Chapter 7
Sunday 7:37 p.m.
I pick up a stack of letters from my mailbox and page through them, checking for anything important. All of them are invoices, except one. A Christmas card.
I turn it around to read it.
“Let all your dreams come true. Till soon! XX, Danny”
Danny?
Till soon?
In which dimension does he actually plan to meet me, I wonder.
I shrug and put the card at the back of the pile of envelopes I hold in my hand, when I hear steps coming down the stairs: two feet and one wooden cane, its rubbery sole peeled off. I know this sound.
Mrs. Gibson.
She appears at the bottom of the staircase, hair died black, pink lipstick—I’ve never seen her without—and warm brown eyes.
“Mrs. Gibson, why are you on your feet already? Shouldn’t you rest for another week?”
“Bah!” she says, waving her stick in the air. “If I listen to everything the doctors say, I’d be dead.”
I laugh at that.
She totters over to me and then wraps her arm around my elbow. Then she tries to reach her mailbox with a key, but she’s an inch too small to manage.
Seems like I’m not the only oddball checking her mail on Sunday evening. “Do you want me to grab your mail, Mrs. Gibson?”
“Oh, would you? I can’t reach it anymore! I think they cut away a few vertebrae when they did the surgery.”
I have to laugh again. “Well, at least you can walk now,” I say as I open the mailbox and pick up her mail. “Isn’t that right?”
“That’s very true, Jane. Very true, indeed. You know, Josef normally collects our mail, but he’s visiting his brother in Arlington.”
I close the mailbox door and lock it, then give the key and the letters to Mrs. Gibson. “And he left you to fend on your own? After the surgery?” I’m only halfway joking.
She waves her hand. “Oh, Jane, his brother is far worse, I’m afraid. Josef is really there to say goodbye…”
“I’m so sorry to hear that!”
“Yes, that’s life . . .” She looks down and we are silent for a moment.
Then she lifts up her head, a new energy in her voice. “Jane, have you met our new neighbor yet?”
That’s one way to change a subject. “I have.”
“Quite a handsome fellow, isn’t he?”
I nod and smile when I see him in my mind.
“A bit intimidating, though.”
I look at her. “Why do you say that? He seems very decent.”
She nods. “Yes, yes . . . very decent. Very polite. But there is something else. Something he’s hiding . . .”
“Mrs. Gibson, aren’t we all hiding something?”
She looks back at me and puts her palm against my cheek for a few moments, then smiles. “Well said!” she says and then pulls me along with her to walk back to the elevator. “However, his secret is deeper. I can sense it.”
She stops again and looks at me. “Keep away, Jane. I realize he is . . . what do you young people call it? Ah, yes: hot. But underneath is something else. Don’t go digging, darling, or you’ll be pulled in.”
She’s got that same tone of voice she had the time she told me that her tarot cards had foretold that my hair color would soon go white.
I take her hand and cover it with mine. “Don’t you worry about me, Mrs. Gibson. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can.” She nods as she speaks. “I’m sure you can.”
We enter the elevator. I close the gate and press number one.
“Oh, Jane, if you need to use the laundry room, you can use my time slot. I don’t have anything to wash today.”
“Oh, okay! I might do some washing then. Thanks!”
The elevator stops on the first floor and I help her out.
“I’m fine from here, Jane. Thank you. You have a nice evening, will you?”
“I will, Mrs. Gibson. You too. Get some rest.”
She lifts the hand holding her letters as a wave, then disappears into her apartment. I slide the gate closed and the elevator continues.
On the third floor, I head toward my apartment, deliberately not looking at Sam’s door as I pass. But he’s with me in my mind. I can see all the details of his face. And that scares me.
I met him only yesterday, but I can’t seem to stop thinking about him, remembering every line of his face.
That’s not me. I’m not like this.
I sigh heavily. I need to get a grip.
I open my door but then look back to his, thinking.
Then I push the door closed with my back, old hinges squeaking in protest.
I head to the bathroom and realize my laundry basket is full. I’m so glad I have a chance to do the washing already now instead of Thursdays, as usual. I take off my work clothes and push them into the basket, then change into my comfy, baggy clothes, pull my hair up in a messy bun and put on my bunny slippers. Then I pick up the laundry basket and head downstairs.
The basement hallway is dark. I rest the basket on my hip, tipping my body sideways to free my hand so I can turn on the light switch. Some places have an automatic light, but not this old building.
The laundry room, like the basement hallway, is just bare concrete. I look around the room. If I had some free time on my hands, I’d do some painting, make it look nicer, friendlier.
I put the basket on the tumble dryer and start piling clothes into the washing machine standing next to it.
“Good evening, neighbor!”
I turn around.
My heartbeat instantly spikes. “Oh! Hi, Sam!”
He’s holding a basket in his hands. He has a loose T-shirt on, his short sleeves showing the lower part of his biceps, and I can’t help but notice how defined and beautiful they are. His loose jeans reach the ground, the broken stitches sweeping the floor as he walks. He’s barefoot.
I look back up.
And simply beautiful.
“Did you just start with the washing?” he asks.
“Yes. But you can leave your basket here. I can load it up when I transfer mine into the dryer, if you want.”
“No, it’s fine, thank you. I’ll come back down later. Can you just tell me—how’s the laundry schedule arranged in this building?”
I set the liquid detergent cup to the side and walk to the door. “It’s written here, see?”
I push the door closed so we can see the back side, where there’s a sheet of paper with a list of tenants and the schedule for the next few months.
I notice then that there’s no empty spot anywhere. His apartment has been vacant for so long that the laundry schedule got arranged only for the people living here, leaving no empty spot for a newcomer.
“Hmm, there’s a problem.” I put a finger to my mouth. “You know, you probably need to talk to Mr. Kublabicz, the janitor. He needs to make a new list because . . .” I turn to him—and stop.
He moved closer to see the list better, but now there are only a few inches between us.
My rib cage suddenly feels smaller, and someone must have turned on the extra heating in the room because I’m having hot flashes.
I take a deep breath and step back, bringing his scent with me and it seductively lingers around me. It’s so captivating that I want to take a step closer and smell him again. But I refrain.
What was I saying? “The new list, for, um, new tenants . . .”
“Got it.” He nods and moves back as well. “All clear. I’ll talk to the janitor.”
I breathe out, slightly dizzy. The extra space he created just now, however, helps me engage my brain again. “But you’re very welcome to use my spot next Thursday . . . if you wish.”
“Don’t you need to use it?”
“Well, I’m using the time from Mrs. Gibson now.” I point with my finger to the name on the list. “I won’t need it again this week.”
He doesn’t look at the list but stays focused on me. “Thursday works well. I appreciate it.”
I feel self-conscious when he looks at me like that. And I hate that I changed my clothes. Oversized T-shirt and bunny slippers!
Perfect—just perfect!
I’m feverishly trying to think if there was anything unusual the last time I looked at my face in the mirror. Something between my teeth, black under the eyes, smeared lipstick . . . ?
I look away from his piercing gaze and go back to the washing machine, my breaths shallow. I pour in the liquid detergent and start the program, then lean on the machine for support.
Jane, you’re going out of your mind! What’s happening to you?
Calm. Down.
“Are you okay?” Sam asks and lightly touches my shoulder, but even this brief contact spreads through me like concentric ripples made when a stone is cast into the calm surface of a pond.
“Have you eaten properly today?” he asks, his voice a bit stern.
I look up at him. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. That’s what’s wrong with me! I’m simply hungry! “No, actually, I haven’t!”
I smile, enormously happy that it’s something logical, something that makes sense, and not just—him.
Then, before I manage to stop myself, I say, “Do you want to grab something to eat?”