Lock Every Door(8)

To graduate and enter the job market with a lit degree only to be told you’re either overqualified or underqualified for every position you apply for.

People don’t want to think about that life, so they don’t. They’re getting by just fine and therefore can’t comprehend why you’re not capable of doing the same. Meanwhile, you’re left all alone to deal with the humiliation. And the fear. And the worry.

God, the worry.

It’s always there. A loud hum buzzing through every waking thought. Things have gotten so bleak that I’ve recently started wondering how far I have left to fall before hitting bottom and what I’ll do if I ever reach that point. Will I try to claw my way out, like Chloe thinks I can? Or will I purposefully walk into the howling black void just like my father did?

Until today, I saw no easy way out of my predicament. But now my heavy, hopeless worry has been temporarily lifted.

“I need to do this,” I tell Chloe. “Is it unusual? Yes, I will completely admit that it is.”

“And probably too good to be true,” Chloe adds.

“Sometimes good things happen to good people, right when they need it the most.”

Chloe scoots next to me and pulls me into a ferocious embrace, something she’s been doing ever since we ended up being freshmen roommates at Penn State.

“I think I’d feel better if it was any building but the Bartholomew.”

“What’s wrong with the Bartholomew?”

“All those gargoyles, for starters. Didn’t they creep you out?”

They didn’t. To be honest, I thought the one outside the bedroom window was charming in its own Gothic way. Like a protector standing guard.

“I’ve heard”—Chloe pauses, seeking an appropriately ominous word—“stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“My grandparents lived on the Upper West Side. My grandfather refused to walk on the same side of the street as the Bartholomew. He said it was cursed.”

I reach for the lo mein. “I think that says more about your grandfather than it does the Bartholomew.”

“He believed it,” Chloe says. “He told me the man who built it killed himself. He jumped right off the roof.”

“I’m not going to turn this down just because of something your grandfather said.”

“All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t hurt to be a little cautious while you’re there. If something feels off, come right back here. The couch is always open.”

“I appreciate the offer,” I say. “I do. And who knows, I might be right back here three months from now. But, cursed or not, staying at the Bartholomew is the best way out of this mess.”

Not every person gets a do-over in their life. My father certainly didn’t. Neither did my mother.

But I now have that chance.

Life is offering me a building-size reset button.

I intend to press it as hard as I can.





NOW


I wake with a start, confused. I don’t know where I am, and that terrifies me.

Lifting my head, I see a dim room, brightened slightly by a rectangle of light stretching from the open door. Beyond the door is a glimpse of a sterile hallway, the sound of hushed voices, the light squelch of sneakers on tiled floor.

The pain that had screamed along my left side and in my head is now only a slight murmur. I suspect I have painkillers to thank for that. My brain and body feel gauzy. Like I’ve been stuffed with cotton.

Panicked, I take stock of all the things that have been done to me while I was unconscious.

IV tube attached to my hand.

Bandage wrapped around my left wrist.

Brace around my neck.

Bandage at my temple, which I press with curious, probing fingers. The pressure sends up a flare of pain. Enough to make me wince.

To my surprise, I can sit up, using my elbows for support. Although it causes a slight push of pain at my side, the movement is worth it. Someone passing by the door notices and says, “She’s awake.”

A light flicks on, revealing white walls, a chair in the corner, a Monet print in a cheap black frame.

A nurse enters. The same one from earlier. The one with the kind eyes.

Bernard.

“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” he says.

“How long was I out?”

“Just a few hours.”

I look around the room. It’s windowless. Sterile. Blinding in its whiteness.

“Where am I?”

“A hospital room, honey.”

Relief washes over me. The kind of blessed relief that brings tears to my eyes. Bernard grabs a tissue, dabs my cheeks.

“There’s no need to cry,” he says. “It’s not that bad.”

He’s right. It’s not bad at all. In fact, it’s wonderful.

I’m safe.

I’m nowhere near the Bartholomew.





FIVE DAYS EARLIER





4


In the morning, I give Chloe an extended hug goodbye before taking an Uber into Manhattan. A splurge while carrying my belongings. Not that I have much. I allowed myself exactly one night to move out of the apartment after I found Andrew and his “friend.” There was no crying jag. No screaming loud enough to rattle the walls. I simply said, “Get out. Don’t come back until morning. I’ll be gone by then.”