fine.” I shook his hand away from my shoulder and forced a smile. “I just wanted some fresh air. That’s all. It was quite loud in there. And very smoky. Is the party over?” I wondered if everyone had left Ethel’s. If Ed had noticed I was gone. If David was still sleeping.
“Not yet,” he said, and I wondered why he was leaving early but didn’t ask. “Can I walk you back up before I go?”
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. I live here, too, so I think I can find my way.” My words came out sounding short and angry, and I felt a little bad for being rude to this man who was practically astranger and trying to be kind. “Thank you,” I added. “But really, I’ll be okay.”
He pulled a card from his coat pocket. “Here,” he said, “take this. If you ever want to talk . . .”
My hands were shaking with cold, but I held up the card to the streetlamp to read it as Jake walked away.
Dr. Jacob Gold,
it read.
Doctor of Psychotherapy.
8
The next morning, I didn’t wake up until after Ed had left for work, a rare day when David slept past the first moments of sun slanting in through the tiny bedroom window, and Ed had moved carefully enough around the apartment so I hadn’t even heard him leave.
I awoke disoriented at first, David so still that I thought he wasn’t here at all until I saw him sleeping heavily on the mattress across the room. I remembered Ed’s ominous whisper in Ethel’s living room last night and I looked down to my wrist, where the purpling imprint of his fingers seemed singed into my skin.
When I had finally ridden the elevator back up to Ethel’s apartment last night, Ed had already left. I’d assured Ethel that everything was okay and I’d carried a sleeping David back home to find Ed passed out and snoring in our bed. It felt like a gift not to have to talk to him then, or this morning either, a momentary reprieve where I could gather my thoughts and figure out what to do next if he had, in fact, discovered my secret.
I stood now and tiptoed to my small wooden dresser, a relicfrom Bubbe Kasha’s old apartment. I opened the top drawer and searched below my underthings. I felt it there—in the small, nondescript box where I always kept it—undisturbed. And last night felt like nothing more than a dream, Ed’s words nothing more than the ramblings of a drunk man.
He knows nothing,
I told myself, and then I said it out loud as if hearing the words would make them real.
I walked into the kitchen and made myself some coffee and then I went to the window and watched the street below. The sunshine fell upon the men walking to work and the women pushing carriages, making everything appear ultrabright, and the world beneath me seemed a thing of excessive beauty, the unreal world of storybooks. I wondered if Ethel might want to take her boys outside to play with David today before the weather turned and got too much colder.
The sound of knocking at my door startled me, and I nearly spilled my coffee. It was early, before nine, but maybe Ethel had had the same idea.
“Coming,” I said, but not too loud so as not to awaken David, and I peeked my head in the back bedroom to see if he was still sleeping. It was so unusual for him to be this undisturbed that for a moment I wondered if he was ill. But then I heard the knock on the door again and I ran to answer it before the noise woke him.
An unfamiliar woman stood in my doorway, her hand raised to knock once more. She was short and quite round, wearing a too-tight brown suit, her graying hair pulled back into a taut bun. She looked at me and she frowned, and I realized that I was still in my robe. I pulled it tighter across my chest. “Can I help you?” I asked.
She tried to peer past me into the apartment, which was quite untidy. David’s blocks still scattered across the floor. And had itnot been for the fact that I was in my robe, I would’ve stepped out into the hallway and shut the door behind me so she
“Not yet,” he said, and I wondered why he was leaving early but didn’t ask. “Can I walk you back up before I go?”
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. I live here, too, so I think I can find my way.” My words came out sounding short and angry, and I felt a little bad for being rude to this man who was practically astranger and trying to be kind. “Thank you,” I added. “But really, I’ll be okay.”
He pulled a card from his coat pocket. “Here,” he said, “take this. If you ever want to talk . . .”
My hands were shaking with cold, but I held up the card to the streetlamp to read it as Jake walked away.
Dr. Jacob Gold,
it read.
Doctor of Psychotherapy.
8
The next morning, I didn’t wake up until after Ed had left for work, a rare day when David slept past the first moments of sun slanting in through the tiny bedroom window, and Ed had moved carefully enough around the apartment so I hadn’t even heard him leave.
I awoke disoriented at first, David so still that I thought he wasn’t here at all until I saw him sleeping heavily on the mattress across the room. I remembered Ed’s ominous whisper in Ethel’s living room last night and I looked down to my wrist, where the purpling imprint of his fingers seemed singed into my skin.
When I had finally ridden the elevator back up to Ethel’s apartment last night, Ed had already left. I’d assured Ethel that everything was okay and I’d carried a sleeping David back home to find Ed passed out and snoring in our bed. It felt like a gift not to have to talk to him then, or this morning either, a momentary reprieve where I could gather my thoughts and figure out what to do next if he had, in fact, discovered my secret.
I stood now and tiptoed to my small wooden dresser, a relicfrom Bubbe Kasha’s old apartment. I opened the top drawer and searched below my underthings. I felt it there—in the small, nondescript box where I always kept it—undisturbed. And last night felt like nothing more than a dream, Ed’s words nothing more than the ramblings of a drunk man.
He knows nothing,
I told myself, and then I said it out loud as if hearing the words would make them real.
I walked into the kitchen and made myself some coffee and then I went to the window and watched the street below. The sunshine fell upon the men walking to work and the women pushing carriages, making everything appear ultrabright, and the world beneath me seemed a thing of excessive beauty, the unreal world of storybooks. I wondered if Ethel might want to take her boys outside to play with David today before the weather turned and got too much colder.
The sound of knocking at my door startled me, and I nearly spilled my coffee. It was early, before nine, but maybe Ethel had had the same idea.
“Coming,” I said, but not too loud so as not to awaken David, and I peeked my head in the back bedroom to see if he was still sleeping. It was so unusual for him to be this undisturbed that for a moment I wondered if he was ill. But then I heard the knock on the door again and I ran to answer it before the noise woke him.
An unfamiliar woman stood in my doorway, her hand raised to knock once more. She was short and quite round, wearing a too-tight brown suit, her graying hair pulled back into a taut bun. She looked at me and she frowned, and I realized that I was still in my robe. I pulled it tighter across my chest. “Can I help you?” I asked.
She tried to peer past me into the apartment, which was quite untidy. David’s blocks still scattered across the floor. And had itnot been for the fact that I was in my robe, I would’ve stepped out into the hallway and shut the door behind me so she
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