There was nothing modest about the place where I lived. My parents owned the entire floor and had spared no expense in decorating it with highly fashionable pieces—rugs selected by famed interior decorators, art that was carefully chosen not only to complement the rooms but also to show potential clients, tastefully, just how much money we had, and a big-enough-to-get-lost-in refrigerator disguised to look like an expensive cabinet—items that were as cold and impersonal as the rooms themselves. My bedroom being the only exception. That was the only place I felt comfortable enough to kick my shoes off and drop my keys on the table.
One of the only purchases my parents had made that I actually liked was a Chihuly chandelier, which hung in the dining room. It felt chaotic somehow, which was a very unique feeling in my otherwise straitlaced life. The softly lit golden balls, drawn curlicue ribbons, and twirled shells had a wild kind of beauty that beckoned me to stretch beyond myself, to use the heat of experience to shape the grains of sand in the emotional desert that was my life into something as rich and precious as the Chihuly’s spun glass.
As I entered the kitchen, I called out, “Marcella, are you here?” The only sound I heard in reply was the fading echo of my voice in this empty tomb of a home. Selecting a perfectly chilled diet ginger ale from the fridge, I headed to my room, my sanctuary in what I liked to call “the ice palace.” When I entered, I let my bag fall heavily to the floor and leaned over to undo the buckles on my sandals.
I loved my room. I’d decorated it in cream, ivory, and the palest shades of pink. The bed and nightstand were a tawny gold and carved in a style reminiscent of Victorian England. The posts at each corner of the bed curved in beautiful arches, with sheer curtains hanging from them in soft folds.
One side of the room was floor-to-ceiling windows, which led out to my own private veranda with a magnificent view of Central Park. The opposite wall was offset with geometric shapes: frosted glass squares and rectangles in various sizes that were lit from behind with muted pink lights.
Catching a glimpse of myself in the huge gilt mirror convinced me that a bath was absolutely necessary before I climbed into bed. I padded across the room, my feet sinking into the thick carpet. I staggered toward the bathroom, massaging the back of my neck along the way.
My shoulders were stiff and sore, especially the left one. The throbbing in my head was getting worse, and to top it all off, my skin felt slightly swollen and itchy. I ran my tongue over my lips and tasted a coppery tang, as if my lips had been bleeding. Maybe I’m allergic to something, I thought. Probably all that ancient dust in the museum.
I popped four ibuprofen, then stared at my reflection and got an up-close view of just how haggard I looked from every possible angle.
“How about that? The Twisted Sisters were right. I do look like something the cat coughed up.”
Praying that the ibuprofen would work its magic quickly, I sank into the luxurious tub and commenced scrubbing. The hot, bubbly water made me realize just how tired I was. With my head cushioned by a thick towel, I fell asleep. It didn’t seem like I’d been out for very long when my eyes suddenly snapped open.
The windows were frosted for privacy, so light could come in and heat would be deflected but no one could see inside. The spa-style shower, closed off with a wall of etched glass, functioned in a similar way, letting in light but allowing only an opaque view of the person bathing.
I hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights because I wanted to enjoy the warmth from the setting sun, a rare treat in a town full of skyscrapers. That was one of the biggest perks about living in a skyscraper near Central Park. The dimming light must have been playing tricks on my eyes, though, because, for a moment, it seemed as if someone was there, moving in the shadows.