32 My knees snap and crack as I kneel to pull my hidden collection of Norquest novels from my nightstand.
How could I have been so blind? My father’s books—the ones I’ve read, at least—are the same story woven into scores of different fabrics. In Live to Die, the injured scientist who travels forward in time is trying to reach the daughter he’s never known. In Memory’s Mayhem, a blind mother struggles to find her amnesiac son who’s been kidnapped by a vengeful ex-lover. Pizutti’s Pattern is the tale of a young woman trapped in a virtual lab where reality is a web of computer-generated lies.
I flip open the cover of Solstoy’s Syllabus and stare at the dedication:
For A.N.
If a shepherd has one hundred lambs, and one wanders away and is lost, what will he do? Won’t he leave the ninety-nine others and go out into the hills to search for the lost one? And if he finds it, won’t he rejoice more over it than over the ninety-nine that didn’t wander away?
I have read this story of an Irish farmer whose greedy wife insists on genetically manipulating his flock. I have read this dedication, but I assumed the initials belonged to someone else. I thought the patter about sheep and shepherds was somehow linked to the story.
Now I understand—my father has a loving family in Europe, but I am the one-hundredth lamb!
I am the one out of reach; I am A.N. I am the missing piece in every Theodore Norquest novel.
And I am too late. My father is gravely ill, in the hospital, probably on his deathbed. Yet if I can’t go downstairs without feeling like I’m about to die, how am I supposed to go to Europe?
My elation ebbs as I lift my gaze to the window, where a dusky twilight is sinking over the Upper West Side. Lights are coming on in apartments across the horizon. As darkness approaches, hundreds of people like me are locking themselves into safe places to await the coming night.
I breathe deeply as the brooding sorrow pressing on my shoulders spawns and spreads until it mingles with the million other sorrows emanating from these glass and concrete towers. This city is home to millions who barricade themselves behind security guards and triple deadbolt locks—who am I to think I’m special? How can I possibly defeat my demons when I’m surrounded by so many others who live in fear?
My thoughts drift toward the woman in the glass penthouse. She is lovelier than I am, younger, and more graceful. She has probably had zillions of opportunities I’ve never encountered, yet she has chosen to sell herself to high-paying weasels.
My mother possessed the beauty, strength, and courage of ten women, but now I see that none of those qualities brought her happiness or peace. She demanded loyalty and service from everyone in her circle, including me and Clara, but I’m not sure she ever felt satisfied. Not even the Wentworth fortune could sate her appetite for pleasure and power. If she couldn’t find joy . . . how can I, her shoddy shadow, ever hope to claim it?
Holding my breath, I stand perfectly still and hear my heart break. It is a sharp, swift sound, like the cracking of a pencil, and after an instant of blinding pain, something within me gives way.
Life has become too painful. I surrender; I’m finished. If my father is on his deathbed, perhaps we can be united in the next life, if such a thing exists. He has faith—it shines through his stories. Perhaps his faith will bring us together.
Somehow I find the energy to stagger toward the door . . . and the stairs.
Wrapped in a cocoon of anguish, I hold the edges of my sweater together at my neck and cross the pebbled rooftop. The neighboring buildings loom over me, their rooftops rimmed with the first gray tatters of dusk. A full moon has moved into the eastern sky, vying with the light from apartment windows.
I’ve come to the roof before, but this time death is more than a distant possibility—now the Reaper is beckoning, promising peace. His lips move without sound, but I can hear his rasp in the wind: Come. Be at rest.
I’m almost ready to accept his invitation. There’s a lot I still don’t understand about my life—I don’t know why my mother taught me to hate my father; I don’t understand why Clara would remain a slave to Mother’s dominance even after her death. I think I would have liked to know Theodore Norquest—if I’d been born a stronger person, I could have walked out of my apartment, hailed a cab for LaGuardia, and purchased a ticket to London; perhaps we could have established a relationship.
But someone once said that the tragedy of life lies in the difference between the person we are and the person we were meant to be. I never intended to be the woman I am. I didn’t know I’d have to deal with Mother’s dementia or my own agoraphobia. But sometimes life spins out of control, and when it does, maybe it’s useless to resist.
With a quick step I move over the roof of my own apartment, then turn at the southwest corner and walk to Clara’s bay window. Once I reach the familiar spot, I step up to the railing and grip it with both hands. The cold metal sends a shiver up my spine. The wind whistles, howling like the demons on the plain of Aragon, but now I know Lord John is not waiting to lead me into his castle. At least not in this life. Maybe in the next. Or maybe not at all.
I lift my eyes to the sky, now streaked with color. Against this tapestry of living light, the angles of the neighboring buildings look like jigsawed pieces of a puzzle. Random lights twinkle within those depths, and soon anyone looking out will not be able to see me through the encroaching darkness . . . so perhaps I should wait until sunset before beginning the awkward business of climbing over this rail and dropping to the pavement below.
Darkness would be a mercy to anyone who might be watching. I’d hate to be the cause of some innocent child’s nightmares.
My heart thumps steadily; my mind is clear and settled. Somehow I manage a weak laugh. It’s almost funny—every panic attack left me feeling like I was going to die. Now that I fully intend to take my life, I’ve been overpowered by the strange drug of calm.
My gaze slides over the building across the street, then rises to the penthouse apartment. The golden-haired princess is standing at the glass door leading to her terrace, arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes staring moodily ahead. What is she thinking? Is she dreading her next appointment, considering a career change, or trying to decide if she should color her hair?
A half-smile creeps across my lips. This woman doesn’t know I exist—doesn’t know we are connected by isolation—yet the sight of her sends a tendril of contentment through me. I’m suddenly grateful she has decided to stop and look out her window. I need the sight of a fellow rooftop dweller to bolster my courage as I say farewell. The memory of her pain gives me the courage to climb up on the rail and sit for one more moment.
Balanced on the metal bar, I study my neighbor. I am memorizing the color of her hair when she lifts her chin. A tingle runs up my spine as our eyes meet. Her expression doesn’t change for a moment, then shock flickers over her face like summer lightning.
Our gazes lock. I wait, half expecting her to break contact and run for a phone, but she does not look away. Her lips part; her eyes widen.
I am watching her, wondering if she will urge me to jump and end my portion of our shared pain, when a now-familiar voice speaks from behind me: You were created for more than this.
On the off chance that my father has materialized on the rooftop, I turn my head slightly. “I don’t understand.”
Speak to Samuel.
More surprised than frightened, I turn to look behind me. Carefully, I survey the rooftop—I am still alone, sharing the square space with only a rusty chair, a few broken pots, and a pair of pigeons.
But the door, which I did not prop open, is opening.
“Hello?” This voice is less authoritative, more human, and decidedly anxious. “Aurora, are you up here?”
A figure intrudes on my field of vision; after an instant of squinting I recognize Phil. I see him tense when he spots me on the rail. Before I can call out, he is sprinting toward me.
The sight of him and the vibrant urgency of my father’s voice send a rush of longing through my veins, and suddenly I don’t want to answer death’s summons, I don’t want to disappear, I don’t want oblivion.
I turn and clamber to the safety of the solid rooftop, and Phil is there, pulling me away from the edge with a rough grip.
“Rosie, are you crazy?”
I have never seen him be anything but gentle, but his frantic efforts slam my wrist against the wall and I wince. “What are you doing?” I yell over the wind.
“That’s what I should be asking you!”
I’m safe in his arms, but he glares down at me. “Aurora, I need to know—do I need to take you to the hospital?”
“I don’t see why you should.”
“But . . . what were you thinking?”
A dim section of my mind—one not occupied with physical pain or suicidal thoughts—speculates that the truth will not serve at this moment. “I was . . . watching a friend.” I gesture toward the penthouse across the street.
Phil’s eyes fill with the dullness of disbelief, but he turns to look. I follow his gaze, but the woman has left her terrace and disappeared into the depths of her glass tower. Either she has gone to call 911 . . . or she has indulged in disconnection, a state of mind endemic among New Yorkers.
Phil’s stare drills into me. “I’m not playing games, Aurora. I want you to give me straight answers.”
I tilt my head as his words sink through my confusion. “How’d you know I was here?”
“You left your apartment door open and you weren’t on the stairs. Where else were you going to go?”
I shrug.
“Who’s up here with you?”
“No one.”
“Don’t play games with me now, Rosie. I heard him.”
A sense of unreality settles over me. “You heard someone?”
“As I came up the stairs, I heard a man’s voice.”
“Do you remember what he said?”
The corner of his mouth twists with exasperation. “I’m not kidding, Aurora. What happened? Did you send the guy down the fire escape or something?”
“There is no fire escape . . . and I’m not kidding. But it’s important, Phil—what did you hear?”
He stares at me a moment, his jaw clenching, then he closes his eyes and shakes his head slightly. “Something about Samuel. That’s all I remember.”
I press my hand to his chest as the world goes soft all at once.
“Is the coffee all right?”
“It’s fine.”
“Good.” Phil sinks to the edge of the table in front of the love seat where I have curled with a mug between my chilled fingers. The fragrant brew has warmed my body but failed to alleviate the chill that has settled around my bones.
“Let’s start at the beginning.” Phil lifts his own steaming cup. “You said you heard something on television about your father.”
“An interview. He said he wrote another book, a novel outside his genre. And I’ve read it.”
Phil sips his coffee, then nods. “Okay, I suppose I can see why your father might try to reach out through a book—after all, he’s a writer; it’s what he does. But you have to admit that’s a long shot.”
“That’s why it doesn’t make sense. If he really wanted to reach me, why didn’t he call or write?”
Phil doesn’t answer for a long moment. “Norquest is in the hospital now?”
I nod as unexpected tears blur my vision. “That’s what the woman said. I got the impression he’s about to die. That’s why they were airing the footage of his interview.”
“So you went up to the roof . . . why?”
I swallow hard, feeling my cheeks blaze. “Because I didn’t have any other options. My father tried to reach me. I think you were right, I think Mother and Clara lied, but what can I do about that now? He’s dying, I can’t leave, so I . . . gave up.”
He looks at me, his eyes soft with pain. “You do know suicide is not the answer, don’t you?”
“I . . . don’t know what I know. I only know I can’t go on like this. I was hoping to begin a new life, but how can I do that now? Clara’s gone, and the one thing I wanted is slipping away . . .”
The empty air between us vibrates; the silence fills with dread. When I look at Phil, his long face and blue eyes are filled with beaten sadness, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. “Maybe not,” he says. “Maybe there’s hope.”
“You mean . . . Samuel?”
One corner of Phil’s mouth twists, and in that instant I realize I have not responded with the answer he wanted. He is hoping I’d find a reason for living in him. But I can’t contemplate a love life now. If I can’t make myself happy, how could I possibly bring happiness to someone else?
Unable to stand the wounded look in his eye, I lower my gaze.
“Why not?” he says, glibly overlooking the injury I’ve inflicted. “Maybe Samuel holds all the answers.”
“That’s crazy.” I am so burdened by guilt I can barely lift my head. “Besides, I thought we agreed I’ve been hearing things.”
“I heard it, too.”
“It could have been someone’s radio or television caught on a wind or something. You never know what can happen in these tall buildings.”
He turns the cup in his hand, then looks at me. “Are you familiar with the story of the prophet Samuel?”
I make a face. “Was he like Nostradamus?”
Phil laughs. “No, Samuel was a prophet of Israel. But when he was a child, a voice woke him in the night; someone called his name. He assumed it was Eli, the old priest who acted as his mentor, but when he reached Eli’s bed, the old man insisted he hadn’t called.”
Though the hair at the back of my neck is rising with premonition, I don’t interrupt.
“Twice more Samuel was awakened by the voice, and twice more Eli insisted he didn’t call. By the third time, Eli realized something else—voices in the night don’t have to have reasonable explanations. Though we can’t comprehend everything about God, we can apprehend things that lie outside the realm of natural law. So Eli told Samuel to go back to bed, but if the voice called again, to say, ‘Yes, your servant is listening.’”
Cold panic sprouts somewhere between my shoulder blades and prickles down my backbone.
“I think that’s the issue.” Phil meets my gaze. “Someone has been speaking to you, Aurora—have you been listening?”
The question hangs between us, pregnant with possibilities. “It’s my father,” I tell him. “I heard him on the television. I’d swear it was the same voice.”
Phil strokes his chin. “Your father is talented, but I don’t think he’s mastered transatlantic ventriloquism.”
“Then who?”
“Maybe . . . God?”
“You think God has been speaking to me? Whatever for?”
Phil tilts his head and smiles. “I think he wants to speak to everyone. With most people, though, he tends to use more conventional means of communication.”
I push at my heavy bangs. “I don’t get any of this. Why would God—the master of the universe, right?—why would he give a flip about me?”
“God loves everyone, Aurora; we’re all created in his image. And I’ve heard that people tend to view God in the same way they view their fathers. You’ve never thought much about your father, so you’ve never thought much about God.”
“I’ve thought about my father.” My mind drifts back to nights alone in my bed, when I closed my eyes and pretended to go for long walks on my dad’s arm. “In secret.”
“Ah.” Phil shrugs. “But now your views of your father are softening . . . and so are your views of God. Or maybe God has orchestrated everything because he knows your views of God and your father are all mixed up—”
“That’s quite enough, Dr. Shrink,” I snap. “What you’re saying makes no sense at all.”
“Doesn’t it?” Phil folds his arms and grins. “What’d the voice say tonight?”
“He told me to speak to Samuel. I don’t even know any Samuels.”
We are interrupted by a buzz at the door. I glance at the clock—seven fifteen—then frown at Phil. “I’m not expecting anyone.”
“I’ll get it.”
My heart begins to pound in honest fear as he strides to the door. What if the penthouse woman called the police? They could be outside now, ready to take me away. A knot of apprehension rises in my throat, making it difficult to breathe or swallow . . .
I rise and tiptoe to the doorway, then peek around the wall. The man at the door is wearing a uniform, but it’s red, not blue.
“Clarence.” Sighing, I go to the door, where the night doorman stands with his arms filled with mail.
“Sorry to bother you, Ms. Norquest.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “But Mrs. Bellingham didn’t pick up your mail today, so I thought I’d better bring it up.”
Startled by the bundle in his arms, I step forward. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about mail today.”
Phil leans on the door, studying the man in uniform, then he thrusts out his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Phil Cannon of 15B.”
The man grins. “I didn’t think I’d seen you yet, Mr. Cannon. I come on at seven, so it takes me a while to meet most of the new folks.”
“Especially those who don’t go out much.” Phil’s shy grimace acknowledges his lackluster nightlife. “Has anyone ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to the doorman who works mornings?”
A grin overtakes Clarence’s features. “Yes, sir. And that’s natural, sir, because Mr. Booker is my father.”
“Really!”
“Yes, sir. He’s been on the job since ’57, and I came on in ’81. Seems like someone from my family has always worked at the Westbury Arms.”
Phil stares at the doorman for a moment, then presses a finger to his lips. “Clarence—would you happen to know anyone in the building named Samuel?”
Clarence nods. “Yes, sir. No tenants, sir, but that’s my father’s given name. Samuel Booker.”
Phil tosses me a pointed look, then grins at the doorman. “Will he be in tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir. He comes on at six. He works six to one, then he takes off—short hours, you see, on account of his age. My son Thomas covers the desk from one till seven, then I pull the night shift.”
“Wonderful. Would you leave Samuel a note, please, and let him know Ms. Norquest would like to meet with him tomorrow? Maybe at one, when he gets off?”
Phil says this without so much as a glance in my direction, but I’m powerless to stop him. Suddenly it seems extremely important that I talk to Samuel Booker.
The man nods. “I’ll tell him, sir.”
“Thank you.” Phil takes the bundle of mail from the doorman, then piles the mound on the foyer table as I lock the door.
I can’t believe there is so much mail—brochures and catalogs and at least three envelopes that appear to be from credit card companies. “What on earth?”
Phil casts me a curious look. “More than usual?”
“Loads more. I usually get maybe five or six catalogs. All the bills and things go to my accountant.”
“I think”—Phil slips his hands into his pockets—“Clara has been screening your mail.”
I stare at him as his words take hold.
“You asked why your father never wrote,” he says.
I wince. “You think Clara pulled his letters?”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I think tomorrow Samuel Booker will be able to explain everything.”