Chapter 12
A muffled version of ABBA’s “Money, Money, Money” wakes me up the next morning. This is better than “SOS” playing on repeat yesterday when I got home, so I take it as a sign that today will be better. Or, at the very least, I won’t have another awkward encounter with my neighbor’s girlfriend.
I stare up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled crescendo as ABBA sings about living in a rich man’s world, then the song ends with a flourish.
There’s a moment of silence when all I can hear is a distant siren echoing down the narrow street outside my window.
I close my eyes, letting myself enjoy it.
This is the closest I’ve had to peace in days.
Maybe it will last a few minutes, maybe even until I make myself some tea.
But just as soon as the thought materializes, the opening chords of “Money, Money, Money” reverberate through the floorboards again.
When the song hits its second verse, I shuffle out of bed and head toward the bathroom. If I shut the door and turn on the shower, I can almost pretend I can’t hear it.
At least the blaring chorus of “SOS” last night had masked any possibility of hearing Ben and his girlfriend return to his apartment. It hadn’t stopped me from occasionally peeking through my peephole to check, though.
But what had I been hoping to see, exactly? Did I want to catch a glimpse of them together? Absolutely not. But still…
I stare at my reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink as the shower heats up.
My hair is still a disaster, only made worse by whatever position I was sleeping in last night.
Half of my bangs are literally standing straight upward.
But I don’t attempt to fix it; I just step under the hot spray and close my eyes.
I don’t know why I’m surprised Ben has a girlfriend.
Of course he does. I would be more surprised if he were single, disappointed in every woman in Boston for their lack of effort and good taste.
But that doesn’t change the fact that he has someone—a lobster to be paired with—while I decidedly do not.
I’m on my own, facing another day with nothing but a broken brain and a shoebox full of memories disguised as junk.
When I’m done in the shower, I wrap myself up in my bathrobe and wander out into the living room to where the box still sits on the sofa, with the carefully itemized list of its contents on top of it.
I’ve crossed off one: the Brattle Book Shop receipt.
Next on the list is the napkin for a café called Strange Brew with the number 304 written on the top corner.
I flip open my phone and type the name into the small browser. A moment later, the results pop up, but I can barely read the small text, let alone the map on the pixelated screen. I give up, falling into the sofa cushions with a groan.
I can’t go anywhere without a functioning Maps app. And for that, I need to find an Apple Store and get my phone fixed. But to do that, I need a functioning Maps app. It’s the world’s most inane paradox.
Maybe I could just hail a cab and tell the driver to take me to an Apple Store? That wouldn’t be too crazy, right? Of course, a cab would require payment and I’m still not sure how much I have in my bank account…
I straighten as inspiration hits, clearing the confusion in my head.
That’s it: the bank. I swear I saw a branch when I went back and forth to the hospital a few days ago.
All I had to do was find one, go in, and explain my predicament.
By the end of the day, I could have access to my account, a statement that tells me where any potential paychecks came from, maybe even some cash in hand for a cab to take me anywhere I want to go.
That’s it. All I have to do is find my bank. I can do this on my own, right? At the very least, I can try.
I put on my coat and knit hat, and leave my apartment a half hour later with my burner phone in hand.
This is fine, I think as I start down the stairs. You don’t need help. You used to navigate the 101 every day during rush hour! You can find one bank branch in Boston.
The pep talk must be working, because when I get to the second floor and hear the sound of “Mamma Mia” echoing off the cement walls, I pause.
And if I can conquer the 101 and venture out into a city I don’t remember to find a bank, then I should be able to knock on my neighbor’s door and ask them to turn down their music. Right?
I step into the second-floor hallway. Even if I didn’t know apartment 2A was directly below mine, the music blaring from behind its brown door is a dead giveaway.
The song is in the middle of its second verse when I knock.
A moment passes, and I begin to think that no one is even home, when the door swings open.
A man stands on the threshold in a bathrobe and sweatpants, and it takes me longer than it should to recognize him—he’s the same man from the lobby who I tried to introduce myself to when I arrived home from the hospital.
He’s taller than I remember, and there’s a towel wrapped around his head now.
His eyes, ringed with the remnants of yesterday’s mascara, take me in without a word.
“Hi,” I begin, struggling to keep my voice cheerful as I practically yell over the music. “Do you remember me? We met downstairs last week. I’m Marnie.”
He leans his shoulder against the doorframe and tilts his head, like he might be trying to remember, but also isn’t trying that hard, either. Behind him, the refrain of “Mamma Mia” echoes down the hall.
“Sorry to bother you,” I continue. “It’s just… I live in the apartment above yours.”
He waits, and I wonder if he honestly needs this spelled out for him.
“And I’ve noticed you listen to a lot of ABBA?” I have no idea why I phrase this like a question.
“I’m not listening to ABBA,” he replies flatly.
I blink. “Are you serious?”
He stares back, his expression blank as the song reaches its crescendo.
“Okay,” I say, working hard to keep my approach diplomatic. “Well, whatever it is that I’m hearing right now, it’s a little loud, don’t you think?”
“Do you have something against music?”
“No, I love music,” I reply assuredly. “When I was growing up, my grandmother had a huge record collection and used to go through different phases where she would play the same album over and over. Not ABBA, but lots of other stuff from the seventies and eighties. Kate Bush and Joni Mitchell and Fleetwood Mac…”
My breath catches on the memory—at my grandmother’s funeral, when her only two requests were that no one wear black, and that we play “Gypsy” while her ashes were scattered along the beach. The memory is so potent and unexpected that my eyes begin to tear.
My neighbor only stares at me, his confusion growing.
“She really loved Stevie Nicks,” I say. My smile suddenly hurts to maintain. “You know the song ‘Gypsy’? That was her favorite. It was on the album Mirage, although I think a lot of people assume it came out earlier—”
He closes the door in my face before I can finish. My expression wilts as I hear the lock slide into place only a moment before the opening notes to “Mamma Mia” fill the hall again, just a touch louder than before.
Right now, I almost miss the 101.
I try to gather the crumbs of my confidence as I continue down to the lobby, but give up as soon as I open the front door and step out onto the street.
There’s a row of cars in front of the building, all beeping at a moving truck at the end of the block with its hazards on.
A few drivers are hanging out of their windows yelling—at the movers, at each other, at random pedestrians walking by—and for a split second, I consider turning around and going back inside.
You can do this, I repeat. Then I turn to start down the street, and slam right into a man walking with two bags of groceries.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yells as he continues forward.
I smile and apologize, but really, I want to panic. Every fiber of my body is telling me I should and that makes me so angry, so unbelievably disappointed in myself that I want to scream. Instead, I keep my head down and march forward.
By the time I make it to the end of the block, it’s clear the neighborhood isn’t as easy to maneuver without Ben.
The streets are clogged with traffic, and the sidewalks are so crowded I have to wait at the corner to let a tour group pass by.
It’s only after they do that I realize I didn’t keep track of which direction I was going.
I continue forward, undaunted, and turn left.
Then right. Then another left, I think. Or was it another right?
Trying to navigate back to where I’ve just been suddenly feels like an impossible puzzle in my broken brain.
If I went left, then it’s a right, but at the intersection?
“Move, motherfucker!” a driver bellows at a van double-parked ahead.
I keep walking forward, barely avoiding a group of college students waiting outside another bakery.
When I look up again, I’m on a street that I’ve definitely never been down before.
I don’t remember passing the wine shop on the corner, or the restaurant across the street called Capobianco’s with a ham leg hanging in the window.
The café next to it doesn’t look familiar, either.
I squint against the sun, trying to read the wooden sign above the door. When I finally do, my pulse soars.
Strange Brew. The café from the napkin in my memory box, the one with the number 304 written on one side.
It feels impossible. Miraculous, even. The first scrap of magic in what feels like ages. I’ve never been so thrilled to mess up so thoroughly.
I barely remember to look both ways as I cross the street and push open the door. The smell of coffee beans greets me, the spurting and hissing of an espresso machine. Sunlight pours through the front windows, landing on the raw brick walls and long wooden counter.