You Are Not Alone(9)
Cassandra reaches out to take the hands of Jane and Beth, who are closest to her. They in turn reach for Daphne and Stacey, forming a circle as they listen to Cassandra’s words:
“Let’s remember why we came together in the first place. Let’s embrace the safety in our sisterhood.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AMANDA
Ten days ago
AMANDA LAY IN BED, her knees curled tightly against her chest, her eyes squeezed shut.
Fresh memories pulsed through her mind: The smiling man clinking his glass against hers. The bitter taste of whiskey prickling her tongue. The two of them, hand in hand, stumbling slightly as they left the bar together, heading toward Central Park. A breeze cutting through the summer’s night air, raising goose bumps on her bare arms.
A loud buzzing sound interrupted the vision. She lifted her head. Someone in her lobby was insistently pressing the button for her apartment.
She tensed, barely breathing.
She pressed her hands over her ears, but the unyielding buzzer reverberated through her mind.
They won’t ever stop, she thought.
Then the noise abruptly ceased.
She looked around the shadowy apartment. Her shades were drawn, her windows locked, her door chained. All of her lights were off. She hadn’t left her apartment in days; it was possible that her place might appear empty to anyone watching.
There could still be time to save herself.
Her brain felt muddy due to lack of sleep and food, but she tried to formulate a plan: the call she needed to make, the supplies she’d take, the safest route to get there.
She had almost convinced herself it could work when a soft, chilling noise thrummed through the air.
Knuckles rhythmically tapped against her door. Then the scrape of a key turning in the lock.
A voice called out, barely above a whisper, “We know you’re in there, Amanda.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHAY
About 50 percent of people who try to kill themselves do so impulsively. One study of survivors of near-lethal attempts found that more than roughly a quarter considered their actions for less than five minutes.
—Data Book, page 7
I WEAR A SIMPLE black dress to my temp job on Thursday, even though I haven’t decided if I’m going to the memorial service.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
My supervisor leaves early to meet a client for dinner, but I stay a little longer, until I’ve finished proofing some new materials for the firm’s website. It’s not something he asked me to do, but I figure an extra set of eyes never hurts. I circle a typo on one of the sheets and walk into his corner office.
I leave the sheet on his desk and sneak a Reese’s mini-peanut-butter-cup from the glass jar he keeps on top of his desk for visitors. Then I take the elevator down to the lobby and step outside.
A late-afternoon thunderstorm has washed the sidewalks clean and broken the oppressive heat.
I should head to the grocery store—I’m out of everything—then go home and do my laundry.
But I’m already walking in the direction of the memorial service. The address is easy to remember. It’s a palindrome—the numbers are the same forward and in reverse.
Fifteen minutes later, I enter the Rosewood Club. Behind the plain exterior, the grandeur of the inside comes as a surprise. Thick, patterned carpets hug the floors, and an impressive spiral staircase winds to the second floor. Paintings with gold frames hang on the walls, each with a plaque beneath it.
I quickly read one—JOHN SINGER SARGENT, 1888—as a young man in a gray suit approaches me. “Are you here for the memorial service?” he asks in a tone that’s both authoritative and welcoming.
“Yes,” I say, wondering how he knows. Maybe it’s the only event here tonight.
“Second floor,” he says, gesturing to the staircase. “The room will be on your left.”
I’m only going to stay a few minutes, I tell myself as I tread soundlessly up the carpeted stairs. I can’t pinpoint exactly what I’m after. I guess I’m hoping to learn something that will assuage my guilt and close this chapter for me.
When I reach the landing, I turn to the left. The door to the room closest to me is open, and I can see people mingling inside. It looks like there are fewer than twenty. I’d imagined rows of chairs, with a speaker eulogizing Amanda. I’d thought I could slip in and take a seat in the back unobtrusively.
Coming to this intimate gathering was a mistake; I don’t belong, no matter what that flyer on Amanda’s apartment door said.
Before I can take a step back, a woman approaches me. Even in a city populated by models and actresses, she stands out. It isn’t simply that she’s beautiful. She radiates something indefinable, an aura that feels magnetic. She’s around my age and we’re both wearing black dresses. But she seems like she inhabits a different world.
“Welcome,” she says in a slightly throaty voice, reaching out to take my hand. Instead of shaking it, she folds it between both of hers. Despite the air-conditioning, her skin is warm. “Thank you for coming.”
It’s too late now. I have to muddle through this. “Thanks for having me.” I realize it sounds inane. It’s not as if she personally invited me here. She keeps my hand in hers.