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“I’ve heard”—Chloe pauses, seeking an appropriately ominous word—“stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“My grandparents lived on the Upper West Side. My grandfather refused to walk on the same side of the street as the Bartholomew. He said it was cursed.”
I reach for the lo mein. “I think that says more about your grandfather than it does the Bartholomew.”
“He believed it,” Chloe says. “He told me the man who built it killed himself. He jumped right off the roof.”
“I’m not going to turn this down just because of something your grandfather said.”
“All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t hurt to be a little cautious while you’re there. If something feels off, come right back here. The couch is always open.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I say. “I do. And who knows, I might be right back here three months from now. But, cursed or not, staying at the Bartholomew is the best way out of this mess.”
Not every person gets a do-over in their life. My father certainly didn’t. Neither did my mother.
But I now have that chance.
Life is offering me a building-size reset button.
I intend to press it as hard as I can.
NOW
Iwake with a start, confused. I don’t know where I am, and that terrifies me.
Lifting my head, I see a dim room, brightened slightly by a rectangle of light stretching from the open door. Beyond the door is a glimpse of a sterile hallway, the sound of hushed voices, the light squelch of sneakers on tiled floor.
The pain that had screamed along my left side and in my head is now only a slight murmur. I suspect I have painkillers to thank for that. My brain and body feel gauzy. Like I’ve been stuffed with cotton.
Panicked, I take stock of all the things that have been done to me while I was unconscious.
IV tube attached to my hand.
Bandage wrapped around my left wrist.
Brace around my neck.
Bandage at my temple, which I press with curious, probing fingers. The pressure sends up a flare of pain. Enough to make me wince.
To my surprise, I can sit up, using my elbows for support. Although it causes a slight push of pain at my side, the movement is worth it. Someone passing by the door notices and says, “She’s awake.”
A light flicks on, revealing white walls, a chair in the corner, a Monet print in a cheap black frame.
A nurse enters. The same one from earlier. The one with the kind eyes.
Bernard.
“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” he says.
“How long was I out?”
“Just a few hours.”
I look around the room. It’s windowless. Sterile. Blinding in its whiteness.
“Where am I?”