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 a while 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 views 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.
“I know Amanda’s death was as devastating to each of you as it was to Jane and me,” Cassandra begins. She briefly bows her head. “Amanda was one of us.”
The women murmur in agreement. Cassandra lifts her head and looks at each of them in turn:
Stacey, so small and scrappy and smart, who possesses at least a dozen Marvel T-shirts, a temper quick to flare, and a reservoir of loyalty that appears bottomless.
Daphne, who at thirty-two owns a chic boutique in the West Village and has the sort of innate sophistication that makes it easy to imagine her charming clothing designers and selecting styles that will entice her clients. Daphne always appears camera ready; her buttery-blond locks are professionally blown out twice a week, and her makeup is flawless.
And finally Beth from Boston, a thirty-four-year-old public defense attorney who often seems to be overwhelmed and a little flustered—her purse filled with crumpled receipts, half-eaten granola bars, hair bands, and loose change—but who possesses a sharp, uncanny intuition about people.
Cassandra admires these women greatly. They are smart and loyal. They have something else in common, too: All have overcome obstacles that range from job loss to assault to cancer.
“I just can’t believe it,” says Beth. Despite the strains of her occupation, Beth is quick to laugh. But today, tears glisten on her cheeks. “The last time I went to her place she baked the most amazing butterscotch cheesecake”—Beth pronounces it butta-scotch—“because, y’know, Amanda and sweets. And we made plans to see the new Julia Roberts movie. I’m still in shock. I keep thinking I shoulda done something differently—tried harder to get her to talk.”
“Look, I know things spiraled out of control,” Jane says. “It’s no secret that Amanda was upset by our … experience.”
“We all wish she’d come to us instead of shutting us out.” Cassandra clears her throat. It’s time to reclaim the women’s focus. “We don’t want to alarm you. But we have to consider the possibility that Amanda may have talked to someone about our group.”