She looked around the shadowy apartment. Her shades were drawn, her windows locked, her door chained. All of her lights were off. She hadn’t left her apartment in days; it was possible that her place might appear empty to anyone watching.
There could still be time to save herself.
Her brain felt muddy due to lack of sleep and food, but she tried to formulate a plan: the call she needed to make, the supplies she’d take, the safest route to get there.
She had almost convinced herself it could work when a soft, chilling noise thrummed through the air.
Knuckles rhythmically tapped against her door. Then the scrape of a key turning in the lock.
A voice called out, barely above a whisper, “We know you’re in there, Amanda.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHAY
About 50 percent of people who try to kill themselves do so impulsively. One study of survivors of near-lethal attempts found that more than roughly a quarter considered their actions for less than five minutes.
—Data Book, page 7
I WEAR A SIMPLE black dress to my temp job on Thursday, even though I haven’t decided if I’m going to the memorial service.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
My supervisor leaves early to meet a client for dinner, but I stay a little longer, until I’ve finished proofing some new materials for the firm’s website. It’s not something he asked me to do, but I figure an extra set of eyes never hurts. I circle a typo on one of the sheets and walk into his corner office.
I leave the sheet on his desk and sneak a Reese’s mini-peanut-butter-cup from the glass jar he keeps on top of his desk for visitors. Then I take the elevator down to the lobby and step outside.
A late-afternoon thunderstorm has washed the sidewalks clean and broken the oppressive heat.
I should head to the grocery store—I’m out of everything—then go home and do my laundry.
But I’m already walking in the direction of the memorial service. The address is easy to remember. It’s a palindrome—the numbers are the same forward and in reverse.
Fifteen minutes later, I enter the Rosewood Club. Behind the plain exterior, the grandeur of the inside comes as a surprise. Thick, patterned carpets hug the floors, and an impressive spiral staircase winds to the second floor. Paintings with gold frames hang on the walls, each with a plaque beneath it.
I quickly read one—JOHN SINGER SARGENT, 1888—as a young man in a gray suit approaches me. “Are you here for the memorial service?” he asks in a tone that’s both authoritative and welcoming.
“Yes,” I say, wondering how he knows. Maybe it’s the only event here tonight.
“Second floor,” he says, gesturing to the staircase. “The room will be on your left.”
I’m only going to stay a few minutes, I tell myself as I tread soundlessly up the carpeted stairs. I can’t pinpoint exactly what I’m after. I guess I’m hoping to learn something that will assuage my guilt and close this chapter for me.
When I reach the landing, I turn to the left. The door to the room closest to me is open, and I can see people mingling inside. It looks like there are less than twenty. I’d imagined rows of chairs, with a speaker eulogizing Amanda. I’d thought I could slip in and take a seat in the back unobtrusively.
Coming to this intimate gathering was a mistake; I don’t belong, no matter what that flyer on Amanda’s apartment door said.
Before I can take a step back, a woman approaches me. Even in a city populated by models and actresses, she stands out. It isn’t simply that she’s beautiful. She radiates something indefinable, an aura that feels magnetic. She’s around my age and we’re both wearing black dresses. But she seems like she inhabits a different world.
“Welcome,” she says in a slightly throaty voice, reaching out to take my hand. Instead of shaking it, she folds it between both of hers. Despite the air-conditioning, her skin is warm. “Thank you for coming.”
It’s too late now. I have to muddle through this. “Thanks for having me.” I realize it sounds inane. It’s not as if she personally invited me here. She keeps my hand in hers.
“I’m Cassandra Moore.” Her almond-shaped eyes are golden brown, and her cheekbones are high and sharp. Her shoulders are pulled back, and her posture is so flawless I can almost imagine a book balancing perfectly on the top of her head.
I realize I’m staring, so I quickly say, “Shay Miller.”
“Shay Miller.” Cassandra somehow makes my name sound exotic. “And how did you know Amanda?”
I can’t tell her the truth—she’ll probably think it’s strange, just like Mel did. So I clear my throat and glance around the room frantically.
I notice two things: The first is that other than two men, everyone here is a woman—and almost all of them are around my age.
The second is the poster-size picture of Amanda holding a calico cat.
“We had the same veterinarian,” I blurt. “We both had cats.”
Cassandra releases my hand. “How sweet.”
I immediately wish I hadn’t lied. Why didn’t I just say we lived in the same neighborhood?
Before I can turn around her question and find out how she knew Amanda, she says, “Why don’t you have a drink and something to eat. There’s plenty.” She gestures toward the corner, where I see a bar and a buffet table. “And please make sure to sign the guest book.”
I smile and thank her.
“Shay?” she says as I turn away.
I look back at her, and I’m struck anew by her vibrant presence.
“It really is so kind of you to come tonight. We were expecting a larger crowd, but people are so busy these days.… We’re all so disconnected, living our separate lives. But you took the time to be here.”
Her words do more than wash away the embarrassment and shame I felt only moments ago.
They make me feel like I belong.
My posture straightens as I head to the bar and ask for a mineral water, then I wander through the room. There isn’t a program, or any other photograph of Amanda. It’s such an odd memorial.
I do a double take when I notice the big bouquet of yellow zinnias next to Amanda’s photograph. This one, I remember thinking as my hand reached past the lilies and roses to select it to lay on her doorstep.
My heartbeat quickens. Why did I pick that particular flower over all the other options displayed in buckets at the corner deli I passed on the way to Amanda’s apartment? Maybe she shopped at that deli, too. Could it actually have been her favorite flower?
I tear away my gaze and sign the guest book, as Cassandra asked. I write my full name—Shay Miller—but leave the spot for my address blank. The information is probably being collected for Amanda’s family, maybe so they can send thank-you notes to her friends for attending the memorial, or simply to keep in touch with them.
I put down the pen, then walk over to Amanda’s picture. I stare at it for a long time.
My impression of her in the subway is confirmed: She looks kind.
I wish I could have helped you, I think. I wish I had noticed sooner. I’m so sorry.
I feel a tear slide down my cheek. Then I notice something: In the photo, Amanda is wearing a gold charm on a fine chain. The charm is shaped like a sun.