You Are Not Alone

by Greer Hendricks

  But I can’t rest. I reach for my phone and try to listen to a TED Talk to distract myself, but my thoughts keep creeping back to her. Who was she? I wonder.

  I type “NYC 33rd Street Subway Suicide” into a search engine. The tiny news brief that appears doesn’t answer any of my questions. I only learn she was the twenty-seventh person in New York to jump in front of a subway train this year.

  So much suffering, hidden like a current beneath the loud bustle of my city. I wonder what compels someone to cross this final, desperate line.

  Was it a sudden tragedy that led her to the edge? Or maybe she also felt like she was caught in a slow spiral?

  I put down my phone. Enough, I tell myself. I need to stop looking for comparisons between the two of us. She isn’t my future.

  * * *

  I wait until seven A.M., then I brew extra-strong coffee, put on my favorite gray suit, and dig out the little Sephora makeup palette my mom got me for Christmas.

  As I close the apartment door behind me, I realize I never updated my résumé. I tell myself it didn’t need much tweaking, and that I can compensate with a strong interview.

  While I’m walking, I’m rehearsing how I’ll explain being let go from my last job—five of us were downsized, which I hope will put me in a better light—when I glimpse the familiar green subway pole marking the tile stairs that descend underground.

  I rear back, feeling as if I were electrocuted.

  “Hey, watch it,” someone says, brushing past me.

  It’s like my feet are stuck in cement. I see other commuters disappearing into that dark hole, just as I did yesterday—as I’ve done thousands of times before. But now, splotches form before my eyes, and a rushing sound fills my head. I can’t even bring myself to walk over the steel grates between me and the entrance.

  The longer I stand there, trying to will myself to move forward, the more my panic swells. When I hear the muffled sound of a subway train pulling into the station, it’s hard to breathe. My armpits dampen and my glasses slip down on my nose.

  I pull out my phone: 8:25 A.M.

  I walk on shaking legs to the corner and hail a cab, but it’s rush hour and the streets are clogged. I arrive at Global Metrics ten minutes late, rattled and jittery. I take deep breaths and wipe my palms on my suit pants while the receptionist leads me to the office of Stan Decker, the head of human resources.

  People generally form an impression about others within the first seven seconds, so when I meet him, I make sure to stand up straight, offer a firm handshake, and maintain eye contact—signals that convey confidence.

  He looks to be in his early forties, with a receding hairline and a thick gold wedding band, and a lot of framed photos are on his desk. They’re all facing him, but I imagine they’re of his wife and kids.

  “So, Shay, why do you think you’d be a good fit here?” he begins once we’re seated.

  It’s a softball question, and one I anticipated. “I love research. I’ve always been intrigued by how unconscious factors affect people’s habits and decisions. I majored in statistics, with a minor in data analytics. I can help your company by doing what I do best: gathering and deciphering the information you need to craft messages that will resonate with your target consumers.”

  He nods and steeples his hands. “Tell me about a few of your most successful projects.” This is another of the top ten most common interview questions.

  “At my last company, one of our clients was an organic-yogurt company that wanted to expand its market share by wooing millennials.”

  My phone buzzes inside my bag. I flinch. I can’t believe I violated one of the most important rules of a job interview: Turn off your cell phone.

  Stan Decker’s eyes flit to my tote.

  “I’m so sorry. I must have forgotten to turn it off after I phoned to let you know I’d be a few minutes late.”

  I want to kick myself as soon as the words leave my mouth: Why remind him of that?

  I fumble in my tote for my phone. Before I can turn it off, a notification pops up on the screen. I have a voice mail from an unfamiliar number with a 212 area code.

  I wonder if it’s the police detective who took my statement yesterday. She’d said she might need to follow up today.

  “About the yogurt company?” Stan prompts.

  “Yes…” I feel my cheeks grow hot; they must be blazing red against my fair skin.

  I try to regroup, but it’s impossible to focus. I’m acutely aware of the message waiting on my phone.

  It seems like that call uncorked the noises and sights of yesterday—the grinding screech of the train wheels, the flutter of the light green polka-dot dress as the woman jumped. I can’t stop reliving it all.

  I fumble through, managing to finish the interview, but I know even before I leave the building that I won’t get an offer.

  As soon as I’m on the sidewalk in front of Global Metrics, I pull out my cell phone.

  I was right: It’s Detective Williams. She wants to go over my statement on the phone again. Once we’re done, I ask for the dead woman’s name; somehow it feels important for me to know it.

  “Her next of kin has been notified, so I can do that. It’s Amanda Evinger.”

  I close my eyes and repeat it to myself silently. It’s such a pretty name. I know I won’t ever forget it.

  I walk the forty blocks home, forcing myself to craft a plan for the rest of the day: I’ll update my résumé and send it to a new batch of headhunters. Then I’ll go for a run for a hit of mood-boosting endorphins. And I should pick up a little baby gift to give my friend Melanie, who invited me over later this week for a drink.

  I do one other thing on my way home: I plan my route to avoid stepping over any subway grates.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CASSANDRA & JANE

  A FEW DAYS AFTER Amanda jumped in front of the train, Jane receives an urgent call: Someone other than Amanda’s mother has shown up at her apartment building.

  Jane rushes into Cassandra’s adjoining office, clutching her phone. It’s a busy morning at Moore Public Relations, their boutique firm on Sullivan Street. Up until now, their workday appears to have been business as usual—they’ve met with an up-and-coming purse designer, fine-tuned the details on a gallery opening for an artist they represent, and assembled a list of influencers to spread the word about a new Asian-fusion restaurant.

  But all the while, they’ve been on high alert, their cell phones always within reach.

  Stacey, who at twenty-nine is the youngest member of their group, is on the other end of the line. Stacey dropped out of school after the eleventh grade but later earned a GED and has taught herself so much about technology that she is now in demand as a cybersecurity consultant. With a small, wiry build that belies her physical prowess, and a rough, occasionally profane way of speaking that distracts from her razor-sharp mind, Stacey is often underestimated.

  The sisters agree she was one of their most valuable selections.

  Stacey was the one who hacked into Amanda’s laptop. She’s also savvy enough that she was able to install a security camera on a streetlight just outside Amanda’s building and remotely access the live video feed. From a coffee shop a block away, Stacey has simultaneously been working and surveilling.

  While Stacey rattles off information—“She didn’t stay long, didn’t speak to anyone”—Jane rushes through the open door of Cassandra’s office.

  Cassandra’s long, elegant fingers, poised above her computer keyboard, freeze as she catches the expression on Jane’s face. Cassandra leans forward in her chair, her hair spilling over her narrow shoulders.

  Jane shuts the door and puts Stacey on speakerphone.

  “I’m with Cassandra,” Jane says. “Take us through it from the beginning.”

  The Moore sisters learn that at 11:05 A.M., a woman—thirtyish, tortoiseshell glasses and brown hair, tall and athletic looking—climbed the steps of Amanda’s apartment building. While the visitor s
tood looking at the old brownstone, which had been cut up into small apartments, her actions were captured by Stacey’s camera. Stacey didn’t recognize her, which set off alarm bells.

  The visitor didn’t press any of the buzzers. After approximately ninety seconds, she lay a single yellow zinnia on the corner of the top step, just a few feet from the laminated memorial-service notice created by the sisters.

  Then she turned and left. Stacey—who was already packing up her things in an effort to run toward the apartment and follow the woman—was too far away to catch her.

  “Please send the video immediately,” Cassandra directs. “If she comes back—”

  “I got it,” Stacey interrupts. “She’s not going to give me the slip again.”

  The video is scrutinized the moment it comes in.

  Cassandra pauses on the clearest frame of the young woman. It fills her computer screen, just as Amanda’s image recently did.

  “Their coloring is different, but she’s tall, like Amanda was, too,” Cassandra says. “Could she be a relative we never heard about?”

  Jane shrugs. “Amanda had secrets. Maybe this woman is one of them.”

  Taking in the mysterious visitor’s widely spaced blue eyes and the faint cleft in her chin, Cassandra leans closer. She reaches out, tracing a fingertip along the curve of the woman’s cheek.

  Cassandra’s voice is whisper soft, but her gaze is intent and unblinking. “Who are you?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SHAY

  552 suicides were reported in New York City last year; approximately one-third were female. 48 percent of the women were single. Among women, white females had the highest suicide rate. And within the five boroughs, suicide was highest among Manhattan residents.

  —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.

  My mom’s life is so different: She worked for a construction company and married Barry, who was a foreman, when I was eleven.

  “What have you been up to?” my mom asks now. “I haven’t talked to you all week.”

  “She’s probably too busy napping at that cushy temp job,” Barry calls from the background before I can answer.

  Barry’s the main reason I don’t go home to see my mom as often as I should.

  I pretend to laugh at his comment. A minute later, when Barry calls my mom to come eat quesadillas, I’m glad for the excuse to hang up.

  I remove my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose, then put them back on and lean against the seat, taking in the Manhattan skyline as we cross the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s a sight I never grow weary of, but at twilight, with the majestic buildings rising into the purple-and-orange-tinged sky, it seems especially beautiful.

  Every year, people are drawn to this bridge to enjoy the beautiful vie
ws or a relaxing stroll.

  Or jump to their deaths.

  The thought zings through me like an electric shock.

  I jerk my gaze away from the steel beams and shimmering darkness of the East River below.

  I keep my eyes fixed down, staring at the Uber’s rubber floor mat, until the bridge is well behind us.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CASSANDRA & JANE

  AN HOUR BEFORE AMANDA’S memorial service begins, five women assemble in a private room at the Rosewood Club to mourn the emergency room nurse with the effervescent personality who tracked her steps on a Fitbit to offset the sweets she loved.

  They sit on sofas and chairs in a semicircle, softly talking. One weeps, her shoulders shaking, as another comforts her by stroking her back.

  They’re the same women who appeared with Amanda in Cassandra’s photographs.

  Only one is missing; she isn’t attending the memorial service because she has a more important assignment tonight.

  Cassandra and Jane survey the room. Everything is in place: The corner bar is stocked with plenty of alcohol—which will loosen tongues. The buffet holds a cheese board and tea sandwiches. Perched on an easel is the enlarged photograph of Amanda holding the calico cat. Beside it, the guest book is splayed open on a small table.

  Cassandra closes the door, then strides to the center of the room and stands silently for a moment. Her ebony silk dress hugs her tall, lithe body. The only splash of color is her red lipstick.

  Somehow the strain and pressure of the past days haven’t dimmed her sharp, unconventional beauty. If anything, her features seem even more finely chiseled, and her amber eyes are mesmerizing.