“But I am ready!” I called out.
I hurried to meet her at the threshold. “Why do you always have to go somewhere?”
I wondered where she went when she left the shop. She never mentioned having any close friends, hadn’t replaced Belle with any new animals, hadn’t said she had any particular activities to attend to, like bridge or mahjong, or swimming at the Y. I wondered if she sewed when she went home, blankets and mittens, patterns on pillows.
How did she fill all of those hours all alone, all of that time? It must have been quiet in her place. She must have gone whole days without speaking to anyone.
“What about the rest of our conversation?” I said.
She looked me up and down. “You’re not the only one in this world with problems.”
“I didn’t know you had any problems.”
“I’m talking about your brother.”
“Nate?”
“You asked my advice, so I’ll give it to you,” she said. “Give him a break. We all have moments when we need extra space.”
Was she saying she needed space? What if this was it? If Enid never came back, I wouldn’t know where to find her. I didn’t know her last name or have her phone number. What if she ended up in a hospital, in a gown that swallowed her, her makeup stripped away, hair on end?
I wanted to follow her home, but she was a fast walker, and the farther she went, the smaller she shrank.
I THOUGHT ABOUT heading back to the apartment, annoyed at Frank’s earlier dismissal of my work, but I decided an irritating Frank was better than a hostile Nate.
It was the right choice, clearly, as Frank greeted me at the door with a hot cup of cappuccino.
“You have to try this,” he said.
It was exactly what I needed then, warm milk, cinnamon, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
“Wait,” he said, before I took my first sip. “Look first.”
There was a heart shape in the foam.
“Did you do that on purpose?” I said.
“I watched a tutorial online,” Frank said. “Dad says it could be a value-added for the customers.”
“Can you do cats, or dogs, or bears?”
“No.” He looked at the floor. “I’m sorry. About before—this is all I can do.”
I examined the foam again.
“It’s okay,” I said. “The heart is nice.”
I stayed at the shop until closing and waited with Frank to lock down. Before he was finished, he mentioned a chocolate cake his dad had mistakenly ordered that would go to waste unless I wanted it.
“Perfect,” I said. “Let’s crack it open.”
“It’s in my freezer at home.”
“Oh,” I said. “Then I guess—”
I had never slept the whole night at Frank’s before. If I stayed there, in his real, queen-sized bed free from brothers and cats tonight, did that mean we would start sleeping in the same bed every night? Long enough that we would eventually stop noticing the feel of an extra hand, or foot, or elbow? Enough so that if they were suddenly taken away it would feel like we were missing something? Did people evolve or degenerate when they were stuck to someone else?
And what about Harry, and my contacts and contact solution? They wouldn’t be there when I woke up in Frank’s sheets. But then, neither would Nate, which was a benefit.
I left a rambling message. Hope you feel better, or are feeling better. This is Lucy—in case you didn’t know. I’m not coming home tonight. I’m with Frank. So you can have the place to yourself, or have a party if you want. But, oh, can you feed Harry? I mean if his bowl is empty, and water. Can you check to make sure he has enough? I’ll be back in the morn—In the morning, is what I would have said if the beep hadn’t cut me off.
In the morning, Nate was gone.
25
I CAME HOME TO AN EMPTY APARTMENT. THAT HAD TO MEAN he was back to work.
Harry was well fed and happy to see me, it seemed, as he curled against my leg. Everything appeared to be in order. Except there was a note on the television. That’s where he left his messages, the piece of tape hanging in the inch above the screen so it would obstruct the view if I didn’t remove it, telling me to “clear dishes” or “scrub counter” or to let me know about “pizza in fridge” or “mail on table.” No wit or whimsy, doodles or color, but a prescription, in chicken scratch.
This wasn’t the usual scrap of used envelope. It was his special ivory stationery that he’d been using since his bar mitzvah for thank-you notes—NME in royal-blue script across the top.
L—
Had to go. Don’t worry. Will call soon—
—N
There were a few words blacked out above those. I guessed he didn’t want to waste a fresh note. Maybe it said “This is a test” in Sanskrit or Latin, or it was some type of puzzle. It must have been something like that because even the moody, mean version of Nate wouldn’t just go without an explanation. Would he?
Had to go. Go where exactly? To do what? I guessed I needed to determine that first. Maybe he would be back in a few hours, or tomorrow. It would be okay if he were gone for a day. I got that, if he were on some sort of journey. I had seen a copy of Thoreau in the bathroom a couple of weeks earlier.
Had he left the book behind with highlighted clues? I searched the place—the bathroom, the closets, the hallway, under the couch. I couldn’t find it, but lots of his other stuff was still around as far as I could tell. So maybe he was still there. He had left some laundry detergent and some change on the shelf, which he would have needed if he were going somewhere far.
I read it over again. What was I missing?
Don’t worry. Why would I worry? I wouldn’t. I needed to think it through first, what this was. It could have been nothing.
Why the note then? Notes were formal. They led to postcards, months away, years on the road, running from something. I needed to talk to him.
His phone went straight to voicemail.
What if he never picked up? There wasn’t any cash. How would I handle the bills? Would he send checks? I could go to a different temp agency, but I didn’t know where my black skirt was—probably on the floor, covered in dust and Harry, and I had no money for dry cleaning, and I’d never actually been to the dry cleaner. Plus, I didn’t want to wear a skirt again. Ever, really. And they’d never hire me anyway. We’d gone through that. Maybe I could start gambling professionally, poker tournaments in Vegas.
But no, there was no need. Nate would be back. Any minute. He’d return in his old form, and all would be in balance again.
Extra space, Enid had said. Fine. I could give him that.
I waited hours before I allowed the panic to set in. I couldn’t think of how to get in touch with Marty, or anyone else who might have seemed helpful—Byron, Sabine? I didn’t have any numbers, so I turned my attention to Nate’s corner behind the square of wall. That seemed like the best place to try to channel his energy. It still smelled like him, a musky deodorant mixed with traces of marijuana. I hunkered down in the middle of the bed, inside the darkness with no distractions. Only far-off honks, the hum of the empty refrigerator, bits of loneliness.
The space was so small, and spare—no decorations really, or color. I read somewhere that colors of bedrooms could affect your mood: red was harmful, yellow was helpful, mostly what you’d guess, but here it was dirty white. Did it even count when you had only a section of a room? I touched his wall. It was cool, and left a trace of dirt on my fingertips.
Next to his bed I noticed a brown box with a small stack of books he’d kept from his classes: Sophocles, Euripides, Plato, a course reader with Descartes, Nietzsche, Kant.
He should have been in school. If I were in that home, maybe he could have found a way to go part-time. Maybe he could have stayed with Sabine and played his music in his band and gone back to the way things were. Maybe I could tell him that was still possible.
I picked up one of the T-shirts he had ripped sleevele
ss for his runs, and I wondered how he had kept it so clean. It was still soft. As I held it, I tried to imagine where he might be, psychic vibes. Twins had that, supposedly, telekinetic power; we had it too, in suppressed form. I was sure of it. If I lost my other pinky in the door, he would know. So if I cut my wrist, would he feel the pain? If he cut his, would I?
I let my mind go. I listened for Dad’s laugh, sniffed around for Mom’s perfume, tried calling out Nate’s name.
I imagined we were a close-knit unit, all of us intact, injury-
free, able to read one another’s minds before the thoughts arose—to summon one another for aid at any hour. The Supersensory Squadron: never a moment alone.
But none of them heard me.
That night, I didn’t sleep. Every time I heard a car outside, or a floorboard above, or a footstep in the hallway, I caught my breath and waited for him to appear.
At dawn, I sat by the window and searched for a sign, a light like they’d shine for Batman. But there was nothing. Bats symbolized long lives and good fortune. That’s why they were on those rum bottles. For luck. We should have spent more time in bat caves.
I knew there were bats at the zoo, inside the tropical jungle zone. If I wasn’t going to stay in the apartment all day waiting, it was the only logical place I could think to go.
_________
AT THE ZOO, the lighting in the cave was adjusted to trick the bats into thinking it was nighttime. As I watched them from a distance, they hypnotized me with their frantic movement, gliding and flapping their wings rapid-fire, nearly missing collisions at every turn. But when I moved closer to the glass, I could spot a few of them resting in the front of the cave, hanging upside down. With their wings draped behind them, it was easier to focus on their furry faces. From that angle, they almost looked like kittens.
If I stared for long enough, maybe their good fortune could seep into my consciousness and spread to Nate. I stood before them for a long time, observing them, drawing them, hoping to absorb some of their energy.
Since Gus was sleeping at the Polar Circle and hiding from the crowds, and since I wasn’t quite ready to leave, I decided to stop by the home of the macaques, otherwise known as snow monkeys. They had a sprawling residence in the temperate zone featuring a gigantic pond with a hot tub. For whatever reason, I didn’t think to visit them very often. Maybe it was because they seemed angry, with their red faces and red behinds, or maybe it was because when I looked at primates I saw too much raw human in them—in their shifting facial expressions and different pitches used to communicate, and in the way they washed their food the same way we did. Watching them almost felt like an invasion.
I wondered what they did at night, after the zoo was dark and all of the people went home. Did they laugh about ending up here, in this controlled environment, when they were actually built to survive extreme conditions? Did they sit in a circle telling stories about their days—they could supposedly pass down information from one generation to the next—recounting tales of the strangest visitors?
Whatever else happened, I knew they stuck together. No matter how often they chased after each other and argued over rankings within, at the end of the day they relied on the family the zoo had created. In the winter, you could find them bundled together as one, literally leaning on one another for warmth.
The more time I spent watching them, the more I thought of Nate, and the more anxious I grew for his return.
I had only been gone for a couple of hours, but I needed to get back to check for him.
_________
I OPENED THE APARTMENT DOOR SLOWLY, reasoning an extra level of care would somehow help conjure him. But it didn’t work.
When I found he wasn’t there, I sat by the window and looked outside the ledge.
A pigeon was there. It seemed to set up shop right when Nate left, or maybe it had been there before and I hadn’t noticed, but either way, once I spotted that bird, it didn’t budge. When I looked closer, I noticed it was sitting on a nest, which meant maybe it was sitting on eggs, which meant actually that it could have been a male or a female because they both sit on the eggs. But there was only one. Pigeons mate for life, so what had happened to its partner? It might have died in a tragic window crash, or eaten some rotten food, or been the victim of an act of random violence.
Of all the ledges in the city, what made this pigeon choose this one? Was it because it sensed it would be safe here?
Pigeons might be able to sense that. They were kind of smart, supposedly, as smart as toddlers I read somewhere once. That seemed reasonable to me, considering they could be trained to carry messages, to be relied upon to find their way back home. Maybe I could train this pigeon to send Nate a note, if only I knew where to send it.
I fell asleep watching the nest, all of the hours of restlessness hitting me at once, and when I woke up the next day I saw five messages on my phone. They were all from Frank.
Where was I?
He didn’t want to bother me, but—
I wanted to talk back, to share what was going on, but I didn’t have the energy. Not for anything.
He knew I’d be mad at him for coming over unannounced—unless there was something wrong with me.
If there was something wrong with me, I should tell him so he didn’t come over and make me angry.
He was going to come over just to make sure.
If I didn’t answer soon, then he knew he should come over.
Should he bring the police with him?
Or a doctor?
“Frank,” I said, picking up after the sixth or seventh or eighth call.
“Thank God.”
I sighed.
“Where have you been? What happened?”
So much, and yet so little that I couldn’t respond.
“Lucy—”
“I can’t talk right now. I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t hanging up.
“Frank?”
“What should I do?” he said.
“There’s nothing you can do. I have to go now, okay?”
I hung up before he could answer, but as it turned out, it didn’t matter. Within a minute, there was knocking at my door.
I could see him through the peephole. “You were here the whole time?”
“I wanted to call first,” he said.
“Don’t you have to be at work?”
“I told my father I needed time to check on you.”
“I’m not fully dressed.”
I was wearing Nate’s running shirt, which I liked to think he had left for me, but it was too hot for pants.
“I’m not changing,” I said.
“That’s fine with me.”
When I opened the door, I noticed he was wearing his regular khakis and plaid, but his face looked redder than usual, as though he’d been out in the sun for too long. There were stains beneath his armpits. It was an especially humid day.
I moved some clothes out of the way, so he could sit, but he looked pained.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It was nice of you to try, but you can go now. I’m a waste of your time.”
“I don’t want to.” He opened his mouth, but he didn’t speak. “I want to know—are you breaking up with me?”
“No,” I said. I was annoyed for a second. How could he make this all about him? But then I realized he didn’t know what was going on. “You’re out of the loop.”
“What loop?”
“Nate left. He’s gone.”
“Where?”
“I have no idea. Now you know as much as I do. He left a note, but he hasn’t called.”
Frank looked at the floor. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
We were both still for a minute.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said finally.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Me either.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I probably just
need to be alone.”
He nodded and slowly stood up, but the processing was on his face.
“Will you come to the shop tomorrow?” he said.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“It would mean a lot to me if you did.”
“Why?”
I could tell he was still thinking. “There’s some new coffee I’d like you to taste.”
“I guess I am almost out of coffee.”
WHEN FRANK SAW ME the next day at the counter, he looked away as though he hadn’t. His face was more pallid than usual.
I was showered and dressed. There was no reason for this treatment.
“Can I have a muffin?” I said.
“I wasn’t expecting you until later this afternoon,” Frank said.
“I was ready earlier,” I said. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.” He seemed nervous. “Can you wait a minute?”
He finished serving the couple of people in line, looked around for more customers, and then put a sign on the register saying BACK IN FIVE.
“Where are you going?” I said.
He disappeared into the back room, made some noise, and reached his head around.
“Will you please come here?” he said.
I had never been in the back room. I liked to imagine it was an enchanted coffee forest: tea leaves carpeting the ground, biscotti hanging from the ceiling, beans lining the walls, an espresso stream running through the center.
Of course, it was a regular room filled with boxes and a small wooden table in the corner. He pointed me toward the chair, and I noticed a large latte with my name on it, Frank’s handwriting, a tower of sugar and artificial sweetener packets by its side.
“This is cute,” I said, sitting down to help myself. “Why here, though?”
He was still standing. “You don’t need any sweeteners?”
“Not in a latte. It’s diluted enough with milk and cinnamon. I wouldn’t want to corrupt the flavor any more than I had to.”
“Oh.” He sounded hurt.
“But that shows how well you made it, actually, the fact that I don’t need to add anything. It’s excellent. And the heart is perfect. It looks almost like a cutout from a picture or something. The chocolate raspberry drizzle around the edge? Genius.”
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