“Do you honestly believe you made that much difference? You’re not that good, Anna. It’s you who is trying to ride on my coattails here, not the other way around. And, anyway, I told you. I’ve thought long and hard about it over the last few weeks, and—”
“Weeks? You’ve been letting me do all this work on the paper for the last few weeks?”
He shrugs. “So? Give me an invoice.”
“Alex! What are you saying? You can’t do this!”
“Get over yourself. I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to your career, even without your name as co-author. You were my advisor. You’ll get lots of accolades from that. And your precious university will get its reward, just because I was your PhD student.”
“Don’t do this. You know it’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair. Get used to it.”
I laugh. “I’m finding that out.” But then I see his face and I don’t know whether to punch him or beg him. I take a closer look at him. His trembling hands. The spittle in the corners of his mouth. The dilated pupils. His skin so pale it’s almost blue. “Have you been sleeping?” I ask, more gently.
He snorts. “I can sleep when this is done.”
I cock my head at him. “What did you take, Alex?” I reach out to touch him and he jerks backwards. “I think I should call someone. We can discuss all that stuff later, but I think you need help. Have you seen your parents recently?”
“Shut up.” He starts to rub his forehead over and over.
I move around the table toward him. I just want to hug him. Hold him tight until this passes. “I’m worried about you.”
“No, you’re not. Stay away from me!”
“It’s okay.” But his nose has started to bleed. “Honey, please. Look at me. I’m not moving. I’m right here, Alex. What’s wrong? I’m not going to hurt you, you know that.” But he’s backing against the window behind him, his eyes darting around as if searching for escape.
“I’ve said my piece and I want you to leave! Now!”
I have to call someone. I have to do it now. He needs an ambulance, but my bag and my phone are in the living room, so I keep talking, holding his gaze as I walk slowly to him. “You can publish alone, I don’t care. I really don’t. Come on, Alex, come and sit down with me.”
I extend my hand to him again but he just laughs.
I come closer. So close I can almost touch him.
He raises his arm over his face. “Leave me alone!”
For a horrible moment I think he’s afraid of me. Then in one motion he turns, pushes up the sash window and swings one leg out so that he is sitting astride the window sill, looking down. I scream for him to stop but he’s already slipped under the top sash and I am standing with my arms outstretched and a scream garbled in my throat.
“Alex!”
But Alex isn’t there anymore.
Five
It’s so strange, unreal, like a dream. He didn’t scream, or shout, or make a noise. He just disappeared.
I want to run to the window, but I can’t move. Black dots swirl in front of my eyes and I put one hand flat on the table to steady myself.
“Alex?”
After a moment I take a step, then another, until I’ve reached the window.
“Alex?” Slowly, I peer down, along the alley that borders the west side of the building. I can’t see him. I’m looking, but I can’t see him and for one beautiful moment I think maybe he’s playing a joke on me, until I see his bare foot. His body is wedged between the brick wall of the building and a dumpster. A piece of metal has pierced his torso and anyone can see that he’s dead. I clasp my hands over my mouth to stop myself from screaming and drop to the floor, my back against the wall.
I have to get help. I crawl to the living room, stumble upright and snatch up my bag from where I left it on the couch. It’s a tanned soft leather bag with a single shoulder strap and Luis had once joked that searching for something in it was like shoving your hand inside a giant mushroom. I think about that now, the giant mushroom, and I don’t know what’s real anymore. Am I tripping? Did Alex give me something in that coffee and walk out of the apartment? Is this some kind of prank?
No. I didn’t touch my coffee. I empty the bag on the floor because that’s the quickest way to locate my phone. I snatch it with shaking hands, then stop.
Alex is dead. I’m sure of it. Should I ring the university first? Or should I ring his parents? What will I say to them? I should ring the ambulance. That’s it. That’s what I need to do. My finger hovers over the first digit, 9.
And tell them what, exactly?
He was going to leave my name off the paper and then he fell out the window.
I remember the letter he gave me earlier, lying on the kitchen table. I pick it up with shaking fingers. It’s typed on thick, cream-colored stationery.
Dear Anna,
Firstly, I want to thank you for being my thesis advisor, and for everything you’ve done to make me feel welcome at Locke Weidman.
I’ve decided to publish my work alone. That includes the paper based on my thesis. I know that we had discussed you being cited as co-author, but upon further reflection I have come to the conclusion that there’s no reason at all for your name to be included. To be honest, I’m concerned that having you as co-author will lend your contribution more weight than is warranted.
I trust you’ll understand and respect my position.
Please forward any written material in your possession.
Below that he’d added in a handwritten scrawl, like an afterthought:
Sorry,
Alex
I put a hand over my eyes. They’ll think I did it. Of course they will. They’ll read the letter, then they’ll say I pushed him in a fit of rage. They won’t believe me when I explain that he just jumped. He was there, then he wasn’t. Because that’s what happened here, isn’t it?
Will I go to jail? Yes, of course I’ll go to jail. Our doctoral students die. We kill them. Or I kill them. That’s what they’ll say in the newspaper headlines, the blogs, the social media posts and talk-back radio.
Killer.
And for some insane reason I think of my mother and I can almost hear the soft click of her tongue, impatient and disappointed.
I return to the window, slowly, like a cat, listening the entire time. Every sound seems amplified, like I have bionic hearing. Distant traffic, a dog barking, the clanging of a distant hammer in a construction site. No sirens. Yet.
Okay. I need to breathe. Focus. I think of my children as I crumple the letter and shove it in my pocket. I wash the cup and wipe it dry with the tea towel before putting it back in its place on the shelf. Not that I’m concerned about prints or DNA but best not to raise questions about who was there this morning with Alex.
In the living room I’m on my knees as I frantically gather everything I dropped earlier, my heart bouncing around my chest: two tampons, a packet of tissues, a long-lost silver pen, make-up, sunglasses, wallet, keys, loose receipts. An unopened packet of mints. An ID pass on a lanyard for a panel I attended at UCLA last year. A throat soother stuck in its wrapper, the sight of which makes me want to burst into tears. I remembered Mateo doing that, sucking on it and changing his mind, putting it back in its wrapper and dropping it in my bag. I shove it all back into my purse and I’m almost hyperventilating as I dart around the room for anything else of mine. Then finally, softly, quietly, I open the front door.