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“Give her a break. She was at school all day, Ben.”
“She could have packed last night. She could have packed before she went to school. This is fucking ridiculous.” With a humph, he steps past me, brushing past my arm for Sienna’s bedroom door and knocks. “Come on, Sienna,” he barks through the door, “let’s go.”
“Geez, Dad,” Sienna says, opening the door with her duffel bag over a shoulder, “relax. Is the apartment on fire or something?” I hold back a smile and then I watch out the window as they leave, seeing how Ben walks two steps ahead of Sienna to the car, and I think how much I hate the time she’s away from me, when I’m not there to keep her happy and safe.
When they’re gone, I find a bottle of wine and an empty glass, carry them and my laptop to the sofa. I give myself a generous pour and then sip from the glass as I go to Facebook to see if Nat has replied, and she has.
I lied to you.
That’s all it says, four little words sent less than ten minutes ago.
When? I type back, hoping she’s still online.
She is, because her reply is immediate. My friend wasn’t sick the other night. I didn’t leave to bring her dinner.
The vagueness of her statement practically begs me to ask. Why did you leave?
Declan was there. I saw him in the window. He was watching me.
I draw in a breath. Those words—He was watching me—undo me, and I go cold at reading them, my glass of wine suspended in my hand midair. I knew someone was there that night. I’d seen the dark shape in the glass and saw his breath on the window. But still, reading her words, having her confirm what I thought, sends gooseflesh rising up my arms.
The L draws near. I feel the vibration of the earth first before I even hear the train coming. A second later, my eyes go to the window and there it is: a smear of light appearing out of the darkness, crossing over the street before rolling past the apartment. The floodlit train passes by too fast for me to see the faces of people inside but I wonder if, sitting stagnant in my apartment with the lights on and the curtains open, riders see me. I rise from the sofa. I go to the window, grabbing for the dark flax curtain panels to close them.
I sit back on the sofa. Did you make it home okay? I type.
One and then two minutes pass, but she doesn’t answer. I think that maybe she’s gone, that she’s logged off Facebook, but the little green dot beside her image tells me she’s still active.
Are you okay, Nat?
I don’t know, she types then, and I practically hear the hesitation, the unease and fear through the computer screen.
Where are you?
I’m fine, she says in lieu of telling me where she is.
Please tell me where you are.
She types back that she’s on Broadway, just outside some stand-up comedy club, and I wonder why, if something has happened so that she can’t go home.
I ask her for the intersection or the address, which she is reluctant to give because she doesn’t want to inconvenience me. You don’t need to come, she says. Really. I’m okay.
I’m coming, I say with some finality, feeling grateful that Sienna is with Ben tonight so I can help. I’m already on my way, I add because if I am, then she can’t try and talk me out of coming. I google stand-up comedy clubs on Broadway and find one, and then I slip into my coat and hat and leave, hurrying out of the building and down the street to Sheridan, where I’ll have more luck finding a cab. It takes a few minutes but eventually one comes and, when it does, I slide into the back seat, giving the driver the address. Traffic is heavy tonight. It backs up at intersections, creating a jam. I get frustrated, checking Facebook to see if Nat has messaged me again, but she hasn’t. From my apartment, it was just over a mile to get to her and, in retrospect, I should have walked because I’m not saving any time in a cab.
“Just drop me off here,” I say to the driver somewhere before Belmont, because I don’t have the patience to wait for the light ahead of us to turn green. I pay him and slip out, looking quickly before crossing the street. I jog the rest of the way down Broadway, searching for Nat as I approach the comedy club, where there is a line of people waiting to get inside.
I don’t see her at first. I think she’s gone, that she left.
But then I find her. She’s not at the comedy club. She’s two doors down, standing in the recessed entry of some shoe repair shop, which is closed. The entry is deep and there is a red awning that provides some shelter from the elements, but not enough to keep the cold entirely out. Nat looks freezing, pressed into a corner to avoid the wind, her arms folded around her. Behind her the store is dark, though neon signs in the window emblazon her face in hot pink, bright white and a vivid orange.
I try to keep my face neutral when I see her, to be nonreactive.
I try to keep the shock and horror at bay. I tell myself the neon lights make it look worse than it really is, but I’m not sure they do.
“Nat,” I breathe, and her eyes rise to mine. Her bottom lip is swollen to twice its size. This didn’t just happen because a cut on the lip has scabbed over, but it happened recently. There is a swollen lump on her cheekbone that’s purple and raw. “What happened?” I ask, my voice soft, slow and sedate as I step forward, slipping into the recessed entry with her.
There are tears in her eyes. “I did something stupid,” she says.
“What?” I ask, but I regret it almost immediately, because what I should have said was no—No you didn’t do anything stupid—because victims of abuse always blame themselves for what happened, but nothing she did is deserving of this.
