just a guy in the crowd. You couldn’t see his face. How do you know he was following you?”
I look at the image again, a pit forming in my stomach.
I’m not crazy. I may have lost it after Jack died, but I do have at least a tenuous grip on reality. There was someone on that train. He was staring at me. There was a man on the street today, a stranger in my apartment. Who is it? What does he want? But I stay quiet. The more you must assert your own reality to people, the crazier you seem.
“So what about Grayson’s lead? A killer for hire?” He inflects the last sentence with disbelief.
“That’s what he said.”
“That just sounds crazy to me.” He pours himself another finger of vodka, his glass quickly drained. “There was no one better. No one more upright and good. Who would want to hurt Jack?”
“That’s what Grayson asked me,” I say. “I don’t have an answer. No one. Everyone loved him.”
Another pour, both our glasses this time. We both sit with our thoughts.
“Sometimes—often,” he starts, then stops.
“What?”
“Occam’s razor, you know it? A theory in problem-solving which states that the simplest explanation is the best explanation.”
“Meaning?”
He takes a sip and rubs at his temple. When he looks at me again, his eyes are so sad.
“The thing none of us wants to accept, that Jack was in the wrong place at the wrong time, the victim of a random street crime. One that might go unsolved.”
It is hard to accept, the randomness of that, the pointlessness. I find myself shaking my head. It doesn’t feel right. It might be the simplest explanation but it never seemed like the right one, not even to Grayson.
Mac drops a hand on mine. Our eyes meet and he offers that smile, kind, bolstering.
“But listen, there’s a company we use at our firm, a private security group,” he says. “I gave them a call today.”
I blow out a breath. This has Layla written all over it.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” There’s a thrum of anxiety in the back of my brain.
He lifts his palms in supplication. “Hear me out. It’s been nearly a year. The police don’t have anything solid, and now maybe there’s someone following you, this odd lead. On the off chance that it wasn’t random, maybe, I’ve just been thinking—”
“Thinking—”
“You hear about it you know, a person appears to be one thing, then you start digging through the layers, into the past, and he’s someone else completely. I mean, maybe there was something going on with Jack—something we didn’t know about. Something even you didn’t know about.”
The words hang between us. He reaches over and touches one of the pink tulip petals.
“We think we know each other, right?” Something dark crosses his face; it passes like cloud, dissipates quickly. “But do we really? Do we ever really know what goes on deep inside?”
The words slice, a razor blade to my tissue-thin psyche. What is he saying?
“I knew my husband, Mac.” My voice shakes a little. “So did you.”
He looks down into his glass, nearly empty again.
“What—you think we’re going to find out there was another family? Or he was into something illegal?” I say with a laugh. “No.”
He shrugs. “Maybe we only knew a piece of him. Maybe that’s all we ever know of each other.�
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Layla sweeps in as I’m about to protest, a vision in dusk-gray silk pajamas edged with lace. She moves in next to Mac, kisses him on the cheek, casting a meaningful glance down at his glass. He stands and wraps her up, kisses her. I look away, busy myself with filling the second vase with water. He hands her the flowers and she peers at them lovingly.
“What a lovely husband,” she says. “Thank you, darling.”
Is there something stiff about it? She notices me watching them, shakes her head slightly and moves away from him. What’s going on with them? Something. But maybe it’s just me.
“Mac and I have been talking. We think you should hire someone.” Layla pulls up the chair beside her husband. She hands me the flowers and I put them in the vase. “Someone to watch out for you. Someone to figure out who’s doing this. Someone to deepen the investigation into Jack’s murder.”
Mac offers his glass to Layla, who after a stern look takes the last swallow. It’s a beautiful vodka, glacier cold and slick in the throat.
“Poppy and I were just talking about it,” he says. The dark tone of our conversation is gone; he’s all business now. I let it go, eager to move on from whatever it was Mac was suggesting. “Our clients often need a security team when they travel overseas. They have a division of private investigators, as well. Very effective.”
I imagine myself being flanked by a couple of beefy men in black as I walk up the street. Some gumshoe in a wrinkled raincoat investigating my “case.”
“That might be overkill.”
“How is it overkill, Poppy? Someone’s stalking you. Whoever it is broke into your apartment,” says Layla. “Jack was murdered, his case still unsolved. Now this new suspect? A killer for hire?”
I start to offer some further protest.
