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Every so often, life offers you a reset button. When it does, you need to press it as hard as you can.
we prefer people who are unattached. It makes things easier from a legal standpoint.”
O.o
I’m sure some would say it’s my own damn fault. That it was my responsibility to build an emergency fund. At least three months’ salary, the experts say. I would love to backhand whoever came up with that number. They clearly never had a job with take-home pay that barely covers rent, food, and utilities.
Because here’s the thing about being poor—most people don’t understand it unless they’ve been there themselves. They don’t know what a fragile balancing act it is to stay afloat and that if, God forbid, you momentarily slip underwater, how hard it is to resurface.
That’s another thing most people don’t understand—how quick others are to judge. And make assumptions. And presume your financial predicament is the result of stupidity, laziness, years of bad choices.
People don’t want to think about that life, so they don’t. They’re getting by just fine and therefore can’t comprehend why you’re not capable of doing the same. Meanwhile, you’re left all alone to deal with the humiliation. And the fear. And the worry.
Never take anything you haven’t earned, my father used to say. You always end up paying for it one way or another.
But these walls don’t talk. They observe.
Emily Dickinson. “Because I Could Not Stop for Death.”
“Remember” by Christina Rossetti. Seeing it causes a slight hiccup in my chest. My heart skipping a single beat. I know this poem. It was read at my parents’ funeral. Remember me when I am gone away.
“Fire and Ice” by Robert Frost. Some say the world will end in fire.
“Why do boys totally suck? I’m starting to think it might be ingrained in them. Like, they’re taught at a young age that they can be assholes because most women will let them get away with it.
Because here’s something else no one understands unless they’ve been there: unemployment is boring. Soul-crushingly so. People have no idea how much of their day is taken up by the act of going to work. The getting ready. The commute there. The eight hours at your desk. The commute home. So much time automatically occupied. Take them away and there’s nothing but empty hours stretching before you, waiting to be filled. Kill time before it kills you.
On my way, I send another text simply asking Ingrid to please respond.
Call her??!
“When I wrote that book, I was so in need of fantasy that I failed to do the one thing all good writers are supposed to do—tell the truth,” Greta says. “I was a liar, and that book is my biggest lie.”
“Then you need to be careful,” she says. “This place isn’t kind to gentle souls. It chews them up and spits them out.”
the man who designed and paid for the construction of the building, Thomas Bartholomew, a doctor himself.
Nick relative?
This was no accidental fall. Dr. Bartholomew killed himself, leaving behind a young wife, Louella, and a seven-year-old son.
Edgar Allan Poe. “The Bells.”
“My family was poor, you see. Welfare. Food stamps. All that stuff some folks are always trying to get rid of.” Bobbie huffs with annoyance. “As if we like depending on food stamps.
“Have you seen the price of oranges?” I say. Bobbie laughs again. “Honey, the last time I had fresh fruit, Obama was still in office.”
Dylan is yet another apartment sitter who doesn’t have parents or family nearby. Between him, Erica, Ingrid, and myself, I’m sensing a trend. Either Leslie chooses orphans as some weird act of charity, or she does it because she knows we’re more likely to be desperate.
One time is an anomaly. Two times is a coincidence. Three times is proof.
“Fuck,” she whispers. “It’s him.”
Betting on Nick.
I haven’t signed a copy for any other person at the Bartholomew. You’re special, Jules. This is my way of showing you that.”
Liar
Darling Erica, Such a pleasure! Your youthfulness gives me life! Best wishes, Greta Manville
I need to talk to you about the Bartholomew and Erica and what you know about both. It’s important.
A text has arrived.
Of course there's a reply now, she used the buzz words.
Call me, I type. The reply is instantaneous. Can’t.
Bullshit
What’s my nickname? I finally type.
Trick question. You don’t have a nickname. Jules is your real name.
Nope!
There’s only one person who knows that. And it’s definitely not Ingrid. It’s Nick.
Fucking knew it
ouroboros.
Two hours later, I’m in the main branch of the New York Public Library, one of many occupying the Rose Main Reading Room.
I glimpsed Marjorie Milton’s brooch. The snake eating its tail. Exactly like the painting in Nick’s apartment.
Nick was short for Nicholas. What he didn’t tell me—not then, not ever—was his last name.
Knew it.
