You Are Not Alone(54)
“This is Felix.” Mary scoops him up. “He’s a little stray. I found him outside one night last winter. Took two weeks of my leaving out food before he trusted me enough to let me catch him. Anyway, we’ll let you get on with your night. See you soon!”
She disappears back into her apartment. I close my door and lean against it, breathing hard.
Cassandra had to have known there was no way I could have encountered Amanda at the vet’s. But Cassandra hadn’t looked at all surprised by my story; she didn’t frown or ask a single question or challenge me. On the rainy day when we had tea together, I deepened my lie by telling Cassandra and Jane my cat had died. Jane had appeared to swallow my story at face value, too.
The Moore sisters knew their dear friend Amanda didn’t have a cat.
So they must also have known I was lying all along.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
SHAY
Rates of anxiety and depression are at an all-time high in a number of countries—including the U.S. Along with therapy and medication, exercise can help combat these mental health challenges by producing endorphins and enkephalins. Three or more sessions a week are generally regarded as the minimum effectiveness, with a baseline of thirty minutes per session.
—Data Book, page 46
THE MOORE SISTERS MIGHT have decided not to call me out on my lie about sharing a veterinarian with Amanda for so many reasons.
But the most likely one is kindness.
When I deepened my fabrication right after I bumped into them unexpectedly in the rainstorm, I was badly shaken.
They probably didn’t want to embarrass me and make me feel worse.
The day I saw what I know now was just an illusion of Amanda heading to the subway was my rock bottom. I’d been under so much stress, plus the Ambien could’ve toyed with my mind. I’ve heard stories about people who sleepwalk—cooking meals or even driving cars—on Ambien. So it’s not a stretch to think that those pills affected me, too.
But I haven’t taken Ambien in a couple of weeks. I don’t need it; I want to see the world with clear eyes now. Last night was my first night in my new place. And even though I don’t have curtains or blinds yet—I taped brown packing paper over my bedroom window to keep out the light—I slept for a solid eight hours.
I spent most of today getting organized. I’ve got all my packing boxes broken down for recycling, and my kitchen is set up just the way I like it, with my blender on the counter, next to my bowl of bananas, and my cupboard stocked with almond butter, dark roast coffee, pasta, and protein bars. And, of course, chocolate.
My old life is back, but it’s a better version, I think as I step off the subway and onto the platform. I push through the turnstile, reveling in my steady heartbeat, my dry palms. I smile when I remember Anne making the joke about her vibrator. My panic has been wiped away, as cleanly as if it never existed.
I sling my gym bag higher up onto my shoulder as I head for the stairwell and begin to climb up. It’s nearly six forty-five, which is when I’m supposed to meet Jane. The last time I saw her, she’d asked if she could join me for a CrossFit class. “I’ve got to do something,” she’d said, pinching her flat stomach. I’d laughed and told her I wanted her secret, but I was thrilled she wanted to try it out. The class at seven P.M. tonight is hard, but I’m good at it. I can lift heavy barbells and do power squats without needing many breaks. I guess I’m excited for Jane to see me in my element.
But right as I reach the studio, she texts, So sorry, something came up at work. I’ll have to take a rain check! But in the meantime, here are the best photos from the other day. Can’t wait to hear what happens when you put up your profile.
No worries and thanks! I write back, even though I’m disappointed.
The photos are good: They captured me laughing as I tried on a straw hat, and looking a little more serious as I glanced out at the water. But there are only four of them, and I recall the sisters taking dozens. I guess they just sent me the most flattering ones.
I tuck away my phone, change in the locker room, and walk into the studio. I find a spot in the second row. The class is crowded, as usual, since the teacher has a huge following.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m drenched in sweat. My arms are shaking and I know my legs will be sore tomorrow. But my mind feels gloriously uncluttered.
I walk into the locker room and head to the sink to splash cool water on my face and wash my hands. When I raise my head again, I notice the woman at the sink to my left.
She looks a lot like the redhead I saw at Amanda’s memorial service.
Our eyes meet in the mirror and she appears surprised. Maybe it’s because she caught me staring at her.
I smile. “Hi.”
She just nods.
It could be the wrong woman; I didn’t get that close to her. Even if it is her, she probably didn’t recognize me. I’m no longer wearing glasses, and my hair is lighter and shorter.
I quickly turn away and gather my things.
When I exit the studio, she’s right in front of me, pushing open the door. She looks back reflexively as she holds it, the way people do to make sure they don’t let the door close on someone, and I step through.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” Her Boston accent sharpens the word.
Pahked ya cah in Hahvad Yahd.… It must be her.