Chapter 2. Brynn
brYNN
New York City June, Present Day
One would have to step inside this human-shaped box I climb out of every day to understand why even vampires wouldn’t live here.
I call it the coffin.
Its sixty-eight sprawling square feet boast narrow, tobacco-stained walls, paint chips falling off the ceiling, and buckling wood floors. On rainy days, the suffocating stench of mildew clings to my hair and clothes.
No bedroom or private bath here. Unpacked boxes double as furniture, a rolling rack for a closet. At the moment, my leftover udon and a bag of baby carrots share sole residency of the temperamental half fridge that stands beside one of two working gas burners.
My mattress—my nocturnal raft—lies in the center of the floor, cockeyed from another restless night. I laze upon it now, searching for beats in the staccato drips produced by the dollhouse-size sink. One dish and one cup sit inside, adjoined by an orange countertop the size of printer paper.
Not a microwave or an Easy-Bake Oven in sight.
I sound like an ingrate. I know I’m fortunate to have shelter when too many people in this city don’t. But this wasn’t supposed to be my life.
I inherited the coffin from my late parents, Katia and Basilio Gallardo. Both seduced by some form of real estate spin:
QUAINT STUDIO APARTMENT [read: closet-size] IN HISTORIC WEST GREENWICH VILLAGE [rundown old building]. MINIMALIST LIVING [zero amenities]. AFFORDABLE [not so much]. HURRY, BEFORE IT GOES [suckers welcome].
Look at me, singer songwriter turned rookie copywriter. What a joke.
I can hear Cody now: You gave up your music for this?
If only I could summon my parents’ voices. They’ve gone quiet. My memories muddle like a swirling blender. The pain builds so intensely, it takes all my strength to contain my screams.
I’m so tired.
Seven months since that night. I want to hear my mom call me her baby girl, hear my dad’s throaty laughter traveling from our large sunlit kitchen in our two-bedroom Bushwick apartment as he cooks up one of his infamous supper surprises.
I’d do anything to relive one more day with them . . . when things were good.
I squeeze my eyes shut, picturing the three of us around that pedestal table with the folded newspaper underneath so it wouldn’t wobble, spilling stories about our day. Laughing until it hurt. So long ago. Was it real or a dream?
I sit up and pull my knees to my chest, the sheets twisted around my legs.
“Do you even know I graduated yesterday, Mom . . . Dad?” I lift my face to the peeling paint overhead. “I went for you . . . so you could see me.”
I stood in a daze in that line-up of black caps and gowns. Greta Hardin had to shove me when they announced my name. The rest of it is a fog. Except. Cody should have been there.
I slap the mattress in unison, kicking my legs free.
My hands fly up to my face, rubbing so hard I could swear I’m about to tear off my skin.
I’d do it willingly, if only to feel again.
Something. Anything. I’m cried out, sinking through the floor of this dank apartment.
Reminded every day that I’m the only one left.
I don’t want to die. I don’t want to live, either.
“What do I do now? Tell me and I’ll do it. Bring all three of you back.”
The sink’s drips switch to a half-time rhythm.
I dig my fingernails into the sides of my arm, rocking forward and back, imagining being in my mother’s arms.
I hate this. I’m not good at being alone. Never have been.
Why did you have to leave? Why didn’t I stop you?
This stabbing blade in my chest never leaves. It travels with me in my sleep, sleepwalks with me through my day. It’s there when I drag myself off the floor, when I summon the energy to dress, perhaps brush my teeth . . . in every thought, every breath.
No one deserved to die that night. No one. So how is it possible that they’re all gone?
Two cars. Two accidents. Three deaths.
Who am I if I’m no one’s daughter?
No one’s girlfriend?
No one’s best friend?
No one to anyone?
Just an echo of the person I used to be, haunted by the words I didn’t say—
“Stay, Cody. Stay.”