Chapter 13
The next morning, I linger in bed for an hour after Sam leaves for work.
The previous evening is a pleasant buzz in my head that I don’t want to let slip away.
We are always good together, but last night was something else.
Maybe it was the excitement of our new surroundings, or maybe it’s because we’re no longer stuck in my childhood bedroom.
But I can’t lie in bed all day, so I get dressed, make a cup of coffee, then head into my new office, where I get to work on the project I’m in the middle of for my mother’s friend Hillary.
I spend the next three hours scouring the web for the perfect fixtures and fittings.
I compile swatches and find a gorgeous ceramic tile for the bathroom walls, and another equally fantastic one for the huge walk-in shower that’s so big she could hold a party in it—assuming anyone would want to attend such an event.
By the time I come up for air, it’s lunchtime and my stomach is growling.
The fridge is decidedly bare, so I grab a slice of leftover pizza and eat it at my desk.
That’s when I notice it for the first time. The silence.
The Jamaica Plain apartment always had a faint background noise. The rumble of traffic or the beep of horns on the street outside. The occasional wail of sirens.
But not here at the Glendale. Even though we’re in the heart of the city, I can barely hear the traffic outside.
The AC is nothing but a faint whisper of air.
If our neighbors are making a sound, there’s no sign of it.
The place is gloriously, magnificently quiet.
If anything, it’s a little too quiet, because I’m overcome by a sudden and inexplicable sense of unease.
I ask Alexa to play white noise. The steady hum calms my nerves, which I put down to being in the still-unfamiliar apartment on my own for the first time.
I sit back and close my eyes, let out a contented sigh.
That’s when I become aware of a sound rising over the hum of white noise.
A crying baby. I push my chair away from the desk and stand, go to the window, and gaze out at the street below, expecting to see someone with a baby carriage.
But the sidewalk is empty. Yet I can still hear the wailing child, and it’s louder now.
Maybe the Glendale’s walls are not as thick as I originally thought.
I wonder if one of our neighbors on this floor has a young child.
I hope not. The harsh sound grates against the otherwise tranquil atmosphere.
It also stirs within me a faint longing for what I’ve lost.
I sit back down and stare at my computer, determined to ignore the baby, which isn’t easy. Thankfully, after a few minutes, the wailing stops, and I relax.
At least until I hear a thud from somewhere in the apartment beyond my office door, followed by a tinkle of breaking glass.