Page 53 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)
Eight Months Later
I awakened this morning to find the city covered in snow.
Looking down on Central Park from my bedroom window, I am delighted as always by the sight of the pristine white blanket obscuring all of New York’s blemishes.
Soon it will turn a slushy, dirty gray, but for now, the scene inspires the same sense of wonder it has since I was a child.
Paulie squeaks, and glancing over my shoulder, I smile at the sight of her leaping onto the bed. She is as sweet a companion as ever, apparently no worse for wear after her night in the wild outdoors while Wren’s house burned to the ground.
My knee has recovered, though it took longer than expected.
I escaped surgery but spent months in physical therapy, only recently returning to running again.
These days I make my usual loop around the park, albeit at a slower pace.
I also took up yoga, dropping in to classes on Wednesday nights at a studio near my apartment.
It’s done wonders for my rehabilitation and even more for my peace of mind.
I’ve visited Oscar’s building site in Heatherington numerous times, though like Oscar and his family, I now stay in Chatham, sometimes in a hotel, other times at an Airbnb.
It’s easier that way. Heatherington still holds too many memories, and I’d prefer to avoid Nash, Dax, and Griffin, who surely still harbor grudges against me.
I’ve also visited Wren’s property twice, once about a month after the fire and again a few weeks ago.
By that second visit, all the debris had been cleared away.
On neither visit did I sense Wren’s presence, nor did I expect to; I knew her spirit had been linked to the house.
Her absence left me feeling hollow, even though I knew she had moved on to the place she was supposed to be.
The property remains mired in litigation, but with Aldrich’s permission, I visited the smaller of the storage sheds and took the photographs.
I removed the pictures from their frames and placed them in an album that I keep in the drawer of my nightstand.
Sometimes late at night, I’ll flip through the pages, but I don’t often feel the urge to do so.
The Wren in those photographs was someone I didn’t yet know, and I prefer to remember the Wren I came to love.
The drawing of her, like everything else I kept at the house aside from my keys and wallet, burned up in the fire.
Oscar informed me a few months after we left Heatherington that Louise pleaded guilty to attempted murder in a bid for leniency.
Her plea forestalled any further investigation into her and Reece’s role in Wren’s death.
Oscar monitored my reaction carefully as he passed along this news, having continued to keep a close eye on my mental state.
I think he was worried that I’d fall into the same kind of depression that befell me after Sylvia died, but his fears did not come to pass.
Though I shed some tears on a few lonely nights, in the mornings I always awoke knowing that I would disappoint Wren if I failed to take her admonitions to heart.
I took a lot of long walks in the park and reconnected with some college friends.
Mike and I also now meet for dinner at least once a month, and it’s been good for both of us.
There’s an unforced kindness to him that inspires trust, and I eventually told him about Wren.
Surprising me, he accepted my story at face value, but then again, he was married to my sister, which probably explained it.
Work on Oscar and Lorena’s house has kept me centered as well.
I’ve also been approached about projects by two former clients, one for a renovation in the Hamptons and the other for a new estate in Greenwich, Connecticut.
I’m careful, though, not to fall back into my old workaholic routines.
I’m committed to living a fuller life these days, making time for some enjoyable pastimes in addition to running and yoga: a juggling workshop and cooking lessons at the International Culinary Center.
I make myself dinner at least once a week, and I think Wren would be pleased, even if I still send my laundry out.
As promised, I checked in with Dr. Rollins upon my return and began meeting with a new psychiatrist named Amy Westover every other week.
She’s good, but as with Dr. Rollins, I wasn’t comfortable telling her everything, and we agreed to part ways last month.
We had decided early in the fall to wean me off my antidepressants, which went fine. Since then, I haven’t looked back.
I’ve also been on a few dates, though it still feels strange.
The first three women had their charms, but the chemistry simply wasn’t there.
In October, however, I went out with a woman named Rachel, with whom Mike set me up.
She graduated from NYU and works as a PA with a cardiac surgeon who has an office not far from my apartment.
She’s pretty and has a quirky sense of humor; on our second date, when we played Two Truths and a Lie, I liked what I learned about her.
I wouldn’t say I’m in love with her, but we have fun, and I remain open to the possibility that I will love again, maybe with her, or with someone else down the road.
I have a feeling that Wren and Sylvia are watching my progress with approval, wherever they are.
Because that’s the thing. Even if I can never re-create what I had with Wren, I realized in the wake of all that happened that I want my life to be filled with love.
I still miss her, and I know I’ll always cherish her.
More than anything, she taught me to believe in the idea that love will find me when I least expect it, but that it’s up to me to be ready to receive it.
· · ·
For the past three days, I’ve been watching a young boy in the park.
He must be seven or eight, and he’s wearing jeans, white sneakers, and a red T-shirt with a Nike logo.
He races back and forth from a park bench, over a grassy mound, to an oak tree that must be more than a hundred years old.
At first, I wondered why he wasn’t wearing a jacket, where his parents were, and why he wasn’t in school.
But in the city, there are exceptions to every rule, so I figured it was really none of my business.
Now, however, as I watch him plowing through the snowdrifts in his sneakers, I accept what I am seeing and recall Wren’s words to me the last time we spoke.
Honor the gifts you’ve been given.
At the time, I wasn’t sure what she meant, but when I turn from the window, I recognize a familiar flickering in my peripheral vision in the same spot I’d seen the young boy. And I see that the boy, still without a jacket despite the frigid temperature, isn’t leaving any footprints in the snow.
I don’t know why he has chosen to show himself to me. I don’t know what he wants or if there will be anything I can do to help him. The last thing I need is an encounter that I’m ill-equipped to handle, but what choice do I have?
He’s only a child.
I bend down to rub Paulie’s back before walking to the closet in the hallway. I put on boots, scarf, hat, gloves, and a heavy jacket before descending to the lobby.
I’ve known Adam, the doorman, since I moved into this building after college. He was elderly then, and is now positively stooped, with white hair, deep wrinkles, and jowls like a basset hound.
“The sidewalks are icy,” he warns me. “Be careful out there.”
I nod, thinking, If only you knew.