Chapter 11
Man, that hurts.
The pain radiated from wrist to neck, from knee to buttock.
Owww.
The ground was impossibly hard, gritty, ice cold. It was dark. There were street sounds, car horns, people.
“You okay, ma’am?”
A large hand came into view, offered kindly. But it was all too confusing.
“What happened?”
Josie’s voice sounded distant in her own head.
“You came off your bicycle, ma’am. Can you get up?”
The hand was still there. This time, Josie took it.
He pulled her up so that she was sitting. She took a moment to get her breath back, do a body check. Nothing broken. At least, she didn’t think so. She rose painfully to her feet.
“I’m fine,” she managed, taking off her brown and green bicycle helmet with caution. “Just bruised, I think. Thank you for stopping.”
Other people had stopped, were watching, their breath fogging the night air; a few had already started to move away.
The man’s brow was furrowed under his threadbare beanie as he watched her. He looked up at the remaining bystanders. “She’s good.”
Josie straightened. She could already feel her body stiffening.
“I’m okay,” she assured him again, more confident than she felt. “I’ll go get a cup of tea. I’ll be fine. Tea solves everything.” She smiled shakily.
The man gestured to where Electra lay, front wheel bent, handlebars at an improbable angle. “Your bike is mangled.”
Josie looked over. “Oh no! I love that bike. Guess I’ll lock her up for now.”
“Coulda been you got squished,” the stranger observed, as he helped Josie lock her damaged bike to a stand. “Lemme get you to a café. Where you headed?”
He handed over her purse, which had fallen out of Electra’s basket, and walked Josie to a café on the corner.
“I’m meeting my husband at a gallery in Midtown. I’ll text him that I’ll be late.” Josie stopped at the door. “Thanks for helping me.” She hesitated. “Do . . . may I buy you a coffee, or something else?”
The man smiled. “I’m good, ma’am. Don’t need anything. You take care.”
“I will,” she assured him. “Thanks again.”
At the counter, Josie ordered a London Fog from the barista.
Hold on. Why did she have her old black purse? That thing was ancient.
Josie thought back. She distinctly remembered picking up the burgundy Coach purse this morning. To go with her outfit. For the PR meeting earlier, and for the gallery.
“Ma’am? Four and a quarter.”
“R–right, of c-course,” she stuttered, reaching into the black purse and pulling out a fabric wallet, again one she hadn’t used in ages, not since Rob gave her a leather one.
What was going on? Maybe she’d hit her head?
At least the wallet contained cash. She paid up, silently starting to freak out, and moved through the other customers to sit at an empty stool at the counter across the front window.
She stared out at her bike on the stand across the street before focusing on the distorted reflection of the woman staring back at her in the double-glazed window.
This was really weird. She had no idea why she had her old bag. She closed her eyes; she’d figure it out. She must’ve picked up the wrong purse from the closet.
Josie took slow sips of the tea and some long, calming breaths. She felt shaken to the core, and her wrist was throbbing.
God, Rob! He was still waiting at the gallery. And they were supposed to be getting dinner after, for her birthday.
She looked at her watch, then swore. Its face was smashed, the hands stuck at 6.17. Josie dug in the bag for her iPhone and pulled out an old model in a green case.
Where had that come from?
She examined the screen-lock display. “Josephine Alice Cavendish; blood type O+; no medical allergies; no medications.” Josie always had that on her phone display, in case of an emergency.
She tapped in her passcode, and it unlocked. The time was 6.33 p.m. — she was supposed to be at the gallery at 6.30. She took another deep breath. She had no idea what was going on, but speaking to Rob was the priority. They’d figure it out together.
Josie scrolled through the contacts, down to the R’s. Ryan, a guy in the choir she used to be in. Ruben, a former colleague at Crain’s.
She scrolled down, then back up again.
Where’s Rob? Where the hell is Rob’s number? Think, think.
She didn’t know Rob’s number by heart — who remembered numbers, these days? Perhaps it was entered in a different way.
Josie flicked through the names, looking at them in random chunks. Most she recognized, but many were unfamiliar. Who was Abby Crawford? Brent Thomas? Caitlin Abbot?
Increasingly uneasy, she checked her texts, relieved when she found a new, unread one from Suzie. Thank goodness. Something normal.
You nearly here, birthday girl? We’ve got the table, but it’s packed and I’m getting evil stares from servers who won’t take our orders until you get here. Get your 36-year-old ass over here!
But she wasn’t meeting Suzie tonight. She was late for Rob.
Josie called Suzie’s number.
Don’t cry, don’t cry.
Suzie answered, the restaurant’s chatter and music loud in the background.
“HEY, YOU CLOSE?” her friend shouted. “I’M WITH YOUR CHOIR BUDDIES, BUT WE CAN’T HANG ON TO THIS TABLE WITHOUT YOU.”
“No, honey . . . I was in an accident. I crashed my bike.” Josie rubbed her forehead, noting her grimy hand, the sore, red scratches. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to meet you? I guess I double-booked. I’m late to meet Rob too, but I crashed . . . I’m in a café.”
“OH, CRAP. ARE YOU HURT? LISTEN, I CAN’T HEAR YOU . . . LET ME COME GET YOU. I’LL TAKE YOU HOME, OKAY? TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE.”
Josie looked around her. “I’m at the Bel Air café on Third and 25th, by Baruch College. I must call Rob, but I don’t have his number—”
“BEL AIR? THIRD AND 25TH? GOT IT.” Suzie was making Josie’s head ache. “SIT TIGHT, I’M COMING.”
“Sure, but can you text me Rob’s nu—”
But she’d gone.
Rob would call eventually, when Josie didn’t show up. He was probably schmoozing and hadn’t even realized she was late.
Josie examined the other texts. Nothing from Rob — no sign of him anywhere. But then, texts from him would be on her real phone, in her usual purse. Not this old phone.
She tried not to think about the phone and the purse, and focused instead on her tea, the familiar Earl Grey flavor soothing her. She practiced the mindfulness exercises Suzie had been teaching her, since David.
Pick up the cup. Feel its warmth. Take a long, careful sip. Feel the texture of the frothy milk. Taste the sweetness, the spices. Move them around your mouth. Swallow slowly. Enjoy the sensation as the warm liquid flows down your throat.
By the time Suzie burst through the café door, Josie was almost in a trance.
“Josie! Are you okay?” Suzie turned Josie’s stool around and touched her jaw. It was tender. “That’s a nasty graze, I’ll bet you’re bruised all over. You poor thing, on your birthday too. We need to get you home. Got everything?” She picked up the bike helmet from the counter.
“Yes, only it’s not the right purse — and this phone—” Josie rose, but the floor seemed to be shifting beneath her.
“Honey, do we need to go to the ER? My cab’s waiting. Home or hospital?”
“Home. I need to call Rob.” She grabbed Suzie’s arm and took an unsteady step.
“We can see what you need to do later, right? Come on.”
Suzie wrapped Josie’s scarf around her neck and led her out into the cold evening, where a cab was waiting.
Suzie leaned in the window to give the driver the address while hustling Josie into the back seat.
Josie could feel every ache, every bruise.
The taxi’s heater was on full blast and, as the driver pulled away, Josie tugged the scarf from her neck.
She looked at the silver and black material in her hands. This was definitely not her scarf.
She couldn’t even think about that right now.
“I’ve lost Rob’s number. I have to call him, Suze — he’s waiting for me.”
Suzy frowned. “You double-booked? For a date? On your birthday? You weren’t even coming to the restaurant? That’s not cool.”
“I have no idea, I’m sorry . . . I don’t remember arranging a night with you. I have to call Rob, because he’ll be worried. You’ve got his number, right?”
“Why would I have your date’s number?”
“A date? I’m talking about Rob. Rob. Don’t you have his number?” What was going on?
“Honey, I haven’t even heard of this Rob. Now, I’m taking you home. We’ll work it out.”
Dumbfounded, dizzy and nauseated, Josie stared out of the window.
Deep breaths, deep breaths.
Then she realized they were driving across the Williamsburg Bridge.
“Hold up . . . why are we crossing the bridge? I meant my home, Suzie, not yours — we should be there by now. Where’s this guy taking us?” The panic heightened.
“Calm down — we’re going to your place in Brooklyn, Josie . . .” Suzie turned to Josie, peering into her face. “You live in Williamsburg. You remember, right?”
“No, Suze! I live in Manhattan, you know that. Have ever since I moved to New York.”
“Shit. This is worse than I thought. You’ve lost some time, Josie, you must’ve hit your head. Dammit, I should have taken you to the hospital.”
Suzie knocked on the clear plastic divider. The driver flicked open the hatch.
“Change of plan. We need to get my friend to the hospital. Woodhull, that’s close, right?”
“Yes, ma’am, maybe ten blocks. You got an emergency?”
“I think we’re okay.” Suzie looked at Josie. “But I need to get her checked out.”
Within minutes, the cab pulled up to Woodhull Medical Center’s ER entrance.
Suzie hustled Josie into a busy waiting room and helped her to a plastic chair, the only one available, next to an obese woman who glared as Josie squeezed in next to her.
She watched as Suzie spoke to the staff at the desk.
She was so hot. Josie shrugged out of her coat, earning another glare from her neighbor.
But Josie was focused on the raincoat: that wasn’t hers either.
Or the oversized gray sweater underneath.
There was something very, very wrong here.