No One Knows Us Here(40)

“Hola, Consuela,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to recall my high school Spanish. “El puerto—la puerta por favor? Please open the door? Abierto.” Nothing happened.

Thoughts rushed into my head, one after the other: I could call somebody. I could call the police. The fire department. They’d bring a trampoline and force me to jump out the window and onto the street. A crowd would gather. I would probably make the evening news.

What if the windows didn’t open, either? I rushed over to the bank of windows that looked down onto a narrow street below. They were old factory-style windows made of iron and wavy glass, spanning floor to ceiling. Some of them had awning openings. With a little finagling, I managed to turn the latch on one of them and push open the sash. A gust of air entered the apartment, and I gulped it in as if I’d emerged from underwater. Mist landed on my skin. The sounds on the street grew louder, and this comforted me. My mind took me to dark places, to the people who jumped from buildings during disasters, choosing to die from the fall instead of the fire. Don’t be dramatic, I scolded myself.

I shot off a text to Wendy, telling her I was still hung up with this work thing. All the texts from last night lined up in a row. All of them unread. Then I waited, willing myself not to picture the worst. She wouldn’t do it again, I reasoned. Not after just moving here. Not her first night. She was just upset, I decided. Teaching me a lesson.

There was nothing to eat in the apartment. I knew that already. The cupboards contained only the barest kitchen essentials—cheap stuff. A rich guy like Leo could have all the latest gadgets. Triple-clad pans and high-speed blenders and Italian espresso machines. The refrigerator was completely empty and sparkling clean, as if he had never used it, not even to store a bottle of ketchup.

This would be an interesting way to kill me, if that was what Leo was doing. Watching me wither away through some secret hidden cameras. The windows opened, I reminded myself. I could jump first.

A human body can go for weeks without food but only a few days without water. If the water was shut off, then I’d know for sure he was trying to kill me. At the sink, my hand reached out slowly, approaching the faucet. It didn’t have a handle, but I’d washed my face the night before in the bathroom. The water had worked then. When my fingers reached the faucet, water poured out in a gush, and I almost collapsed with relief. I tilted my head into the sink and opened my mouth, drinking in sloppy gulps.

I would wait until three in the afternoon. That would give the police or the fire department or whoever was going to pry me out of this building plenty of time before the sun went down, before darkness set in. There was no way I could stay another night here, in the dark, by myself, with no food. And my sister. She needed me.

I didn’t have to wait that long. At ten in the morning, the now-familiar sound of breaking glass echoed through the loft. Leo was calling me from Belgium. He was sorry he hadn’t been able to reach me earlier.

He sounded so normal on the other end of the line, so apologetic. I wondered if this was a test of some kind. I wondered if I had passed it. I had been planning to yell at him, to curse, to quit on the spot.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“My poor baby.” Then Leo directed me to look at a slat of wood on the door, near the edge, a darker hue than the rest. All I had to do was press it.

The door looked like it was two hundred years old, like it belonged to a railway station from the old Wild West, but when I ran my hand along the darker slat and pressed with my fingertips, the slat rose from the surface of the door, creating a handle. When I pulled it, the door slid easily along the metal tracks.

My clothes and shoes were in the bench by the door, he explained. That bench that looked like a minimalist box. It opened up. He had rested my handbag on top so I would know.

Before we said goodbye, Leo lowered his voice. “I miss you already.”

I don’t remember if I answered, or if I did, what I said. I was already out the door.



At first I thought Wendy had fallen asleep on the couch. She could have watched the movie without me, shed a couple of tears, drifted off to sleep under the soft blanket I kept artfully draped over the back of my new couch. She must be exhausted, after all. Her whole life had been uprooted. She was going to start a new school, a new life. She was fourteen. She needed her beauty rest.

I tiptoed up to her, planning on clicking off the light and covering her with another quilt just in case, and I saw she was not asleep. She was passed out.

A bottle of wine—an entire bottle—lay empty on the floor. She’d spilled wine on my new rug, leaving a dark burgundy stain against the cream-colored knots of wool. I knew when I bought that thing that something like this would happen. I knew it. I picked up the bottle and set it down loudly on the coffee table. The glass made a satisfying thwack against the wood. Wendy didn’t budge.

She was facedown on the couch, her blonde hair loose and cascading in every direction. I brushed her hair away from the upholstery with my hands. If she had thrown up on it, spilled wine, if she had so much as dropped a crumb on it, I’d kill her.

Only then did it occur to me to check to see if she’d already died. Quickly, I held two fingers against the side of her neck. Her skin was warm. Her pulse thrummed under my fingertips.

I went back to being upset about my couch.

“Wendy.” I shook her shoulders. What was the protocol in this situation? Maybe you were supposed to let them sleep it off. Or maybe it was the opposite—you were supposed to keep them awake. Make them coffee and feed them toast.