My sandwich tastes like nothing, and I toss the rest in the trash and get up from the table. What was it the man at the agency recommended—going for a walk?
I pull on a pair of worn pants, a soft long-sleeved top, and a down vest. Then I’m suddenly standing outside the house for the first time in several days, and I’m looking around. There’s not a person in sight. The shared green space is empty, the town houses curve around its periphery like one long contiguous body composed of huddled, slumbering house creatures. I slowly make my way along the path that cuts across the grass. I should head left toward the street. There’s no reason to keep going straight, past the bushes and trash cans. And yet, that’s what I do.
Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the house across from mine. There’s a black sign attached at eye level right beside the front door: THE STORMS.
I can’t explain what happens next, only know that suddenly I’ve opened a search page on my phone and entered the address. It only takes a second for the results to appear. There are three people listed at this address, Philip, Veronica, and Leo Storm. In other words, there’s a child in the household, a son. I nod to myself, recalling that I’ve seen a boy walking toward the house a few times. I’d guess him to be about twelve years old. I noticed him because the backpack he wore over his narrow shoulders looked so heavy and unwieldy.
I do a new search for Philip Storm. At the top of the search results, there’s a link to a corporate law firm’s sober-looking home page. I click on “Meet Our Team,” and a photo of the man in the house across from me pops up. Under his picture, it says “Attorney” and “Partner.” I’m about to do yet another search, this time for Veronica Storm, when I hear a scraping sound somewhere very nearby. I stiffen and realize that I’m no longer alone. Someone is standing behind me.
I turn around and am looking into the eyes of an elderly woman with a hunched back. I can’t recall having seen her before, but she’s wearing what looks like a bathrobe, so I assume she’s actually one of my neighbors. I attempt a smile, which she does not return. Instead she studies me with suspicion and I quickly realize how close I am to the Storm family’s house and how strange it must look that I’m just standing here staring.
I open my mouth and hear myself going on and on, saying that I’ve just moved in and that I feel like there’s something familiar about the family in the house across from mine. Each word sounds more forced than the last, and before I’ve gone as far as introducing myself and shaking hands, the old woman simply turns her back to me and shuffles away to one of the houses farther down. I’m left standing there with a sense of having been caught red-handed doing something scandalous.
I glance toward my own kitchen window. I’m tempted to hurry back home, but then I remind myself what awaits me: absolutely nothing. Somehow I have to make it through the days until I get more work. I need to distract my mind and tire out my body.
I pull up the zipper on my vest and start walking.
An hour and a half later, I’m downtown. My legs are numb, and there’s a blister developing on my heel. I’m hungry, and even thirstier. There’s a bakery where I sometimes go to write. It’s cozy but a little out of the way, which means walking for another ten or fifteen minutes. I’m not sure I’m up to that. I slow my pace and stop in front of a high-rise. Still trying to make up my mind, I lift my face to take in the façade in front of me. That’s when I see it—the sign bearing the name of a familiar company, the name of a law firm: Philip Storm’s office.
9
Incredulously I stare at the sign bearing the company name. Of all the intersections in the city, how did I end up at this one? Had I remembered the address? Did I somehow subconsciously navigate my way here? And if so, why?
I look around, spot a café across the street, and realize once again how thirsty I am. Plus my legs could really use a rest. Now that I’m here, there’s not really much point in dwelling on why I came this way. I cross the street and enter the café, order chicken salad and mineral water, and sit down at one of the tables closest to the window. I should probably have settled for tap water, I think as the bubbly liquid pours out of the bottle and into the glass. I’m still living on the money from my last book, the only one of the four books I’ve written to date that became a commercial success, but my royalties will be drying up soon. And the editorial gigs don’t pay all that much. Especially when I don’t even have any to work on. I poke at the pieces of chicken and romaine with my fork, and despite having been so hungry just a minute ago, I quickly lose my appetite.
I put down my silverware, push the plate away, and lean back. This motion causes one of my chair legs to scrape loudly against the floor. A man at a table across the room looks up from his computer, and from the corner a few teenage girls giggle loudly. My cheeks flush, and suddenly I feel like everyone is staring at me. I feel transparent, as if every thought and every emotion inside me is visible.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man turn his attention back to his computer, and I regret not having brought my own computer. That’s what normal people do. They keep themselves busy, look like they’re doing something. Feeling unsettled, I drink the last of my mineral water and wonder if I would do better to walk back home or if I should maybe take the bus. But then my sister calls. She’s at work, between meetings, and is calling to talk about what we’re going to do for Papa’s birthday, which is this week already. Should we send a card or not? Papa. The muscles in my face stiffen.
Mama’s coffin was hardly in the ground before Papa met a new woman and moved north with her. In the years since then, he hasn’t shown much interest in getting together with my sister or me. When he does occasionally get in touch, it’s with a postcard depicting an active, outdoorsy life. The kind of life he’d probably always dreamed of but didn’t really have a chance to pursue with Mama. While she enjoyed her quiet life surrounded by her books, he was an active person who became restless when he had to sit for long periods.
One of his favorite sports was skiing, and I remember when I turned five or six how he taught me downhill skiing on the little neighborhood sledding hill. He set up a long line of ski poles down the side of the hill, then pulled me up to the top and let me ski down the slope over and over again. A few of the other fathers teased him, laughing at how he schlepped me up the hill again and again, but he didn’t care about that. He was tireless in his efforts.
On the phone, my sister vacillates. I listen to the various arguments for and against getting a card as my gaze drifts out the window to the intersection. I haven’t been skiing in years. I’ll probably never want to do anything that reminds me of Papa again, just as he seems content not to have been reminded of my existence any more than necessary.
I’m about to tell my sister that, as far as I’m concerned, we can skip the birthday card, when I spot a familiar face. Philip Storm steps out of his building and strides quickly down the sidewalk. My back straightens, as if on its own.
“Hey, can we talk about this later?” I say, standing up. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”
My vest is hanging over the back of my chair. I grab it and hurry out the door. My sister can’t conceal her surprise.
“In a hurry? For what?”
That’s a question I don’t care to try to answer, so I just hang up.
I cross the street and hurry after Philip Storm. Despite my stiff joints and sore muscles, I soon catch up to him. His phone is pressed to his ear as he obviously talks to someone. When he turns a corner and crosses yet another street, I do the same.