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Just hearing Josh utterpartymakes my pulse take off, and I have to fake a smile in response.
“Wow.”
“Wow, indeed. I won’t hold you up any longer. Thanks for coming by, and I’ll see you Tuesday at eleven?”
He walks me to the door, where I say goodbye to him and give a little wave to Nell, who doesn’t look up from her computer.
As I walk home from the gallery, my eyes watering a little from the crisp autumn air, I start to think more about the party, envisioning the sheer terror of being in a room packed with people. Even if I don’t have to make a speech, I’ll be expected to mingle and chitchat, to answer questions and comment articulately about my work. The last time I attended a cocktail party, which must have been over four years ago, my mouth turned so dry that every time I parted my lips, it felt like two pieces of Velcro being pulled apart.
But just as I’m about to start hyperventilating, I hear my phone ping with a text, and it’s Josh saying he absolutely loves the new collage. Though he’s obviously a killer salesman, his words seem sincere, and so did the comments he made about my art back inthe gallery. As I continue my trek home, I can’t keep a smile from my face, one seemingly born from a sudden rush of joy. Well, no, probably not joy, because I cut that emotion off at the legs years ago, but something close to it. When I started to make collages, it was initially to help dig myself out of a scary hole, because, like a line in a poem I once read, I’d “simply had enough of drowning.” But in time I began to entertain the fantasy I’d had in my head when I set off to grad school, that I could one day make my living as an artist.
What if I really can? Maybe a bunch of my collages will sell next week, which will lead to future shows, and additional sales, and other shows after that.
I’ve flipped a switch to thinking positively, I realize, and I try to stay with it, fighting off any doubts before they gain more ground.
If only I could take the same approach with the other parts of my life, bring that same sense of hopefulness to them. I’ve been warning myself since I left Scarsdale that the inheritance from Christopher Whaley might be a bizarre mix-up, but it can’t be a mistake, can it? He knew me, after all, and he was in his right mind when he decided to leave the trust to me. If I were smart, I’d start owning it. I’d even call the Dobson Fertility Clinic and schedule a full exam, the next step in the process on the way to becoming a parent.
But it’s hard to own the idea of me as a newly minted millionaire, and mother-to-be, when I don’t understand why it’s happening. Could C.J. have become smitten with me that night at the Kensington and have spent the next twelve years pining for me? I shake my head. It seems unlikely that someone as confident as he was would have let strong feelings go unspoken all that time.
About a few blocks from my building, I dart into the local supermarket and pick up milk, a box of dried macaroni, and a slab of cheddar. I can’t cook most things to save my life, but I make a decent mac and cheese, and I’m craving something carb-heavy and comforting given the coolness of the night. I grab a few more thingsI need for my cupboards, as well as a couple of cans of premium cat food, the kind Tuna goes apeshit crazy for.
When I let myself into my apartment a few minutes later, it’s after six, and I’m surprised to see that Tuna isn’t on her perch on the back of the couch, waiting for her evening meal. Maybe she’s sulking on the bed because I’ve been gone for so many hours. I give the plastic bag a couple of shakes, making a sound that generally piques her curiosity, but to my surprise, she doesn’t come running. She mustreallybe annoyed.
I shrug off my coat, put away the groceries, and dump the cat food into Tuna’s bowl.
“Hey, Tuna,” I call out. “Come on, I’ve got a surprise.”
Still no sign of her. I trudge toward the bedroom, for the first time feeling how tense my muscles are from the nonstop stress of the day, but Tuna’s not curled up on top of my duvet.
Nor does she seem to be anywhere else in the bedroom.
I head back to the living room and glance around again, also checking the two chairs tucked under the small dining table because she sometimes likes to curl up on the rattan seats. But there’s no sign of her.
“Tuna,” I call, louder this time.
I wait for her to crawl out from under the couch or from a hiding spot in the corner.
My stomach clutches as it finally hits me. My cat isn’t anywhere in the apartment.
11
Now
ITELL MYSELF TO RELAX, THAT TUNA HAS TO BE HERE.
Back in the bedroom, I do a more thorough search, looking for places she might have started napping without my knowledge: under the bed, on the window ledge behind the bamboo shade, and inside the closet. I check the bathroom, too, even behind the shower curtain, but still don’t find her. I return to the living room, going down on my knees to check under the couch and poking my head behind the armchair and small bookcase.
By now I’m starting to worry, but I remind myself that every window in the apartment is shut and locked, so there’s no way Tuna could have gotten out. She’s probably playing an annoying game of wits with me.
And then, with my stomach sinking, I flash back to the hectic morning, when in a rush to leave, I’d stupidly left my phone tethered to its charger on the kitchen counter. I’d dashed back into the apartment to grab it, leaving the door to the hall ajar for several seconds, which means a fast-moving cat could have darted out when my back was to her.
Oh god. The cat barely seems to tolerate me, but I can’t stand the thought of her out on her own—lost, scared, hungry, regretting her impulsive dash out the door. And to make matters worse, she doesn’t have her collar on, since I only attach it when I’m taking her to the vet.
I stop and think for a moment. Though Tuna has managed to flee the apartment, the door to the vestibule on the ground floor of our building is always locked, and I can’t imagine any of the other tenants letting her out onto the street. It’s more than possible that she’s still in the building somewhere, hiding in a corner of a hallway or having been welcomed in by a kindly neighbor. After locking up my apartment, I start by checking the corners on each floor, hoping Tuna is huddled in one of them. But still no sign of her.
I return to my apartment just long enough to grab my phone, and then, beginning on the sixth floor, I rap on each of the three doors, calling out, “Hi, this is Skyler Moore, one of your neighbors from the fourth floor, can I speak to you?” About half the tenants seem to be home and open their doors with the chains on, just wide enough to reveal half their faces and a whiff of the beef tacos or tom yum goong they’ve ordered in for dinner.
“No, sorry,” they all say, some without even glancing at the photo I show them on my phone. After canvassing the whole building without any luck, I return to my floor, feeling frantic but unsure what else to do. Could Tuna be out on the street somewhere? The thought is crushing.
