The most recent picture: Alistair Russell, wrapped in a winter coat, hopping up the front steps of his house. Dated Saturday, November 6. Nothing since. I switch the camera off, set it on the desk.
But then the Nikon is too bulky for selfies, in any case. I pull my phone from the pocket of my robe, enter the passcode, tap the Photos icon.
And there it is, first up: that same shot, shrunk within the iPhone screen. The open mouth, the loose hair, the bulging pillow—and the time stamp: 02:02 a.m.
No one else has the passcode.
There’s one more test, but already I know the answer.
I open the web browser, type in gmail.com. It loads instantly, the username field filled in: guesswhoanna.
I really did this to myself. Guess who. Anna.
And it had to be me. No one else knows the computer password. Even if someone else was in the house—even if David had made his way in here—I’m the only one with the code.
My head lists toward my lap.
I swear I don’t remember any of it.
80
I slide the phone back into my pocket, draw a breath, and log on to the Agora.
A trove of messages awaits me. I sift through them. Mostly regulars, checking in: DiscoMickey, Pedro from Bolivia, Bay Area Talia. Even Sally4th—preggers!!! she writes. due in april!!!
I stare at the screen for a moment. My heart aches.
On to the newbies. Four of them, seeking help. My fingers hover over the keyboard, then drop to my lap. Who am I to tell anyone else how to manage their disorder?
I select all the messages. Hit Delete.
I’m signing out when a chat box appears.
GrannyLizzie: How are you, Doctor Anna?
Why not? I’ve said goodbye to everyone else.
thedoctorisin: Hello Lizzie! Are your sons still with you?
GrannyLizzie: William is!
thedoctorisin: Great! And how is your progress?
GrannyLizzie: Really pretty amazing. I have been getting outside regularly. How are you?
thedoctorisin: All good! It’s my birthday.
Jesus, I think—that’s true. I’d completely forgotten. My birthday. I hadn’t thought of it once this past week.
GrannyLizzie: Happy birthday! Is it a big one??
thedoctorisin: Not at all. Unless you think 39 is big!
GrannyLizzie: What I wouldn’t give . . .
GrannyLizzie: Have you heard from your family?
I squeeze the mouse.
thedoctorisin: I need to be honest with you.
GrannyLizzie: ??
thedoctorisin: My family died last December.
The cursor blinks.
thedoctorisin: In a car accident.
thedoctorisin: I had an affair. My husband and I were fighting about it and we drove off the road.
thedoctorisin: I drove off the road.
thedoctorisin: I see a psychiatrist to help me deal with the guilt as well as the agoraphobia.
thedoctorisin: I want you to know the truth.
Must end this.
thedoctorisin: I’ve got to go now. Glad you’re doing well.
GrannyLizzie: Oh my dear girl
I see that she’s typing another message, but I don’t wait. I close the chat box and sign out.
So much for the Agora.
81
I’ve gone three days without a drink.
This occurs to me as I swipe a toothbrush across my teeth. (My body can wait to be cleaned; my mouth can’t.) Three days—when did I last hold off that long? I’ve scarcely even thought about it.
I bow my head, spit.
Tubes and canisters and pots of pills crowd the medicine cabinet. I remove four.
I walk downstairs, the skylight shedding gray evening light overhead.
Sitting on the sofa, I select a canister, tip it over, drag it across the coffee table. A trail of pills follows it like bread crumbs.
I study them. Count them. Brush them into my cupped hand. Scatter them upon the tabletop.
Bring one to my lips.
No—not yet.
Night falls fast.
I turn to the windows and cast a long look across the park. That house. A theater for my unquiet mind. How poetic, I think.
Its windows are blazing, birthday-candle-bright; its rooms are empty.
I feel as though a madness has released me. I shiver.
I lift myself up the stairs, up to my room. Tomorrow I’ll revisit some favorite films. Midnight Lace. Foreign Correspondent—the windmill scene, at least. 23 Paces to Baker Street. Maybe Vertigo again; I napped through my last viewing.
And the day after . . .
Lying in bed, sleep filling my head, I listen to the pulse of the house—the grandfather clock downstairs, tolling nine; the settling of the floors.
“Happy birthday,” Ed and Livvy chorus. I roll over, roll away.
It’s Jane’s birthday too, I remember. The birthday I gave her. Eleven eleven.
And later still, in the dead of night, when I’ve surfaced for a moment, I hear the cat, prowling the ink-dark well of the staircase.
Friday, November 12
82
Sun cascades through the skylight, whitewashing the stairs, pooling in the landing outside the kitchen. When I step into it, I feel spotlit.
Otherwise, the house is dark. I’ve drawn every curtain, closed every blind. The darkness is smoke-thick; I can almost smell it.
The final scene of Rope plays on the television. Two handsome young men, a murdered classmate, a corpse packed into an antique chest in the center of the parlor, and Jimmy Stewart again, all staged in what appears to be a single take (actually eight ten-minute segments stitched together, but the effect is pretty seamless, especially for 1948). “Cat and mouse, cat and mouse,” fumes Farley Granger, the net drawing tight around him, “but which is the cat and which is the mouse?” I say the words out loud.
My own cat is stretched along the back of the sofa, his tail switching like a charmed snake. He’s sprained his rear left paw; I found him limping this morning, badly. I’ve filled his bowl with a few days’ worth of food, just so he doesn’t— The doorbell rings.
I jolt back into the cushions. My head twists toward the door.
Who the hell?
Not David; not Bina. Not Dr. Fielding, surely—he’s left several voicemails, but I doubt he’d show up unannounced. Unless he announced it in a voicemail I ignored.
The bell rings again. I pause the film, swing my feet to the floor, stand up. Walk to the intercom screen.
It’s Ethan. His hands are jammed in his pockets; a scarf is looped around his neck. His hair flames in the sunlight.
I push the speaker button. “Do your parents know you’re here?” I ask.
“It’s okay,” he says.
I pause.
“It’s really cold,” he adds.
I press the buzzer.
A moment later he enters the living room, frigid air chasing him. “Thanks,” he huffs, his breath short. “So freezing out there.” He looks around. “It’s really dark in here.”
“That’s just because it’s so bright outside,” I say, but he’s right. I switch on the floor lamp.
“Should I open the blinds?”
“Sure. Actually, no, this is fine. Isn’t it?”
“Okay,” he says.
I perch on the chaise. “Should I sit here?” asks Ethan, pointing to the sofa. Should I, should I. Very deferential, for a teenage boy.
“Sure.” He sits. Punch drops down the back of the sofa, quickly crawls beneath it.
Ethan scans the room. “Does that fireplace work?”
“It’s gas, but yes. Do you want me to turn it on?”
“No, just wondering.”
Silence.
“What are all these pills for?”
I snap my gaze to the coffee table, studded with pills; four canisters, one empty, stand together in a little plastic glade.
“I’m just counting them,” I explain. “Refills.”
“Oh, okay.”
More silence.
“I came over—” he begins, just as I say his name.
I steam ahead. “I’m so sorry.”
He cocks his head.
“I’m just so sorry.” Now he’s peering into his lap, but I press on. “For all the trouble, and for involving you. I—was so . . . sure. I was so sure that something was happening.”
He nods at the floor.
“I’ve had . . . it’s been a very hard year.” I close my eyes; when I open them again, I see that he’s looking at me, his eyes bright, searching.
“I lost my child and my husband.” Swallow. Say it. “They died. They’re dead.” Breathe. Breathe. One, two, three, four.