Chapter 3
I can’t dwell on this all day. I have work to do.
An appointment in a swanky suburb of the city called Newton.
The same neighborhood I grew up in and where my parents still live.
I’m meeting one of my mother’s friends. Her name is Hillary.
She’s in the middle of a remodel and wants help picking out the fixtures and fittings.
The new furniture that will go into the place once it’s done.
That’s what I do. I’m an interior designer, not that you’d know it from the state of our own apartment—the ratty old couch, side tables that we plucked off the curb when a neighbor was moving out, and a secondhand IKEA coffee table.
That’s what happens when you’re saving every penny for a down payment.
We promised ourselves that once we own our own home, we’ll buy a new couch and a mattress that doesn’t dip in the middle.
Maybe even get a dining room set instead of sitting in the living room and eating off cheap tray tables from Walmart.
After our meeting in the bank, all of that feels further away than ever, and to make matters worse, we have to be out of our current digs by the end of the month, which is only a week away.
My mood turns darker. I’m not sure I can deal with being bright and chirpy in front of a client right now.
I phone Hillary and make my excuses, promising to stop by early the next week.
She has an electrician there anyway, and he’s taking longer than expected, so it’s no big deal, much to my relief.
Having cleared the only item on my schedule, I catch a train back to Jamaica Plain, an eclectic neighborhood of Boston that’s popular with college students and twentysomethings, where I share an apartment with Sam on the third floor of a converted house.
But that’s not where I go, because I can’t face the long, empty hours until Sam comes home from work with nothing but my own dark thoughts for company.
Instead, I make my way to the Morris Tavern, an Irish bar a few blocks from our building, to drown my sorrows.
I almost order a pint of cider, but then I stop.
It’s barely two o’clock. What am I doing?
Day drinking? Really? I change my mind and get a cup of coffee instead—a poor but responsible substitute—which I sip in the corner of the bar, watching the other patrons who don’t share my hesitation about alcohol so early in the afternoon.
I’m glad for the company, but it doesn’t lift my spirits because I can already feel the hopelessness creeping around the edges of my mind, which scares me.
I don’t want to be in that place again. If I don’t do something, and quickly, this could turn into a full-scale panic attack.
Take it easy, you can get through this, I tell myself. Remember your calming exercises.
I close my eyes, force myself to breathe from the diaphragm. Slow, steady inhalations and longer exhalations. I focus on my happy place—
Sam and I holding hands and walking in the park with our future children, a little curly-haired boy and his older sister.
They run ahead of us to see the ducks in the pond, a bag of crackers clutched tightly in the girl’s hand to feed them.
It’s a beautiful, perfect, sunny day, and the sound of laughter fills the air.
The pit in my gut loosens. I take another deep breath, hold it, count to five, exhale.
I keep this up for a few more minutes until my mind quiets and I’m centered again.
Calm. I open my eyes and bring myself back to the present.
This situation sucks, but it’s nothing compared to what Sam and I have already survived. We will be fine.
I finish the rest of my coffee, and I’m glad I didn’t order a cider.
Alcohol is the last thing I need right now.
I gather my laptop and purse, then hurry from the bar.
But when I get home and climb the stairs to the apartment, my newly found sense of calm evaporates in an instant.
Because our front door is open, the frame around the lock splintered and cracked.
And when I look past the door at the mess in our apartment, it only takes a moment to realize why.
We have been robbed.