So after a quick shower, I change into my city uniform—jeans with a black sweater, a black leather jacket, and black boots. I put on oversize sunglasses, throw my hair into a utilitarian ponytail, and sail down four flights, out the heavy front door of the brownstone, into the crisp fall day. It is windier than I expected, more unpleasant than invigorating, but I tell myself I will warm up. I just need to keep moving.
For the next five hours, I aimlessly wander the city on foot and by subway, from the Village up to Chelsea and the far reaches of the Upper West Side, then across the park, down Fifth Avenue, and the whole way into SoHo. Along the way, I duck into coffee shops and browse boutiques, stopping whenever and wherever my fancy strikes. I sit on random benches, people watching. I speak only when necessary, to order a sandwich, ask a clerk a question, thank the man who slid down to make room for me on the subway. Otherwise, my inner monologue and urban solitude are uninterrupted, my life examined from every angle.
I think a lot about the past, particularly the years I lived here, feeling as disconnected from those memories and friends as I do from my college years and acting. I have no desire to get in touch with anyone I used to know, even to meet up for a drink, and I can’t help but wonder what this says about me. I like to think of myself as merely introverted, but is it something stronger? Am I a pathological loner? An outright loser? If so, no wonder my marriage feels empty, like something’s always missing. No wonder I can’t get along with my sister. Maybe our turbulence is more my fault than hers. I think of how happy she looked the other night at her birthday dinner, how fun always follows her, how fiercely loyal her friends are to her, especially Gabe. I tell myself that I have Ellen, but deep down I know it’s not the same, perhaps because Ellen has Andy, and that he is her best friend, the person to whom she is the most loyal.
By dusk, I am freezing, and my heels are beginning to blister, and all I want to do is go home and take a bath. But I stop at a Duane Reade on the outskirts of Chinatown, buy a Diet Snapple and a box of Band-Aids, then head back outside to hail a cab.
“Where to?” the driver asks as I slide into the taxi, which reeks of artificial evergreen.
“I don’t know yet,” I tell him. “Could you just drive, please?”
He nods, indifferent as long as his meter is ticking, while I study the bridge of his nose, forehead, and eyes in the rearview mirror, trying to determine his ethnicity based on his features and last name—Abrama. He could be Mexican, Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, Israeli, the possibilities as endless as my potential destinations.
“Where are you from?” I finally ask, caving to the curiosity.
He raises his chin, answering proudly. “I’m Calabrese,” he says in the way people from home tell you they are third-or fourth-generation Atlantan.
“Oh. Beautiful,” I say, though I’ve never been to that part of Italy. “That’s the toe of the boot, right?” I ask him, reminding myself of my sister and how she always chats with strangers.
Mr. Abrama nods again, unimpressed by my command of world geography.
A few minutes pass before he asks, “Did you decide?”
“Decide what?” I say, thinking of Nolan.
“Where you want to go?”
I clear my throat, then say, “Yes. Could you please take me to Times Square?”
—
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I pay my fare and am deposited one block away from the pulsing neon heart of the city. I head directly for the TKTS booth under the red steps, suddenly craving a live performance. I’m in the mood for low-key and talky, not slinky or razzle-dazzle, but it is nearly seven o’clock, so I take what I can get, ending up with a ticket to Chicago, a show I’ve seen twice before and don’t particularly love. Still, as I make my way to the Ambassador Theatre and settle into my balcony seat, waiting for the curtains to part, I feel something come alive inside me.
By intermission, I feel like a new person—or maybe just my old self. I check my phone in the theater lobby and see that I finally have a missed call from Nolan. I press myself into a reasonably quiet corner and call him back.
“Hi,” he says, his voice barely audible. “Where are you?”
“At a show,” I say.
“With who?”
“I’m alone.”
“Oh…Are you having fun?”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘fun’…but it’s nice….How are you? How is Harper?”
“We’re fine,” he says. “We got Rabby back.”
“I heard,” I say. “Josie told me.”
“Oh. Right,” he says.
“Can I talk to Harper?” I ask, though the second warning to return to our seats has just been issued.
“She’s asleep,” he says. “She has school tomorrow. I’m taking off for her Halloween parade.”
“Oh. That’s great….So, what else is going on?” I say as the lobby empties.
“Well…Josie and I went to the cemetery yesterday. With Harper. We took flowers.”
“Josie went?” I ask, more than a little shocked.
“Yeah.”
“Wow. I take it that was your idea?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It was…but she went…and we had a really good talk.”
“About Daniel?”