Chapter 5
I have never felt unsafe in my home before, but now I can’t stop shaking as I sit in the living room among our ruined furniture.
I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if I’d come straight here instead of going to that bar.
Would I have walked in on the intruders?
What would they have done to me? A host of scenarios tumble through my head, each more frightening than the last. I push the dire thoughts from my mind as best I can and wait for Sam.
He arrives home around the same time that a pair of uniformed police officers show up.
They look around, ask for a list of missing items, take statements from us, and that’s about it.
When I inquire if they’re going to dust for prints or do anything beyond the bare minimum, they exchange a weary glance and tell us that we shouldn’t hold our breaths.
And as for recovering our stuff . . . not likely.
After they leave, I go straight to the kitchen with tears brimming in my eyes and return with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of window cleaner.
I scrub at the TV screen in an attempt to remove some of the graffiti, which comprises a four-letter description of female anatomy that begins with a c, no doubt meant to shock in its vulgarity.
The thieves got more creative with our coffee table and opted for a badly executed yet recognizable drawing of male genitalia.
Why whoever broke into our apartment bothered with these crass acts of vandalism, I don’t know, but they leave me feeling violated.
And maybe that’s the point. Whoever did this wasn’t just content to take our possessions; they wanted to make sure we wouldn’t ever feel safe here again. And it worked.
“Hey, take it easy,” Sam says, coming up behind me as I drop a spent paper towel on the floor and tear another one off the roll, going back to my task in a frenzy even though it’s clearly not working.
The spray paint won’t come off. He puts his hands on my shoulders, turns me around, takes the paper towels and cleaner away from me, and sets them aside. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“I have to do something,” I tell him with a sob. “Look at this. It’s ruined.”
“We’ll get another TV.” Sam steers me toward the couch and sits me down, then does the same. “It’s just stuff.”
My gaze drops to the coffee table, where more disgusting language awaits in bold red strokes next to the dubiously drawn artwork. My skin crawls. “I can’t stay here tonight.”
Sam’s voice is soft when he replies, “Then we’ll go to a hotel and deal with it tomorrow.”
“No. You don’t understand. It’s not just one night. I can’t stay here, period. I don’t feel safe anymore.”
“We can stay in the hotel for as long as necessary.”
“With what? The money we saved for the down payment? We need that cash, every penny of it, if we’re ever going to get out of places like this.”
“Well, there’s Rob. I’m sure he’ll let us crash at his place.”
“Hell no.” I shake my head. Rob is Sam’s friend.
They met in college and were roommates for a while, until he dropped out.
“I’ve seen Rob’s apartment. It’s awful. He hasn’t cleaned or vacuumed since the day he moved in, and he doesn’t flush the toilet.
” Not to mention all the pot he smokes. I take a deep breath.
“We can go to my parents’. I mean, if you’re good with that. ”
“Of course. It’s . . . it’s fine.” Sam glances sideways at me. “I’d say we could stay with my folks, but . . .”
“They live in Chicago.”
“Right.”
I wipe my eyes. “I’m sorry about this.”
“What? The credit thing? Getting broken into? That’s hardly your fault.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Going to pieces. Bawling my eyes out. I don’t know how you stay so calm.”
Sam shrugs. “Guess I just internalize instead.”
“That’s not healthy.”
“I know.” Sam reaches out. He takes my hand and squeezes it. “You want me to pack us a bag?”
“Maybe.” I stare at the coffee table. At that foul graffiti. And then I remember something. A cold dread envelops me. “Shit.”
“What?”
I jump up, race into the bedroom, past the dresser and the small mahogany jewelry box that now sits open and empty.
I rush to my nightstand but don’t see what I’m looking for.
Desperate, I pull the drawer open, even though I know it won’t be there.
There’s a pair of nail clippers, a flashlight—because the building is old, and the breakers trip all the time—and a bottle of over-the-counter sleeping pills. But not what I’m looking for.
“What’s going on?” Sam stands in the bedroom doorway.
“It’s not here,” I reply, a glut of panic welling inside me.
I push the items in the drawer aside. It’s a futile gesture.
“My Tiffany bracelet. The one with the angel charm that you gave me to honor our baby after the miscarriage.” I turn to him in anguish.
“It was here this morning, and now it’s gone. They took it.”
“Are you sure?” Sam steps into the room.
“Of course I’m sure. I took it off this morning before my shower and left it on my nightstand.
I forgot to put it back on.” This is too much.
It means everything to me. A beautiful silver bracelet with round, flat links and a charm that Sam had custom made of an angel holding a heart-shaped opal, the birthstone for October.
That was when our own angel would have been born.
The bracelet was a symbol of love and loss, and a testament to our strength as a couple to overcome anything life throws at us.
It also had a little compartment to hold some of her ashes.
I turn and look at Sam, shoulders slumped, arms at my sides, and ask the question that’s been running through my mind since the moment I found our front door busted open: “Why is this happening to us?”