You Are Not Alone(43)
But as she stared at the words on the ragged-edged paper she recognized as having been torn out of the leatherbound notebook she’d bought Brett to draft his poems, her body collapsed and she sobbed.
* * *
A few weeks later, as Beth was struggling to carry two bags of groceries through her lobby—by now she could only stomach ginger ale, bread, and vanilla pudding—the heavy bottles of soda caused one of her paper bags to split.
A bottle rolled across the tile floor. It came to an abrupt stop under the sneaker of a woman roughly her own age, clad in black exercise clothes.
“Can I give you a hand?” the woman offered as she bent down to collect Beth’s groceries.
“I’d really appreciate it,” Beth said, looking at the ruined bag. It would take her two trips to get everything up the stairs by herself, and she was bone weary. “I’m just up in 3F.”
“No problem, neighbor,” the woman said, straightening up.
She looked directly at Beth, and Beth suddenly had the sense that the woman saw straight through her, past the clothes that hung loosely on Beth’s body and the scarf that covered her now-bald head, and into her very core, glimpsing it all: her cancer, her betrayal, her loneliness.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Valerie. I just moved here from L.A. a few months ago.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SHAY
About one-third of all injuries occur at home, and one of the most dangerous areas is the kitchen. Two of the most common kitchen injuries include burns and knife cuts. If a wound keeps bleeding after you’ve applied direct pressure for five to ten minutes, you may need stitches.
—Data Book, page 34
THE BLADE SLICES INTO my skin so quickly that I begin to bleed before the pain registers.
I grab a paper towel and wrap it around my fingertip, wincing.
The cut isn’t too bad. I was just using a little paring knife to chop up a red pepper for my salad. But I need some Neosporin and a Band-Aid.
I walk through my bedroom into the guest bathroom, but the cabinet over the sink is empty. My toiletries bag is stuffed—I packed Advil, tampons, shampoo, and everything else I thought I might need, but I overlooked first-aid supplies.
A red splotch is already seeping through the paper towel, even though I doubled it up. If I keep pressure on the cut, the bleeding will stop. So I could make do without a Band-Aid.
But I was using the knife against a cutting board I found propped by the sink. And I once read a horrifying statistic that I’ve never been able to get out of my mind: Cutting boards can contain 200 percent more fecal bacteria than a toilet seat.
I guess I could run out to the drugstore to pick up some antibacterial cream. But I’ve just stirred ziti into a pot of boiling water. And I don’t even know where the nearest Duane Reade is.
There’s one other option.
I walk back into the living room and look at the closed door to the master bedroom. There must be an en suite bathroom, because Cassandra described the one I’m using as the guest bathroom.
The Moore sisters didn’t explicitly tell me not to go in there. Surely just grabbing a tube of ointment and a bandage won’t do any harm, I think.
Still, I’m oddly reluctant.
As I make my way across the living room, I’m aware of the utter silence. The walls here are composed of thick plaster, and the floors are lushly carpeted. It’s so different from the place I share with Sean, where noises from neighboring apartments and the street below infuse the air so regularly I barely notice them.
I reach for the door handle to the master bedroom, wondering what the room beyond will look like. Then it strikes me that Cassandra and Jane never gave me the apartment owner’s name. I guess I don’t need the information, but it feels strange to be drinking out of coffee mugs and sleeping on sheets that belong to a stranger without even that simple formality.
I hesitate with my hand resting on the cool metal knob. I’ll be in and out in two minutes, tops, I tell myself. And I’ll leave everything exactly the way I found it. No one ever needs to know.
A loud rattling sound comes from the kitchen. I flinch and whip around.
It’s my cell phone on the kitchen counter, vibrating against the granite. I hurry over and see Jane Moore flashing on the screen.
I’m smiling even before I answer.
“Shay!” Her sweet voice bubbles over the line. “I’m so happy I caught you! What are you up to?”
“Just making dinner.” I wrap the paper towel more tightly around my finger. “How about you?”
“Everything’s great. But Cassandra and I have been thinking about you, and how you don’t ride the subway anymore. It just hit us that there isn’t a bus stop that’s really convenient to the apartment.”
I can’t believe Cassandra and Jane spent time considering my situation.
But they’re right: My route to my temp job this morning was completely meandering. There’s a subway stop just a block from this apartment, which would make the commute so much easier.
“Oh, it’s not a big deal,” I say, giving a little laugh.
I cradle my phone between my ear and shoulder to free my hands. I remove the paper towel and turn on the sink tap, letting cold water run over my finger.
“We have an idea.” Jane’s voice is soft and inviting; I feel like she’s sharing a confidence with me. “I hope this doesn’t feel like we’re overstepping. But we’ve got this friend. You’d love her, she’s really great. Anyway, she helped us with something personal that we were really struggling with a long time ago, and a few of our other friends have turned to her when they’ve had difficulties. I bet she could help you with this.”