A voice blares through the phone, announcing that it’s time to board. Henry says a hasty good-bye. I wait until I’m certain he’s gone and say “Henry” one more time into the mouthpiece. There’s no answer. I miss dial tones.
I lay the phone down on the table and wait for Cash to come out of the shower. I tiptoe to the kitchen window and peek out through the gingham curtains. Cash’s building sits in the middle of Fourteenth Street, between First and Second Avenues. Underneath a storefront awning, front lit by a streetlamp, stands a man, smoking a cigarette, a dark baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
I let the curtain fall and edge away from the window. I’m officially back to looking over my shoulder, eyeing every dubious character, doubting every stranger’s smile. Suspicion fits me like a glove. Truth be told, I’ve missed it.
Yates calls back and our conversation is brief. They didn’t find anyone. Just like last time, it’s all inconclusive and I can hear a thin edge of skepticism in everyone’s voice. Yates. Henry. Except Cash. Yates asks if I can come in tomorrow for an official interview? The apartment is secured, someone is watching it. Am I safe? I tell her I am and we hang up. I eye the window again.
“Are you okay?” Cash leans against the kitchen doorway, his hands in his pockets.
“I’m fine. Just tired.” I smile weakly.
“Ah. Follow me.”
Cash lends me his bed and sleeps on the love seat, despite my protest that I’m shorter and would be more comfortable. He hands me two neatly folded blankets, and we stand awkwardly, the dividing sheet in Cash’s thick fist. His face is a mask I can’t read.
“Do you have a gun?” I ask. I’m wondering about the door again, if someone could find me here. If the man in the baseball cap is actually a threat.
“No, I don’t. But I have a baseball bat.” He smiles, too flippant for the situation.
“If they come, they’ll have guns.” I hold the blankets against my chest, nervously twisting my wedding ring.
“I’ll keep watch. Don’t worry, okay? You need to sleep.” He nudges me toward the bed. His room is soft. Worn woods, a weathered rag rug, and a yellow incandescent light give the room a cabin-like feel despite the street noise. I can hear him rustling around, mere feet away, nothing but the sheet to divide us.
The wall opposite the bed is exposed brick, each painted a different color, and the overall picture is a rudimentary sun in shades of orange and reds. It seems much too feminine for him to have done himself. The rays are curled around each brick, vinelike and intricate.
I make up the bed and climb inside. I fall asleep in my clothes, staring at that sun, wishing for all the world that it gave off some warmth.
? ? ?
I sleep in fits and starts, shooting up straight every half hour, at every car that starts, every door that slams, never sure if the noise is real or imagined. My dreams are vivid and violent. Evelyn carrying babies in a tattered dress, like a zombie. Caroline running from a burning building. Henry, shot and bleeding on the floor of Cash’s apartment. At five, I realize I’m famished and wander out to the kitchen. I find Cash’s kitchen cabinets and refrigerator well stocked with coffee, eggs, bread. I work quietly, using only the stove light so as to not wake Cash, who snores like an old steam engine from the love seat.
While I work, I examine my options. I can’t stay here with Cash. I could probably call Lydia, but I can’t shake her I-told-you-so face when I tell her Henry went to Japan. I can’t stomach the idea of painting a rosy picture of my marriage, either. No, better to just leave it alone for now. Cash, with his unassuming open-ended questions, is easier.
Henry will come home today and I check my phone, wondering why he hasn’t called. He should have landed. When the sun rises, I plan to go to the police station, meet with Officer Yates, figure out what is going on. I resign myself to the fact that today is the last day I will fully live under the guise of Zoe Whittaker. Hilary Lawlor has been an apparition in my mind for five years, existing only subconsciously. The jig is up. Henry will know my past, my drug use. Evelyn. Some of it I can keep hidden, certainly the details are mine to spare. My throat closes up with shame at the mental snapshots: stealing pills. Those shiny, glistening moms, so perfect it hurt. Those giant thousand-dollar wobbling prams. Legs piled like matchsticks in the backseat of a car. Me, drunk on whiskey, falling in the street while Mick and someone else held me up. Evelyn, abandoned in a morgue cooler. That I left my mother’s body to rot. I’ve never listed it all out, not even to myself. My sins are smaller, less significant, and more manageable if they remain in their individual compartments.