“Valerie, it’s Detective Johnson,” she says, although call display already let me know. “The man who attacked Gloria has turned himself in.”
I sit up straight and try to get my brain, which feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls, in gear. “He did? Why? And why did he do it?”
“He turned himself in due to the publicity.”
I nod, not knowing what to say. The details of what happened to Gloria have of course been all over the news, along with the always-presented advice to women of “don’t be out alone at night”. Just once, it’d be nice to see a notice telling men to only be out in the company of a woman or not to be out at all.
“And because he’s horrified at how badly she was hurt. As for why he did it…” She pauses, then clears her throat and goes on with, “He’s a petty criminal, pickpocketing and the occasional minor mugging, but—”
“Minor mugging!”
“Yes,” she says. “Nothing remotely violent.”
“Then why did he— why Gloria?”
“The way he tells it, she came out of the subway station a little later than the other people coming off the ferry which made her an easy target. He thought, anyhow. When he tried to get her to give up her purse she refused, so he grabbed it. As she jumped back to get away from him, she fell over a curb and hit her head full force on one of those metal posts by the subway entrance. He scooped up her phone which had fallen from her purse, and was going to grab the purse too but when he saw what had happened to her he panicked and ran.”
“And you believe that?” It sounds like the most ridiculously ‘not my fault’ explanation ever. And nothing “happened to her” that he didn’t cause. Bit late to start feeling guilty.
“It’s supported by the camera evidence,” she says gently. “And by the doctor’s assessment of Gloria’s injuries. And honestly, he’s just not the type to attack her. There’s no history of that with him.”
A few brain cells manage to shake off their energy-deprived state. “So Gloria’s in the hospital because she was there and he tried to steal her purse. It could have been anyone. It wasn’t about her at all.”
She confirms this, and I hear the sympathy in her voice but it doesn’t help. This whole thing was an accident? A coincidence? I’ve been so sure it wouldn’t be, couldn’t be. All my research into Gloria’s life… a waste.
“We’ll be announcing the charges against him shortly but I thought you should know first.”
I manage to get myself together enough to thank her, then add, “And my parents?”
“I’ve called them, yes. They suggested I call you.”
They didn’t want to talk to me themselves, to tell me this news. Was that because I killed Anthony and because my refusal to skip my manicure and Mara’s wedding-food tasting maybe resulted in Gloria being in the place to be attacked? “Well,” I say, not seeing a point in exploring that with her, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And I understand her condition is stable?”
“Yes.” Stable. Like the flatline the monitor will show if she—
I snap the rubber band hard on my wrist. Don’t go there.
After a moment, when I don’t elaborate because there’s nothing else to say, she says, “Take care, Valerie.”
“You too,” I say automatically, then she hangs up.
I set my phone down and sit staring at it.
Coincidence.
Coincidence?
Is that really possible?
Though it takes me a while, I eventually manage to get my head around the fact that it is. The guy was trying to rob Gloria and she fought back and she fell and was hurt.
But that isn’t the whole story.
Why was she there so late at night?
She’d gone out for dinner with her friend Leah, supposedly. Then she’d gone over to Staten Island. By herself? It must have been so, or else she probably wouldn’t have been mugged.
But why?
The assault itself might be coincidence, but her being there is not. The only way to find out is to go through Gloria’s things. Really search. Examine every aspect of my sister’s life.
Find the clues to how it was shattered.
A tap on my door interrupts me, and I look up to see Andrea the receptionist. “Sorry to interrupt, but— are you okay?”
I straighten my shoulders and say, “Why?”
“I… you look…”
Before she can decide how I look and share an opinion which doesn’t matter to me at all, I say, “I’m fine. What did you need?”
“Oh, right. Actually, it was whether you needed anything. I’m off for a coffee run.”
Even the ‘coffee with syrup’ I’ve been having her get for me is 25 calories and I’m already at 270 for the day. I woke up so thirsty I could have drunk a swimming pool, and after chugging several glasses of water found myself starving. My breakfast of four egg whites and half a banana calmed that a little, but my stomach’s been griping all day and I’d rather keep those 25 calories for food instead of coffee.
But I do need something to wake up my head, so I say, “Yeah, give me one second,” then grab my phone and look up the calories of the sugar-free syrups. “Okay, that’ll work,” I say once I’ve found what I need. “I’d like a medium coffee with two pumps of sugar-free caramel syrup.” No calories for the syrup and only five for the coffee.
“Two pumps? You’ve been getting one.”
I raise my eyebrows at her, not pleased with what feels like a challenge. “And now I want two. The sugar-free stuff is probably not as sweet. You can handle it, right?”
My tone’s ruder than I intended, because I’m tired and out of energy to be patient, but I don’t apologize because I know Elle wouldn’t apologize to a mere receptionist.
Andrea nods once. “Yes. Got it.”
“Make sure it’s sugar-free,” I say. “Keep an eye on them.”
“Got it,” she says again and gives me a big smile that’s got no sugar in it either.
*****
The coffee Andrea brings me seems to do the trick, along with eight almonds I eat mid-afternoon to use the twenty calories I saved on the coffee syrup, in getting me to the end of the work day. Jaimi comes in when I’ve got about an hour to go and offers to take on reviewing the most recent inventory report so I won’t have to. I refuse, of course, because it’s my job and handing stuff off to her right before the promotion committee decides who to interview is a bad plan. Besides, I know I’ve got time to get it done, more than enough time, and I head off to the storage facility to go through Gloria’s things feeling like maybe I’ve got things working my way for once.
As I fight my way through Times Square’s throngs of tourists and stupid people in costumes trying to get tips from them, though, I see a huge video screen showing Gloria’s Facebook profile picture on one side with a scruffy-looking guy on the other, and for one horrible moment my legs go weak and I’m afraid I’m going to pass out right there staring up at the guy who put Gloria in the hospital.
I can’t give him any more power over me than he’s already got, though, so I make myself turn away and walk carefully in my heels to Bryant Park where I shoot the people sitting reading or chatting at the metal tables in the park a sideways glance before I go down the stairs to the subway station, wondering why everyone else seems to have time to relax but I don’t.
I have half an hour on the subway to calm myself, and I spend it working, of course, reading through the inventory report, because nothing calms me more than getting just a little more of a grip on my life. Once the train reaches the York Street station I’m feeling better, although I’d had to take several breaks to get my mind focused again and I don’t like that.
The short walk to the storage facility wakes me up, but I still find myself cursing Jessica for picking a place in Brooklyn. Convenient for her, of course, but not for me.
But then, Gloria loves living in Brooklyn so when she recovers she’ll want all her things to be here
for her. So a little inconvenience for me is just another price I need to pay to make life better for my sister.
Once I’m inside the locker, I sit on a sturdy box so I won’t get my red suit, which now fits comfortably, dirty on the floor then take a brief rest to recover what little energy my body can find before beginning with the ‘paperwork and jewelry’ box.
Gloria’s jewelry all seems to be costume, bright and cheerful but not worth anything, and her bank and credit card statements aren’t enlightening either. She apparently only used her credit card for restaurants and clothes, and while she’s hardly rich she’s always had at least something in the bank. I do notice a hundred-dollar withdrawal two months ago, when she’d usually only pulled out a twenty, but she might just have wanted more cash. There are no charges or paperwork for her private health insurance even though I know she’s got it. She’s got a better plan than I do, in fact, and yet I can’t see any references to it anywhere.
Once I’ve looked at everything in the box, I reseal it then wrap my arms around myself because I’m feeling cold sitting in this big metal storage locker. Is searching Gloria’s stuff worth the effort? The cop said what happened was just bad timing, an accident. So even if I do figure out why my sister was on Staten Island, what difference will it make? She’ll still be in the hospital in a coma.
It’s pointless. Nothing I do will help.
A wave of fatigue and misery sweeps me, and I deal with the first by taking a deep breath and sitting up straight and the second by promising myself I won’t quit until I know what put Gloria in harm’s way that night.
No, it might not help her. But it will help me.
Anthony’s death was a stupid pathetic accident. Caused by me, but an accident nonetheless. So since then I’ve lived in dread of accidents, of coincidences. Getting some explanation for Gloria’s situation, no matter how tenuous, will make the world seem more logical, something I so crave.
“And besides,” I mumble to myself as I reach for the next box, “maybe you will find something that helps her.”
I spend two hours searching through the residue of Gloria’s life for things that seem like questions to answer, and in the end all I have is a small low-resolution picture of her grinning with a tall blond guy I’ve never seen before, a bag of buttons of all shapes and sizes, and a plastic triangle of Swiss cheese. Do these things mean anything? I don’t know, but I’ll investigate them all, the best I can. Along with my diet, that gives me two things I can do to help, and two things have to be better than one.
Chapter Thirteen
The following Friday evening, I sit at Gloria’s bedside with my laptop, an iced coffee stuffed with six artificial sweeteners, and a vague sense of satisfaction. I still haven’t figured out the buttons or plastic cheese or picture, so all three lurk on my ‘areas of chaos’ list, but I’ve made it through my first 2468 cycle and am now on my second 400-calorie day.
The 200-calorie days are tough, no question, but only for lack of energy. I’m surprised by how little actual hunger I’ve felt since the second day of this. A dull flat exhaustion, for sure, and a strange silence in my head most of the time, but not hunger. In fact, sometimes when I know I should be eating I just don’t feel like it so I don’t. I’ve obviously been eating too much if I can feel okay like this.
I haven’t been sleeping well, not a surprise given everything, so yesterday I bought a small bottle of over-the-counter pills. Small, because I don’t want to be taking them for long. It seems wrong. But I took one last night and it put me to sleep almost right away, so today even though the exhaustion is still with me I do feel better than I have in a while.
And even better because I lost three pounds during my first cycle, which is a decent start. I’m not going to try the dress on again until I’ve lost about twenty, since there’s no way it’ll fit now, and every time I see it hanging in my kitchen or notice its picture on my phone or computer I think of Gloria and know I can’t let her down. Whenever I even consider eating something bad, the dress stops me.
I take a long sip of my coffee, and let the feeling of energy I get drive me to focus on my laptop and the report I’ve got half-written. I know the caffeine probably hasn’t reached my bloodstream yet, but fooling myself into thinking it has is surprisingly easy.
As I finally figure out a sentence I’ve been stuck on all day even though it shouldn’t be this tricky, I hear a soft, “Excuse me,” and look up to see a tall man in a black t-shirt and vintage-looking jeans carrying a large leather bag. My mind flashes to the picture I found in Gloria’s things, but this guy has brown hair not blond.
“Hi,” I say, smiling with pleasure at getting my sentence working. “I’m Gloria’s sister Valerie.”
He smiles back, his brown eyes warming. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
I blink. “Really?” Gloria’s roommate hadn’t. “I’m sorry.”
Clearly fighting a chuckle, he says, “May I join you?”
I don’t know who he is, but he’s cute and having finally had some success in my work I can permit myself a break, so I say, “Of course.”
He pulls over a chair to sit beside me while saying, “And I only heard good things, so don’t worry.”
I don’t know what to say to that since I can’t imagine what good things Gloria could have told him about me, so I busy myself with closing my laptop.
Once he’s settled onto his chair, he reaches out and lightly touches Gloria’s hand, which as usual lies on her chest curled in toward the other one. “I always want to straighten those out for her,” he says quietly. “I know it’s how coma patients go, for some reason, but it looks uncomfortable.”
I nod. “I’ve thought that too.”
We sit in silence for a moment, then he says, “Hey, Gloria, I brought something for you. I hope you like having it here.”
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small painting in a sleek black wood frame. “This is her favorite of my work,” he says to me, then adds, “Isn’t it, Gloria?”
I know nothing about art, but the painting is stunning. He’s moved the huge New York Public Library at Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street into a forest, so there are trees of every kind surrounding it instead of tourists and taxis. Vines twine up its stone columns and birds flutter about and sit on the roof, and in place of the big stone lions by the steps he’s painted a squirrel on one side and an owl on the other. Though it’s tiny, the detail is amazing.
“I see why she likes it,” I say, leaning in to study it.
“Thanks. Now, where should I put it?” He looks around. “Somewhere that she can see it without having to turn her head. When she wakes up.”
My gratitude burns behind my eyes. When I arrived today after work my parents were dejected because it’s been nearly three weeks since Gloria was hurt and she doesn’t seem to be getting any better. They and the increasingly sombre doctors don’t think it’ll happen. Nobody does except for me, and now also….
I clear my throat. “I don’t know your name.”
He turns away from inspecting Gloria’s room and smiles at me. “Sorry, Valerie. Since I know yours I didn’t think to introduce myself. I’m Remy. Remy Hendrickson. I’ve been lucky enough to have Gloria in my life for nearly three years now.” He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” I say as we shake, wondering exactly how Gloria has been in the life of this handsome man who smells like sexy citrus but not sure how to ask. “So, where should the painting go?”
After a bit of debate, we choose to remove an uninteresting landscape from the wall near the door and hang the painting there.
“That way,” he says as we return to our seats, “when she opens her eyes, it’ll be right in front of her. And did you put the MP3 player and the speakers behind her?”
I nod. “She had a player in her stuff so I bought the speakers for her. It’s noisy in here sometimes and I thought she might like to listen to her music.” Gloria’s player was fi
lled with songs about living in the now and being happy. Not a surprise, given how she was. Is.
“That’s great. Now she has the painting and the music to enjoy.” He smiles, then touches Gloria’s hand again and says, “So, Miss Glorious, how are you? What’s new? You may have noticed the painting you love is on the wall. Feel free to check it out. Maybe now that you’ve got time to lie here and stare at it you’ll actually find the polar bear.”
I can’t resist turning in my chair to look, and he chuckles. “Valerie’s looking for it now, Gloria. Don’t want her to find it first, do you? Better wake up.”
“It’s not really the right scene for a polar bear, is it?”
He shrugs. “It wanted to be there, hiding in… well, it won’t be hiding if I tell you where to find it. I didn’t have a choice, it wanted to be there. Art does what it wants. Who am I to argue?”
“Indeed,” I say, managing a half-smile at him. I don’t like the idea of things doing what they want. Things should do what they’re told.
He returns the smile but then his fades. “Would you mind if I talked to Gloria alone for a minute?”
I do, actually, but I don’t know why. I can’t imagine he plans to hurt her but the idea of leaving and not knowing what’s happening between them terrifies me. Not knowing how to explain what I don’t understand myself, I say, “Can I wait in the hall or do you need more time than that?”
“Just a minute will do fine. Thanks.”
I get up, leaving my laptop on the chair, and close the glass door behind me. Though I should probably look away to give him privacy, I feel like I can’t risk letting something happen to her on my watch so I keep my eyes on him as he leans in and takes Gloria’s hand and speaks to her. He’s turned partly away, so I wouldn’t be able to read his lips even if I knew how to do that, but from what I can see of his face I can tell what he’s saying matters to him.
Gloria matters to him.
Is he her boyfriend? And if so, then who is the guy in that photograph?
Holding Out for a Zero Page 8