You Are Not Alone(6)
—Data Book, page 6
A FEW NIGHTS AFTER my botched interview, I’m in the kitchen of Mel’s Brooklyn apartment, twisting off the cap of the bottle of Perrier I brought.
Her colicky baby daughter, Lila, is strapped to her chest, and Mel gently bounces up and down to soothe her while I fill a glass for each of us and take cheese and crackers out of my shopping bag.
Her place is cluttered but cheery, with a pink-and-yellow Boppy pillow on the couch and burping cloths stacked on the kitchen counter. An electric swing is wedged next to the small round dining table. The Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine” plays in the background, on the record player Mel’s husband bought last year.
I hate bringing the horror of Amanda’s suicide here, but Mel knows something is wrong. I’ve never been good at hiding my emotions.
“Shay, I can’t even imagine how awful that must have been,” she says, shuddering, as I finish the story. She hugs Lila closer.
I don’t reveal that I took a bus, then a twenty-five-dollar Uber, to get here instead of the subway. The panic descended again tonight, just like it did when I tried to ride the subway to my interview on Monday and my temp job yesterday. As I approached that forest-green pole, my heart exploded and my legs refused to move forward.
Logically, I know I’m not going to witness another subway suicide—the stats prove how rare they are. But the one I did see keeps replaying in my mind.
“I went to her apartment this morning,” I say. “Amanda’s.”
Lila spits out her pacifier and Mel pops it back in, jiggling faster. “You did what? Why?”
Mel looks tired, and I’m sure I do, too. Last night a bad dream jarred me awake. The onrushing rumbling of wheels was the backdrop of my nightmare. I looked up Amanda’s name on the white pages website when I couldn’t fall back asleep, which is how I found her address.
“I wanted to know more about her. To kill yourself that way is so violent … so extreme. I guess I’m just trying to make some sense of it.”
Mel nods, but I can tell from her expression she thinks my behavior is odd. “Did you learn anything?”
I toy with the Fitbit around my wrist. My steps have nearly doubled in the past few days now that my usual mode of transportation has been eliminated.
“There’s a memorial service tomorrow night,” I say instead of answering Mel directly. “I’m thinking about going.”
Mel frowns. “Is that a good idea?”
I can see why it seems weird to her, here in the cozy apartment with three-bean chili warming in a pot on the stove and a postcard for a Yoga with Baby class affixed to her refrigerator.
Amanda wouldn’t have haunted Mel; they have nothing in common.
I fight the compulsion to touch my Fitbit again. The devices used to be ubiquitous; now not many people seem to still wear them. But in the photo of Amanda by the front door of her apartment she had one strapped to her wrist, too.
When I noticed it, my stomach dropped. Yet another link between us.
I don’t tell that part to Mel, either. Mel used to know me better than anyone; we were roommates our freshman year at Boston University, and we shared an apartment when we first came to New York. But our worlds don’t intersect anymore, and not just because of geography.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I say. “How do you feel about going back to work? Did you find day care yet?”
“Yeah, there’s a great one a block away from my office. I can visit Lila every day during my lunch hour.”
“That’s perfect!” I say. “Just promise me you’ll eat more than strained carrots.”
She laughs and we chat awhile longer, then Lila’s fussing grows louder. I can tell it’s hard for Mel to focus when her baby is upset.
“I should let you go.” I put down my empty glass.
Mel picks up the little stuffed elephant I brought Lila and waggles it at me. “You know you can call me anytime.”
“And vice versa.” I give Mel a kiss on the cheek, then I lean over to kiss Lila’s sweet-smelling head.
* * *
I walk toward Manhattan until it begins to grow dark, then I call an Uber. The driver has on the air-conditioning, for which I’m grateful.
My mom left me a message while I was with Mel, so I dial her number.
She answers immediately. “Hi, sweetie. I wish you were here! We’re having Mexican night. Barry and I made guacamole and skinny margaritas!”
“Fun!” I try to match her enthusiastic tone.
I can picture her in cutoff jeans and a tank top, her wavy chestnut hair pulled back with a bandanna, lounging on the brick patio Barry built a few years ago. My mom is petite, with an olive complexion. I inherited my father’s broad-shouldered, rangy frame. Growing up, I sometimes wondered if people who saw us together realized we were mother and daughter, not just because we looked so different, but because she was much younger than the other moms at my school.
She had me when she was only nineteen. She was a receptionist in Trenton and my father was a twenty-one-year-old economics major at Princeton. They broke up before I was born. He comes from a wealthy family, and he paid child support. But I’ve only seen him a handful of times in my life because he went to business school at Stanford and has remained in California ever since.