The phrasing below Amanda’s smiling photograph was debated by the sisters before this simple message was agreed upon as bait: Please Join Us. All Are Welcome.
CHAPTER THREE
SHAY
NYC Subway System Stats: More than 5 million daily riders. Open around the clock: 472 stations—the most of any subway system. Seventh busiest in the world. More than 665 miles of track; 43 suicides or attempted suicides last year.
—Data Book, page 4
I LET MYSELF INTO the apartment and look around. It seems impossible that I’ve been gone only two hours. The violet tulips are in a cobalt vase. The frying pan soaks in the sink. Sean’s and Jody’s shoes are missing from beneath the bench.
I walk straight into the bathroom and strip off my red T-shirt and shorts. As I stand under a stream of hot water in the shower, all I can think of is her. Her pleasant face and pretty polka-dot dress. And those empty eyes.
I wonder how long it will take for someone to miss her. When her husband arrives home to a dark apartment? When she doesn’t show up for work?
But maybe she wasn’t married. Perhaps she didn’t have colleagues she was close to. It might take a while for her absence to register.
Just as it might take time for anyone to notice mine.
As I lie in bed that night, I can’t stop replaying the scene, starting with the moment I edged toward the woman to get away from the guy with the goatee. I keep berating myself for not doing something differently. I should have reached out to grab her or yelled “Don’t!” sooner.
When I spotted the woman with the pleasant face, I only thought about how she could save me. But I should have been the one to save her.
My room feels like it’s closing in on me in the darkness.
I reach over and flip on the nightstand lamp, blinking against the sudden sharpness. I have to sleep—my big interview at Global Metrics is at nine A.M., and if I don’t get this job, I’ll have to keep temping. I’m lucky to have a part-time gig in the research department of a white-shoe law firm, but the pay isn’t great, plus the health benefits I carried over from my old job expire in a few months.
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 car 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 subway 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.”