You Are Not Alone(10)

“I’m Cassandra Moore.” Her almond-shaped eyes are golden brown, and her cheekbones are high and sharp. Her shoulders are pulled back, and her posture is so flawless I can almost imagine a book balancing perfectly on the top of her head.

I realize I’m staring, so I quickly say, “Shay Miller.”

“Shay Miller.” Cassandra somehow makes my name sound exotic. “And how did you know Amanda?”

I can’t tell her the truth—she’ll probably think it’s strange, just like Mel did. So I clear my throat and glance around the room frantically.

I notice two things: The first is that other than two men, everyone here is a woman—and almost all of them are around my age.

The second is the poster-size picture of Amanda holding a calico cat.

“We had the same veterinarian,” I blurt. “We both had cats.”

Cassandra releases my hand. “How sweet.”

I immediately wish I hadn’t lied. Why didn’t I just say we lived in the same neighborhood?

Before I can turn around her question and find out how she knew Amanda, she says, “Why don’t you have a drink and something to eat. There’s plenty.” She gestures toward the corner, where I see a bar and a buffet table. “And please make sure to sign the guest book.”

I smile and thank her.

“Shay?” she says as I turn away.

I look back at her, and I’m struck anew by her vibrant presence.

“It really is so kind of you to come tonight. We were expecting a larger crowd, but people are so busy these days.… We’re all so disconnected, living our separate lives. But you took the time to be here.”

Her words do more than wash away the embarrassment and shame I felt only moments ago.

They make me feel like I belong.

My posture straightens as I head to the bar and ask for a mineral water, then I wander through the room. There isn’t a program, or any other photograph of Amanda. It’s such an odd memorial.

I do a double take when I notice the big bouquet of yellow zinnias next to Amanda’s photograph. This one, I remember thinking as my hand reached past the lilies and roses to select it to lay on her doorstep.

My heartbeat quickens. Why did I pick that particular flower over all the other options displayed in buckets at the corner deli I passed on the way to Amanda’s apartment? Maybe she shopped at that deli, too. Could it actually have been her favorite flower?

I tear away my gaze and sign the guest book, as Cassandra asked. I write my full name—Shay Miller—but leave the spot for my address blank. The information is probably being collected for Amanda’s family, maybe so they can send thank-you notes to her friends for attending the memorial, or simply to keep in touch with them.

I put down the pen, then walk over to Amanda’s picture. I stare at it for a long time.

My impression of her in the subway is confirmed: She looks kind.

I wish I could have helped you, I think. I wish I had noticed sooner. I’m so sorry.

I feel a tear slide down my cheek. Then I notice something: In the photo, Amanda is wearing a gold charm on a fine chain. The charm is shaped like a sun.

Goose bumps rise on my skin as the realization slams into me: It’s the necklace I found on the subway platform.

Where is it now? I wonder. The hours following Amanda’s suicide are a blur. Maybe I put it in my shoulder bag. I reach into my tote and try to discreetly feel around, but my fingertips don’t catch on any small, sharp edges.

I probably dropped the necklace in the shock of the moment, but just in case, I’ll check my bag again later, I decide.

By now, two other women have come up to look at Amanda’s photograph.

“I’m going to miss the way she always teased me about my accent,” one says.

“I can still hear her asking if ‘ya pahked ya cah in Hahvad Yahd,’” the other adds.

Then a third woman comes over and wraps her arms around the other two. Other than that they all appear to be around thirty, they have almost nothing in common physically. The woman with the Boston accent looks a little like an unmade bed—her shirt is rumpled, her red hair is untamed, and she’s holding a wad of crumpled paper napkins. The woman who imitated her accent is small and tough looking, with a purple streak in her dirty-blond hair. The third is the kind of woman I think of as a glossy girl—from the tips of her fingernails to the delicate straps of her blush-colored sandals, she’s perfectly put together.

The affection between the trio is tangible. And Amanda—again, appearing so different from all of them—was obviously part of their group.

Maybe they were all sorority sisters in college, I think.

I wonder if Amanda, who clearly had such loyal friends, reached out to them for help. They obviously cared deeply for her. But I guess whatever she was grappling with was too strong for her to overcome, even with their support.

I watch as the three women lean their heads close together again, talking, then the one with the purple streak in her hair turns to look at me, her close-set eyes narrowing. The two others do as well.

I quickly move away in case they intend to approach me to talk about Amanda. Even though Cassandra welcomed me, I’m still an impostor.

As I begin to walk toward the door, yet another woman appears in my path. “Are you okay?” She gives me a sympathetic smile and a dimple appears in her right cheek. “I’m Jane. You met my sister Cassandra earlier.”