At work the next afternoon, as I finish entering my lunch of lettuce and celery and baby carrots with this time a little cheese because I can spare the calories into my tracking app, my cell phone rings. I’m afraid it’s someone calling to commiserate about Gloria and make me feel bad, but when I glance at the screen I answer at once.
“Valerie, it’s Detective Johnson,” she says, although call display already let me know. “The man who attacked Gloria has turned himself in.”
I sit up straight and try to get my brain, which feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls, in gear. “He did? Why? And why did he do it?”
“He turned himself in due to the publicity.”
I nod, not knowing what to say. The details of what happened to Gloria have of course been all over the news, along with the always-presented advice to women of “don’t be out alone at night”. Just once, it’d be nice to see a notice telling men to only be out in the company of a woman or not to be out at all.
“And because he’s horrified at how badly she was hurt. As for why he did it…” She pauses, then clears her throat and goes on with, “He’s a petty criminal, pickpocketing and the occasional minor mugging, but—”
“Minor mugging!”
“Yes,” she says. “Nothing remotely violent.”
“Then why did he— why Gloria?”
“The way he tells it, she came out of the subway station a little later than the other people coming off the ferry which made her an easy target. He thought, anyhow. When he tried to get her to give up her purse she refused, so he grabbed it. As she jumped back to get away from him, she fell over a curb and hit her head full force on one of those metal posts by the subway entrance. He scooped up her phone which had fallen from her purse, and was going to grab the purse too but when he saw what had happened to her he panicked and ran.”
“And you believe that?” It sounds like the most ridiculously ‘not my fault’ explanation ever. And nothing “happened to her” that he didn’t cause. Bit late to start feeling guilty.
“It’s supported by the camera evidence,” she says gently. “And by the doctor’s assessment of Gloria’s injuries. And honestly, he’s just not the type to attack her. There’s no history of that with him.”
A few brain cells manage to shake off their energy-deprived state. “So Gloria’s in the hospital because she was there and he tried to steal her purse. It could have been anyone. It wasn’t about her at all.”
She confirms this, and I hear the sympathy in her voice but it doesn’t help. This whole thing was an accident? A coincidence? I’ve been so sure it wouldn’t be, couldn’t be. All my research into Gloria’s life… a waste.
“We’ll be announcing the charges against him shortly but I thought you should know first.”
I manage to get myself together enough to thank her, then add, “And my parents?”
“I’ve called them, yes. They suggested I call you.”
They didn’t want to talk to me themselves, to tell me this news. Was that because I killed Anthony and because my refusal to skip my manicure and Mara’s wedding-food tasting maybe resulted in Gloria being in the place to be attacked? “Well,” I say, not seeing a point in exploring that with her, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And I understand her condition is stable?”
“Yes.” Stable. Like the flatline the monitor will show if she—
I snap the rubber band hard on my wrist. Don’t go there.
After a moment, when I don’t elaborate because there’s nothing else to say, she says, “Take care, Valerie.”
“You too,” I say automatically, then she hangs up.
I set my phone down and sit staring at it.
Coincidence.
Coincidence?
Is that really possible?
Though it takes me a while, I eventually manage to get my head around the fact that it is. The guy was trying to rob Gloria and she fought back and she fell and was hurt.
But that isn’t the whole story.
Why was she there so late at night?
She’d gone out for dinner with her friend Leah, supposedly. Then she’d gone over to Staten Island. By herself? It must have been so, or else she probably wouldn’t have been mugged.
But why?
The assault itself might be coincidence, but her being there is not. The only way to find out is to go through Gloria’s things. Really search. Examine every aspect of my sister’s life.
Find the clues to how it was shattered.
A tap on my door interrupts me, and I look up to see Andrea the receptionist. “Sorry to interrupt, but— are you okay?”
I straighten my shoulders and say, “Why?”
“I… you look…”
Before she can decide how I look and share an opinion which doesn’t matter to me at all, I say, “I’m fine. What did you need?”
“Oh, right. Actually, it was whether you needed anything. I’m off for a coffee run.”
Even the ‘coffee with syrup’ I’ve been having her get for me is 25 calories and I’m already at 270 for the day. I woke up so thirsty I could have drunk a swimming pool, and after chugging several glasses of water found myself starving. My breakfast of four egg whites and half a banana calmed that a little, but my stomach’s been griping all day and I’d rather keep those 25 calories for food instead of coffee.
But I do need something to wake up my head, so I say, “Yeah, give me one second,” then grab my phone and look up the calories of the sugar-free syrups. “Okay, that’ll work,” I say once I’ve found what I need. “I’d like a medium coffee with two pumps of sugar-free caramel syrup.” No calories for the syrup and only five for the coffee.
“Two pumps? You’ve been getting one.”
I raise my eyebrows at her, not pleased with what feels like a challenge. “And now I want two. The sugar-free stuff is probably not as sweet. You can handle it, right?”
My tone’s ruder than I intended, because I’m tired and out of energy to be patient, but I don’t apologize because I know Elle wouldn’t apologize to a mere receptionist.
Andrea nods once. “Yes. Got it.”
“Make sure it’s sugar-free,” I say. “Keep an eye on them.”
“Got it,” she says again and gives me a big smile that’s got no sugar in it either.
*****
The coffee Andrea brings me seems to do the trick, along with eight almonds I eat mid-afternoon to use the twenty calories I saved on the coffee syrup, in getting me to the end of the work day. Jaimi comes in when I’ve got about an hour to go and offers to take on reviewing the most recent inventory report so I won’t have to. I refuse, of course, because it’s my job and handing stuff off to her right before the promotion committee decides who to interview is a bad plan. Besides, I know I’ve got time to get it done, more than enough time, and I head off to the storage facility to go through Gloria’s things feeling like maybe I’ve got things working my way for once.
As I fight my way through Times Square’s throngs of tourists and stupid people in costumes trying to get tips from them, though, I see a huge video screen showing Gloria’s Facebook profile picture on one side with a scruffy-looking guy on the other, and for one horrible moment my legs go weak and I’m afraid I’m going to pass out right there staring up at the guy who put Gloria in the hospital.
I can’t give him any more power over me than he’s already got, though, so I make myself turn away and walk carefully in my heels to Bryant Park where I shoot the people sitting reading or chatting at the metal tables in the park a sideways glance before I go down the stairs to the subway station, wondering why everyone else seems to have time to relax but I don’t.
I have half an hour on the subway to calm myself, and I spend it working, of course, reading through the inventory report, because nothing calms me more than getting just a little more of a grip on my life. Once the train reaches the York Street station I’m feeling better, although I’d had to take several breaks to get my mind focused again and I don’t like that.
The short walk to the storage facility wakes me up, but I still find myself cursing Jessica for picking a place in Brooklyn. Convenient for her, of course, but not for me.
But then, Gloria loves living in Brooklyn so when she recovers she’ll want all her things to be here for her. So a little inconvenience for me is just another price I need to pay to make life better for my sister.
Once I’m inside the locker, I sit on a sturdy box so I won’t get my red suit, which now fits comfortably, dirty on the floor then take a brief rest to recover what little energy my body can find before beginning with the ‘paperwork and jewelry’ box.
Gloria’s jewelry all seems to be costume, bright and cheerful but not worth anything, and her bank and credit card statements aren’t enlightening either. She apparently only used her credit card for restaurants and clothes, and while she’s hardly rich she’s always had at least something in the bank. I do notice a hundred-dollar withdrawal two months ago, when she’d usually only pulled out a twenty, but she might just have wanted more cash. There are no charges or paperwork for her private health insurance even though I know she’s got it. She’s got a better plan than I do, in fact, and yet I can’t see any references to it anywhere.
Once I’ve looked at everything in the box, I reseal it then wrap my arms around myself because I’m feeling cold sitting in this big metal storage locker. Is searching Gloria’s stuff worth the effort? The cop said what happened was just bad timing, an accident. So even if I do figure out why my sister was on Staten Island, what difference will it make? She’ll still be in the hospital in a coma.
It’s pointless. Nothing I do will help.
A wave of fatigue and misery sweeps me, and I deal with the first by taking a deep breath and sitting up straight and the second by promising myself I won’t quit until I know what put Gloria in harm’s way that night.
No, it might not help her. But it will help me.
Anthony’s death was a stupid pathetic accident. Caused by me, but an accident nonetheless. So since then I’ve lived in dread of accidents, of coincidences. Getting some explanation for Gloria’s situation, no matter how tenuous, will make the world seem more logical, something I so crave.
“And besides,” I mumble to myself as I reach for the next box, “maybe you will find something that helps her.”
I spend two hours searching through the residue of Gloria’s life for things that seem like questions to answer, and in the end all I have is a small low-resolution picture of her grinning with a tall blond guy I’ve never seen before, a bag of buttons of all shapes and sizes, and a plastic triangle of Swiss cheese. Do these things mean anything? I don’t know, but I’ll investigate them all, the best I can. Along with my diet, that gives me two things I can do to help, and two things have to be better than one.