by Riley Sager
“I can’t eat that,” Katie said.
“They’re Froot Loops,” my mother said.
Katie eyed the box with undisguised scorn. “Fake Froot Loops. I only eat the real kind.”
She ended up skipping breakfast, which meant I did, too, much to my mother’s aggravation. I refused to eat them the next morning as well, even though Katie was long gone.
“I want real Froot Loops,” I announced.
This brought a sigh from my mother. “It’s the exact same thing. Just with a different name.”
“I want the real thing,” I said. “Not the poor-people version.”
My mother started to cry, right there at the kitchen table. It wasn’t subtle crying, either. This was shoulder-heaving, red-faced weeping that left me terrified and confused as I ran to my room. The next morning, I woke to find a box of Froot Loops placed next to an empty bowl. From then on, my mother never bought the generic brand of anything.
Years later, during my parents’ funerals, I thought about Katie and those Fruit O’s and how much money my name-brand obsession cost over time. Thousands of dollars, probably. And as I watched my mother’s casket lowered into the ground, the main thought running through my head was how much I regretted being such a little shit about something as innocuous as cereal.
Innocuous or not, here I am, hurrying past Charlie into the lobby. “I’ve got them. But I won’t say no to being helped with the elevator.”
I look across the lobby and see the elevator car descending into its gilded cage. Hoping to catch it before someone on an upper floor can claim it, I dash forward, grocery bags shimmying and Charlie struggling to match my pace. I’m almost at the elevator when I spot a young woman flying down the stairs right beside it. She’s in a hurry. Legs churning. Head down. Eyes on her phone.
“Whoa! Look out!” Charlie shouts.
But it’s too late. The girl and I collide in the middle of the lobby. The crash sends us ricocheting off each other. The girl stumbles backward. I fall completely, slamming against the lobby floor as both grocery bags spring from my grip. Although a sharp pain shoots through my elbow and down my left arm, I’m more worried about the sight of my groceries scattered across the lobby. Thin sticks of dried spaghetti cover the floor like strands of hay. Nearby is a shattered jar oozing sauce. Oranges roll through the puddle, leaving trails of red.
The girl is by my side in an instant. “I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I’m so clumsy!”
Even though she tries to help me up, I remain on the floor, scrambling to shove my groceries back into the bags before others can see them. But the collision has already drawn a small crowd. There’s Charlie, of course, who hurriedly gathers the fallen groceries, and Marianne Duncan returning from taking Rufus for a walk. She stands in the doorway as Rufus yaps. The commotion brings Leslie Evelyn rushing out of her office to see what’s happened.
Mortified, I try to ignore them all while continuing to collect my groceries. When I reach for one of the rogue oranges, another bolt of pain zaps through my arm.
The girl gasps. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just tomato sauce,” I say.
Only it’s not. I sneak a glance at my arm and see a long gash just below my elbow. Blood streams from the wound in a thick rivulet that goes all the way to my knuckles. The sight makes me so dizzy I momentarily forget about the pain. It comes back only when Charlie yanks a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and presses it to the wound.
Looking around, I see chunks of broken glass scattered across the floor. I can only assume one of them dug into my arm while I was scrambling for the groceries.
“Sweetie, you need to see a doctor,” Leslie says. “Let me take you to the emergency room.”
That would be a fine idea, if I could afford it. But I can’t. Part of my severance package included two more months of health insurance, but even that comes with a hundred-dollar co-pay for an emergency room visit.
“I’m fine,” I say, even though I’m starting to think I’m not. The handkerchief Charlie gave me is already crimson with blood.
“You should at least see Dr. Nick,” Leslie says. “He’ll be able to tell if you need stitches or not.”
“I don’t have time to go to a doctor’s office.”
“Dr. Nick lives here,” Leslie says. “Twelfth floor. Same as you.”
Charlie stuffs the last of my groceries into the mangled bags. “I’ll take care of these for you, Miss Larsen. Go on up and see Dr. Nick.”
Leslie and the girl help me to my feet, lifting me by my good arm. Before I can protest, they’re ushering me into the elevator. Only two of us can fit, which means the girl remains outside the cage.
“Thank you, Ingrid,” Leslie says before sliding the grate shut. “I can take it from here.”
I stare at the girl through the grate, surprised. This is Ingrid? Although we look to be roughly the same age, she’s dressed like someone younger. Oversize plaid shirt. Distressed jeans that reveal pink knees. Converse sneakers with the left laces coming undone. Her hair is dark brown but had previously been dyed blue. A two-inch strip of color fans out across her back and shoulders.
Ingrid catches me staring, bites her bottom lip, and gives me an embarrassed wave, her fingers wiggling.
Inside the elevator, Leslie hits the button for the top floor and up we go.
“You poor girl,” she says. “I’m so sorry about this. Ingrid’s a lovely girl, but she can also be oblivious to what’s going on around her. I’m sure she feels terrible. But don’t worry. Dr. Nick will fix you right up.”
Soon we’re at the door to 12B, Leslie giving it a series of rapid-fire knocks while I continue to press Charlie’s blood-soaked handkerchief against my arm. Then the door opens, and Dr. Nick stands before us.
I was expecting someone older but distinguished. Gray hair. Moist eyes. Tweed jacket. But the man at the door is a good forty years younger and a lot better looking than the doctor of my imagination. His hair is auburn. His eyes are hazel, set off by glasses with tortoiseshell frames. His outfit of khakis and a crisp white shirt reveals a tall, trim physique. He looks less like a doctor than an actor playing one on Marianne Duncan’s old soap opera.
“What do we have here?” he says, his gaze moving from Leslie to me and my bloody arm.
“Accident in the lobby,” Leslie tells him. “Do you think you could take a quick look and see if Jules here needs to go to the ER?”
“I don’t,” I say.
Dr. Nick gives me a clipped smile. “Maybe I should be the judge of that, don’t you think?”
Leslie nudges me gently toward the door. “Go on, sweetie. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
“Wait, you’re leaving?”
“I need to go. I was in the middle of something when I heard that ruckus in the lobby,” Leslie says as she hurries to the waiting elevator and descends out of sight.
I turn back to Dr. Nick, who says, “Don’t be nervous. I don’t bite.”
Maybe not, but the situation makes me uncomfortable all the same. Handsome doctor rich enough to live at the Bartholomew. Eligible girl paid to live right next door. In the movies, they’d banter, sparks would fly, a happy ending would ensue.
But this isn’t a movie. Or even Heart of a Dreamer. It’s cold reality.
I’ve been on this earth twenty-five years. Long enough to know who I am. An office worker. A girl you might notice at the copier or in the elevator but probably don’t.
I’m a girl who read on her lunch break, back when I had a lunch break.
A girl people pass on the street without a second glance.
A girl who has had sex with only three different guys, yet still feels guilty about it because my parents were high school sweethearts who had never been intimate with anyone else.
A girl who has been abandoned more times than I can count.
>
A girl who catches the attention of the handsome doctor next door only because I’ve cut myself and am now bleeding on his doorstep. It’s the blood that ultimately convinces me to enter Dr. Nick’s apartment with an awkward, apologetic smile plastered on my face.
“I’m really sorry about all this, Dr. Nick.”
“Don’t be,” he says. “Leslie was right to bring you here. And please, call me Nick. Now, let’s get that arm looked at.”
The apartment is almost a mirror image of 12A. The décor is different, of course, but the layout is the same, only flipped. The sitting room is straight ahead, but the study is to the left and the hallway leads to the right. I follow him past a dining room situated on the corner just like the one in 12A. His is more masculine, though. Navy walls. Spiky chandelier that looks like modern art. The table here is round and surrounded by red chairs.
“Although this place has a lot of rooms, I’m afraid an examining room isn’t one of them,” Dr. Nick says over his shoulder. “This will have to suffice.”
He guides me into the kitchen and gestures for me to sit on a stool by the counter. “I’ll be right back,” he says before disappearing down the hall.
I have a look around in his absence. Our kitchens are roughly the same size and of similar layout, although Dr. Nick’s has an earthier vibe. Pale brown tile and countertops the color of sand. The only splash of brightness comes from a painting that hangs over the sink. It depicts a snake with its mouth clamped down on its tail, its long body curled into a perfect figure eight.
I approach the painting, curious. It looks old, the surface spiderwebbed with a hundred tiny cracks. But the paint itself remains vibrant, the colors bold and eye-catching. The scales on the snake’s back are scarlet. Its belly is seasick green. The one visible eye is a deep shade of yellow. There’s no pupil. Just a blank teardrop shape that reminds me of a lit match.
Dr. Nick returns with a first-aid kit and a medical bag.
“Ah, you’ve noticed my ouroboros,” he says. “I picked it up during my travels abroad. Do you like it?”
That would be a definite no. The colors are too garish. The subject matter too grim. It reminds me of a Mexican restaurant Andrew once took me to themed around Día de los Muertos—the Day of the Dead. It had waiters with painted faces and brightly decorated skulls staring from the ceiling. I spent the meal shifting with discomfort.
I do the same once I return to the stool, the snake watching me with his blazing eye. Bright and unblinking, it seems to be daring me to look away. I don’t.
“What’s its meaning?”
“It’s supposed to represent the cyclical nature of the universe,” Dr. Nick says. “Birth, life, death, rebirth.”
“The circle of life,” I say.
Nick gives a quick nod. “Exactly.”
I stare at the snake’s eye one second longer as Dr. Nick washes and dries his hands, slips on latex gloves, and gently peels the handkerchief from the wound.
“What happened here?” he says, adding, “Wait, don’t tell me. Knife fight in Central Park.”
“Just two women colliding in spectacular fashion and a broken jar of spaghetti sauce. I’m sure it happens here all the time.”
I hold still as he cleans the wound with peroxide, trying not to flinch at the sudden, cold bite of pain. Dr. Nick notices and does his best to distract me with small talk.
“Tell me, Jules, how do you like living in the Bartholomew?”
“How do you know I live here?”
“I assumed that if Leslie brought you to see me then you must be a tenant,” he says. “Am I wrong?”
“Partially. I’m a—” I search for the term Leslie had used earlier. “Temporary tenant. Right next door, in fact.”
“Ah, so you’re the lucky apartment sitter who snagged 12A. You just move in?”
“Today.”
“Then let me officially welcome you to the building,” he says. “I hope my medical expertise will make up for the lack of a casserole.”
“What kind of doctor are you?”
“Surgeon.”
I glance at his hands as he attends to my arm. They’re definitely surgeon hands, with long, elegant fingers that move with steady grace. When he removes them, I see that the cut looks less severe now that it’s been cleaned. Just a two-inch gash that’s quickly covered with a rectangle of gauze and sealed in place with medical tape.
“That should do it for now,” Dr. Nick says as he peels the latex gloves from his hands. “The bleeding’s stopped, but it’s a good idea to keep the bandage on until morning. When was your last tetanus shot?”
I shrug. I have no idea.
“You might want to get one. Just to be on the safe side. When was your last checkup?”
“Um, last year,” I say, when in truth it’s another thing I can’t remember. My approach to health care is not seeing a doctor unless I absolutely need to. Even when I had a job, the idea of regular checkups and preventive visits seemed like a waste of money. “Maybe two years ago.”
“Then I’d like to check your vitals, if you’ll let me.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Not at all. This is just precautionary. The heart can sometimes beat erratically after a fall or loss of blood. I just want to make sure that everything’s okay.” Dr. Nick digs a stethoscope out of the medical bag and presses it to my chest, just below the collarbone. “Take a deep breath.”
I do and get a whiff of his cologne in the process. It has hints of sandalwood and citrus and something else. Something bitter. Anise, I think. It has a similarly sharp tang.
“Good,” Dr. Nick says as he moves the stethoscope an inch, and I take another deep inhalation. “You have a very interesting name, Jules. Is that short for something? A nickname?”
“No nickname. Most people think it’s short for Julia or Julianne, but Jules is my given name. My father used to say that when I was born, my mother took one look into my eyes and said they sparkled like jewels.”
Dr. Nick peers into my eyes. It lasts only a second, but it’s still long enough to make my pulse quicken. I wonder if he can hear it, especially when he says, “For the record, your mother was right.”
I will myself not to blush, although I suspect it’s happening anyway. A noticeable warmth spreads across my cheeks.
“And Nick is short for Nicholas?”
“Guilty as charged,” he says while wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my upper right arm.
“How long have you lived at the Bartholomew?”
“I suspect what you really want to know is how someone my age can afford an apartment in this building.”
He’s right, of course. That’s exactly what I want to know. I blush again, this time for being so easily read.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”
“It’s fine. I’d be curious, too, if our roles were reversed. The answer—to all your questions—is that I’ve lived here my whole life. This apartment has been in my family for decades. I inherited it after my parents died five years ago. They were both killed in a car accident while visiting Europe.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, wishing I had just kept quiet.
“Thank you. Losing them both so suddenly was hard. And I sometimes feel guilty knowing that if they hadn’t died, I’d be living in some Brooklyn walk-up right now, and not in one of the most famous buildings on the planet. In some ways, I feel like I’m also an apartment sitter. Just watching this place until my parents come home.”
Dr. Nick finishes taking my blood pressure and says, “One twenty over eighty. Perfect. You seem to be in excellent health, Jules.”
“Thanks again, Doc—” I stop myself before I can finish the word. “Nick. I appreciate it.”
“It was no problem at all. Not to mention the neighborly thing to do.”
“I’m sorry for being nosy earlier,” I tell him once we’re in the foyer. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
“There’s no need to apologize. I have plenty of good memories that balance out the bad. Besides, my story isn’t uncommon. I think every family has at least one big tragedy.”
He’s wrong there.
Mine has two.
9
My phone buzzes as I leave Nick’s apartment. It’s an email from Chloe, which I give a cursory glance while unlocking the door to 12A. The subject line prompts an annoyed sigh.
Scary stuff.
There’s no message. Just a link to a website that, when I click on it, brings me to an article with a headline that’s ominously blunt.
THE CURSE OF THE BARTHOLOMEW
Rather than read the article, I shove the phone back into my pocket and push into 12A, where I toss my keys into the bowl on the foyer table. Only, my aim is off and the keys end up hitting the edge of the table before clattering onto a heating vent in the foyer floor. An antique grate covers the vent—all cast-iron curlicues with gaps between them wide enough for the keys to tumble right through.
Which they do.
Instantly.
I drop to my hands and knees and peer into the grate, seeing mostly darkness within.
This isn’t good. Not good at all. I wonder if losing keys is also against the rules. Probably.
I still have my face pressed to the grate when there’s a knock on the door. Charlie’s voice rises from the other side.
“Miss Larsen, you in there?”
“I’m here,” I say as I lift myself off the floor. Before opening the door, I smooth a hand across my cheek, just in case the grate left any marks on my face.
I whip open the door to see Charlie on the threshold, two large grocery bags in his arms. Unlike the torn and mangled ones from the lobby, these are pristine.
