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She went to take it, but he didn’t let go. Their eyes met.
“Boys will use you. They won’t ever really want you because they won’t see the potential in you like I do. All they’ll see is a poor girl with dirty, used clothes, and a loser for a mother.” He stroked her hair softly, then fingered the split ends at the bottom. “A girl who doesn’t even cut her hair. You’re lucky I’m helping you.”
CHAPTER
21
Ihaven’t slept more than three hours a night in the five days since I returned from Louisiana. I sit in the subway seat, face dropped into my hands, and consider my options: yoga, meditation, massive amounts of wine? None of it has worked yet. It’s like this warped reality I can’t escape. Exhaustion, pulling at me from one moment to the next, distracting my every attempt at getting back to living my life, but as soon as I crawl beneath the covers, I’m awake.
Wideawake. Staring at the ceiling, my chest tight, breaths coming short and fast. I start to think about the chapters . . . and what comesat the endof the story. Hannah didn’t take my bait and add a friend named Lizzie, but we both know she’ll appear on the page sooner or later, don’t we?
As I raise my head, checking to see which stop we’re at, I catch a man’s gaze lingering on me. He’s tall with a beard. He looks away, caught. I reach for my bag, hands shaking like I’m withdrawing from something. Withdrawing fromsleep, from my body’s inability to shut off, even for a few hours. I stand and move swiftly through the car, tucking myself into a different seat, behind a group of teenagers. I peer around them, trying to catch sight of the man, but he’s gone.
I exhale.
Not followingme, then.
I take a long look at every other person near me, but they’re all busy—staring at phones, reading books, listening to music. No one’s paying me any mind, yet I’m on high alert, and I can’t be any other way.
As soon as I reach campus—glancing behind me, watching for the man, for anyone else who seems to be trailing me—I head straight for the health clinic. Since I’m a professor, they put me ahead of the half dozen students waiting to be seen, and I’m in a room in ten minutes.
“Ms. Davis?” A young woman enters, glancing up from a clipboard. She looks like another student, but her ID badge reads Kendra Young, Nurse Practitioner.
I open my mouth—almost correct her toProfessor Davis—then purse it shut. It doesn’t matter what she calls me. What matters is that Kendra Young likes me enough to write a prescription for something that will let me sleep, let me silence these swirling thoughts, even if only briefly. So I forget the honorific and smile back at her, summoning all my inner strength to seem normal, like a well-adjusted woman who just needs a little help during a difficult time in her life.
“Yes, that’s me,” I manage.
“How can I help you today?” Kendra pulls up a rolling stool, crosses her legs, looks at me with an open gaze, a warm smile.
My shoulders relax a little. She’s good at her job, at least the people-skills part. I think through my carefully crafted story, one that’s nottoo farfrom the truth.
“My mother. She’s . . . dying. Slowly.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Kendra leans in, a concerned look on her face.
“I’m just so . . . anxious. I’m having trouble sleeping. She’s in Louisiana, and I was there to see her recently, but I had to come back to teach classes.” I ramble on, talking fast, letting tears well in my eyes, tears that surprise even me. “Anyway, I was hoping you might be able to give me somethingthat will help me sleep. I think if I could get some rest, I could keep it together.”
“Oh, of course. Let me just give you a quick exam.” She touches a hand to my elbow, takes blood pressure, listens to my heart, my lungs, asks me some routine questions about other medications I take. When I leave, it’s to head to the nearest pharmacy to pick up some Ambien I desperately need.
The pharmacy is located next to Mr. Hank’s nursing home. As soon as I have the pills safely in my purse, I’m a lot calmer, so I go next door for a visit. New York, as big as it is, is a lot like a small town, too—everything crammed together.
Mr. Hank is like comfort food to me. Seeing him boosts my mood because it reminds me that there’ssomeonein my life I’ve always been able to depend on. I find him where I usually do, in the communal TV room. But unlike my usual visits, there’s a woman in a wheelchair sitting next to him, holding his hand.
“Hi, Mr. Hank.” I smile at him, glancing over at the woman.
“Elizabeth! When did you get here?”
“Just now. I was running an errand nearby and couldn’t pass up popping in. I hope I’m not interrupting.” I’m not sure if the woman’s another patient or a visitor, but she looks at me and narrows her eyes.
“Have you been fooling around with my Charlie?”
“No, ma’am.” I smile. “Charlie and I are old friends.” I shift my gaze to my ex-landlord. “Aren’t we, Mr. Hank?”
“Sure, sure.” He pats the woman’s hand. “Elizabeth lives here in my building, right across the hall. I keep my eye on her. Young girls in the city can never be too careful.”
It’s so odd how he can remember my name and where my apartment was, but not realize he’s been living in this nursing home for nearly five years now. I nod and look over at the woman, wondering if she’s going to think what he just saidis strange.
She’s still looking at me suspiciously but gives a stiff nod and brushes back her gray strands. A staff member approaches and bends to speak to her. “How about we go get you a muffin, Ms. Parsons? You didn’t eat breakfast this morning.”