Chapter 32
D-day.
Also, my thirty-seventh birthday. Not that it matters.
Get through the day. Don’t think about it.
I shower and dress in office clothes. A regular Friday at work. I’m relieved of an excuse not to hang around at home today.
The day after Thanksgiving was truly a Black Friday. Rob was all misery and hangover, dark circles under his eyes, loafing in the bedroom in his sweats all day, watching action movies, saying nothing. Nothing to say, I suppose.
Today it’s a bright, late-autumn day, cold and crisp, just like one year ago. Thank goodness. No reason to leave the bike at home today. The plan is a go.
In the kitchen, Rob is in his suit, eating oatmeal at the island. “Happy birthday.” He turns to me, “I made you oatmeal.”
“Thanks, baby.” I manage a smile, kissing him on the temple. I fill a bowl with oatmeal I don’t want and sit next to him. I force a few spoonfuls down. When did food stop being good?
Rob picks up a blue envelope and holds it out to me. “I thought you might like this.”
I open the envelope to find a birthday card that simply says, “Happy Birthday, Josie. All my love, always — Rob xo”
Out of it drops a smaller envelope, which contains two gift cards for a weekend luxury spa hotel package in Vermont, one bearing my name, the other for Suzie.
Rob gestures to the voucher. “You haven’t spent much time with her recently, so I figured you’d like it. I ran it past Donald, too. I can even go to a game with him and the twins, or something.”
I’m filled with love for him and give his cheek a lingering kiss. “Thank you, honey. Such a thoughtful gift.” My voice thickens.
He has no idea today is the day. He still thinks we have time.
Rob gets up, his jaw set, putting his bowl into the dishwasher. “Well, I have to go. See you tonight. I’ll cook you a birthday meal, or something.”
I stand, emptying my uneaten oatmeal into the garburator, stalling for time. I’m filled with panic. I may never see him again.
No, no, no. This can’t be it.
He sees my anxiety and misinterprets it.
“You’ll be fine at work, baby. Have a good day.
” He pulls me close for a moment. I want to kiss him, one last time.
But his face so drawn, this is not the moment — this cannot be our last kiss.
Better to leave it as that kiss at Thanksgiving — passionate, heartfelt. Not . . . sad, like this.
Rob takes my shoulders, presses his lips to my forehead, then lets go. He pulls his coat from the closet, and lets himself out the front door, giving me one final look. One last sad smile.
I collapse against the kitchen island, sobs taking over, tears ruining my office makeup. I slide down to the floor. But the tears subside, and my need to fulfill the plan gradually takes over.
Pull your shit together, Josie. It’s D-day.
I go into the bedroom and fix my makeup. I spot the journal where Rob flung it to the floor. This is for Other Josie, now. I prop it up against the dressing table mirror, next to the mask, which looks at me accusingly.
“Okay, okay,” I tell the mask. “I’m doing it.”
Downstairs in the parking garage, I unlock Daredevil, the red bike Rob bought me to replace Electra after my crash, and ride out into the cold November air.
Pushing down the fear building inside me, I spend my day at the office completing my recap of the past year at H&F — everything Other Josie missed.
If she returns to this job, the amnesia routine won’t fly a second time — she’ll need to “remember” the last twelve months of campaigns and meetings.
Beyond that, she’s going to have to wing it.
That is, if she wants the job, after all this time away.
If this plan even works, of course.
My only real interaction is lunch with Angela, which is unusual in itself. She dodged me at Mike and Hans’s Thanksgiving dinner but then insisted on having lunch today, not that she seems to care it’s my birthday. She seems like she has something to tell me and has trouble meeting my eyes.
“Josie, I’m sorry,” she blurts, “but I did a comms plan for next year, which I gave to Mike before Thanksgiving.” She looks up to see my reaction. “I get that it’s your job. But you’ve kinda been—”
I put a hand on her arm. “Ange. It’s fine. I’d have done the same thing. Good for you.”
She takes a bite of her sandwich, clearly relieved. But I can barely eat, I’m so nervous about The Plan. I push my plate away. “Confidentially, I’m not sure if it’ll work out for me at H&F. This week, I need to decide whether to give it a real shot or consider my options.”
Angela examines my face with curiosity. “You do what you gotta do. But seriously, what’s up with you? Both you and Rob have been weird. Rob was super-drunk at Thanksgiving.”
I take a sip of my water. “I’ve been having a hard time, a lot of anxiety. To do with my amnesia — not fully grieving my brother, all kinds of shit surfacing. It’s been hard on Rob, too.”
“You poor thing.” But she says it without feeling. “Could be you need a longer break. I’m not saying that because I want your job, I swear!”
“Ha, right.” I half-smile, getting up and pulling on my coat. “We both know you want my job. But, like I said, I don’t blame you.”
As I finish up my handover notes and hit the “save” button, my hands start shaking. I rest my forehead on the desk and take a series of long, steady breaths. At this rate, I’ll be such a wreck, I’ll never make it to the crash spot.
Calm down, calm down.
I check my phone’s clock yet again, which is ticking agonizingly toward the alarm I’ve set. I have to time it right, so I’ll go to the spot early, in case of unforeseen delays. Leaving the office at 5.45 p.m. will be plenty.
Mike and Hans are out, so I won’t see them again, and I’ve already said goodbye to Josh and other colleagues, none of whom noticed the weight of my farewell. As the alarm sounds, I turn out my desk light, and head down to the bike lockup. No backing out now.
I put on my helmet, tightening the strap. It quite possibly saved my life last time. I turn on my lights and ride out onto Spring Street. I take the exact route Other Josie would have taken that night, riding to meet Rob at a gallery opening in Midtown East.
She’ll take my route from that evening, and I’ll take hers.
I ride until I’m a few yards away from the crash spot at Third and 25th, Baruch College on my left. I look at my watch. 6.09. I’m eight minutes early.
It has to be 6.17.
How do I do this? Ride out into traffic on a red light? What if she also waits for a red light? We could so easily miss each other.
There’s no way of knowing. If she’s on the other side, she’ll be thinking the same thing.
Okay, as soon as the clock says 6.17, I’m closing my eyes and riding out. And she’ll have to, too.
I spend the next minutes trying to ignore my rising panic. I keep checking my watch, then my phone, to be sure of the exact time. When it says 6.16, I stare at it, waiting for the moment. It takes forever.
6.17.
This is it.
Do it, do it.
I push off the curb and cycle hard to the intersection, not checking whether the light is red or green. At the moment I cross the line, I pedal harder and close my eyes.
I hear, seemingly in the distance, a car horn, someone shouting, tires screeching. An image leaps into my mind.
Rob in that loft on Orcas Island, his brown skin against white sheets, eyes shining, smiling at me. As clear as if I were back in the room with him.
And then, nothing.