Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When Frannie finally unlocks her office the next morning and stumbles inside, the extra cup of coffee she had before leaving her apartment has abandoned her system entirely. She only managed to fall asleep at about four AM.
She sits at her desk and pulls out the stuffed rainbow axolotl she spent an hour at the FAO Schwartz Build-a-Bear to buy. She can still feel children ramming into her side, their beleaguered parents chasing after them. But it was worth it.
She muscles the toy’s awkward little body into the rainbow dress and shoes that cost an extra twenty bucks. The little beret kind of falls off, but the ensemble is charming anyway. Hopefully Bridgette likes it, or will at least appreciate that Frannie made the effort.
She’s never screwed up with a kid before. Never needed to make amends. But she wants to, and she can’t buy her a cupcake, which has historically always been a good apology present. The axolotl will last longer, at least.
Frannie tucks the toy safely back into the bag and leaves it on the corner of her desk, then turns to her computer. It’s almost ten already. Soon she’ll be able to get rid of the itchy feeling in her chest and the swirl of anxiety that kept her up all night.
Henry’s disappointment is a distant memory compared to the image of Bridgette’s little heartbroken face. Henry can suck it. He doesn’t deserve an apology. But her little ghost friend surely does. And Elsa … well, she’ll figure that out when she sees her, she hopes.
Two hours go by with no visits, no flickering lights, no interruptions. She eats her PB&J alone in the office, waiting patiently. Henry’s writing all day and won’t be needing her in the apartment, so it’s just her on her own. It would be a perfect day for some distraction …
But Frannie gets through the rest of her transcription pages, all her emails, and the beginning of Henry’s research project on rowing teams in the 1920s by six PM without a single whisper of ghostly activity.
She thought Michael might get a kick out of the rowing books.
And she made a whole new playlist to listen to with Bridgette.
She texts Henry, asking if he has anything else for her to work on. He texts back: Done for the day. Go write your book.
Frannie sighs and puts her phone facedown on her desk. Damn Henry, and damn herself. But at least she can leave the office now.
She grabs the FAO Schwartz bag and heads out into the hall. If they won’t come to her, she’ll go to them … somehow. She’s not a coward. At least, she won’t be about this.
She starts in the basement, pretending to check the FedEx drop box for envelopes and waving to Paul as he heads out for the night. When he’s left the basement, she sneaks down the corridor to check Michael’s little hideaway, but no one’s there.
She backtracks and heads up to the ninth floor, glancing around before trying the doorknob to the roof. It’s locked, of course, and Frannie huffs. Where else would they be that she can access? Should she just start roaming the halls?
She catches sight of herself in the dark windows, hair pulled back and frizzy, swimming in her oversized argyle fleece, bags beneath her eyes. Maybe she doesn’t want to find them, after all. She doesn’t really want Elsa to see her like this.
The bag crinkles in her hands. It’s not like they’re … whatever she wrote into her book. She and Elsa are just friends. They can get over their argument. Frannie wants to. And she can look like shit while they do.
She makes it around to the Central Park West side of the building and ducks into the service bathroom. She’s running out of ideas and feels more than a little pathetic. Maybe the service elevator here will go up to the roof? It’s worth a shot.
She clicks the cracked button and waits, leaning against the bruised tile by the subway-style window. She tips her head back and closes her eyes. She’ll wander all night if she has to.
“You look horrible.”
Frannie opens her eyes, both surprised and not to find Elsa standing in front of her, hands on her hips, perfect as always.
“I didn’t sleep well,” Frannie says. She pushes off from the wall and holds up her bag, forcing herself to meet Elsa’s eyes.
“I have something for Bridgette, if she’ll talk to me.
” Elsa just raises one of those annoyingly excellent eyebrows.
“I’d like to apologize to her. If that’s all right?
” The words come out tight and sheepish, but she stands tall.
Elsa stares at her for a long, painful moment. “Neither of us was at our best, were we?”
Frannie nods, gripping the gift bag. “I was an ass, and I’m not dealing with Henry being back very well, which is absolutely not Bridgette’s fault. Or yours.”
“I know the situation is more nuanced than I made it seem,” Elsa admits.
“Yeah. But I shut you down whenever you mention it. It’s hard to talk about,” Frannie says, fighting against scuffing a foot on the floor.
She usually walks away from friendships at this point. Continuing to fight about her job, about her choices, even if the other person is making good points, feels like too much. But she doesn’t want to walk away from Elsa. Not over her job. Not for anything.
And isn’t that part of the problem?
“I could have chosen a much better time,” Elsa says.
“Maybe,” Frannie agrees, pleased when Elsa smiles at her. “So, I can apologize to Bridgette and maybe we just … never mention swag bags again?”
Elsa chuckles. “Yes, those are the problem.” Frannie opens her mouth to ask for a stay of execution on all things bookish, and Elsa holds out her hand. “Come on.”
Frannie steps forward so quickly she stumbles, huffing while Elsa laughs at her. But Elsa takes Frannie’s hand all the same, fingers tight. Frannie follows her back out into the hallway, her chest unclenching at the familiar tingle of her touch.
“Where are we going?” she whispers.
Elsa’s hand squeezes hers. “It’s a secret.”
She hasn’t ruined things, then, not if Elsa’s showing her a secret. It makes her think of their night on the roof, and her chest gets tight all over again, less guilty, more eager.
Elsa leads her back around to her side of the ninth floor. They stop at a door by the northwest corner, and Elsa jiggles the handle. It unlocks and she tugs Frannie through it, snapping the door shut behind them. It’s surprisingly loud.
“Did you just break the door open?” Frannie asks, noting the frayed paint on the edges of the door, like it was previously sealed shut. They’re standing at the bottom of a set of narrow service stairs lit by bare bulbs hanging high above them.
“No one will notice,” Elsa says with a shrug.
They climb two sets of rickety stairs, which makes Frannie think they’re going up into one of the pointed gable roofs that line the building. It’s absurdly dusty, like this place has been untouched for decades.
At the top of the second staircase, Elsa pushes open another seemingly sealed door and she and Frannie enter a spacious, triangular loft space. The ceiling is lined with wooden beams, the floor a worn hardwood, with studs rising up against the walls. It’s chilly.
But it’s also incredibly welcoming. Fairy lights hang from the rafters, casting the whole space in a warm glow.
Rugs crisscross the floor, a hodgepodge of styles and thicknesses.
There are two little mattresses against one of the walls, partitioned by an antique screen that’s been covered in hand-drawn artwork.
A couch sits at the far end of the loft in front of a set of makeshift bookcases nailed into the crossbeams that are bursting with books of every age and shape.
There’s even a small table along the last wall, covered in books and more drawings.
It’s a little lost boy’s fort, with stuffed animals and old electronics and a projector hung over the table. It’s beautiful, and it’s horrible, and Frannie realizes she’s clutching Elsa’s hand too tightly, her eyes wet.
“Brought someone to see you,” Elsa says.
There’s no one—and then Michael and Bridgette materialize on their mattresses. Michael’s got an older Gameboy in his hands and Bridgette’s lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, wearing an old pair of headphones plugged into what looks like a Walkman.
Man, Frannie hasn’t seen one of those in ages.
More importantly, both kids are looking at her, so she forces a bright smile. “Hey,” she says.
Michael glances at Bridgette before waving. He looks back at his video game almost immediately and Frannie turns her gaze to Bridgette. The girl blinks back, headphones still over her ears, her arms wrapped around a dilapidated stuffed gray elephant.
Elsa squeezes Frannie’s hand and then pulls away. Or tries to. It takes Frannie a moment to let go. Elsa smiles softly and jerks her chin toward the couch. Frannie watches her walk across the loft and then turns back to Bridgette. She blows out a slow breath. She can do this.
She pads across the rugs and kneels at the side of Bridgette’s bed while the girl sits up and slides off her headphones. She doesn’t meet Frannie’s gaze, and Frannie watches her fingers squeeze the elephant.
“Hey, so, I want to say I’m sorry,” Frannie says, the words awkward on her tongue.
“Okay,” Bridgette whispers, still not looking at her.
Frannie sighs and shifts to plop down on her butt on the floor. The rugs are surprisingly soft. She squirms around to sit cross-legged with the FAO Schwartz bag in her lap.
She won’t ever tell anyone that she spent the hour between three and four that morning looking up gentle parenting advice on apologies to kids. But she learned a lot: Be up-front. Be specific. Take accountability. Promise future action.
“It’s not okay, though, because I was pretty mean to you, and you didn’t do anything wrong,” Frannie continues. Bridgette shrugs a little. “I was upset, and I took that out on you, and that was wrong of me. I’m gonna try really hard not to do it again.”
Bridgette glances up at her before looking back down at her elephant. “You were really sad.”