The Vanishing Year(68)

I fish my cell phone out of my purse and pull out a kitchen chair. The first phone call I make is to Officer Yates.

“Zoe.” Her voice is all business. “Glad you called, girl. Listen, I found something you should—”

“Officer Yates, a man tried to break in my apartment tonight. Again. He came up the service steps into the kitchen. I ran, but the doorman called the police. Can you go?”

“What? Where are you?”

I sigh. I’m so tired. I relay the events of the evening, in more detail and slower. I don’t tell her about Caroline or the phone call and I can’t decide if I should. It seems excessive, a distraction from everything else that’s happened. I can tell her when I see her, which I’m sure I will. She hmmm-mmm’s and uh-huh’s as I talk—I think she’s taking notes. I hear the clicking of her long fingernails on computer keys. She promises she’s on her way, and I hear the swoosh of her windbreaker as I imagine her getting up from her chair, motioning to her partner to come with her. The phone disconnects.

I dial Henry.

“Zoe where are you what’s going on?” he answers, in one sentence, one breath.

I close my eyes. Perhaps, then, he still cares. But do I? It’s so hard to know. I tell him about the latest break-in, the man at the service door.

“There are things I haven’t told you. I know why all this is happening. There are things you don’t know.” It comes out of my mouth in a jumble of facts. “I testified against some terrible men in California. My testimony put them away for a long time—I can tell you more when you come home. I’m not relaying the entire story now, but I think one or both of them is out of prison and has found me. Someone is trying to scare me. The break-in at the apartment must be connected and same with that car. Remember, a week ago? It’s all just a hunch.” I don’t tell him about Caroline. About the phone call.

“I don’t even understand what you’re saying. Where are you now?”

I’m silent for a moment. “Lydia’s.”

The lie slips out easily, before I have time to think about it. It just seems easier, I justify, than having him worry the entire time he’s on the plane about an affair that’s not actually going to happen.

“Are you coming home or going to Japan?” I ask, hopefully. I tap my fingers against my cheek, a nervous gesture I’d seen Evelyn do a million times.

“I’m in L.A. right now for a layover, but I’m coming home. My plane boards in . . .” he’s silent for a minute, “ten minutes. I’ll be home in six hours. It’s a red-eye.” A chuckle comes through the line, soft and insistent. Familiar. “Zoe, I’ve never taken a red-eye in my life.”

“Well, I’m honored.” We’re both quiet then.

“Zoe, I’ve been so stupid. Willfully ignorant of your past. Ignoring my past. Thinking we can live in this bubble where neither of us has baggage. It’s just . . . not real. We’ll fix this, okay? Together?”

I press the phone tighter against my face, wanting to feel his breath against my cheek, feel his whisper in my ear. My stomach swoops like a roller coaster. I want this love, the one he promises me when we’re apart. The love we try to reclaim again and again, chasing it like dandelion seeds. I want that love.

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.