Page 9 of The Unraveling

But gravity waited for no one.

He hit the ice. Hard.

One leg stretched forward and the other splayed back, bending in a way no leg was meant to bend.

My husband screamed, his wail reverberating through the arena.

The crowd went silent.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Then I bolted down to the ice.

I might’ve been a psychiatrist, a far cry from an emergency room doctor. But I had gone to medical school. And I knew enough to realize we were headed straight for the hospital.

CHAPTER 5 Now

After a week, I know his schedule. I rise early and start walking the streets of Manhattan as they wake up around me. But I don’t rush. I meander. I know I have time before Gabriel leaves his building.

Coffee at the stand on the corner. Perusing the news as I wait for a bagel. Watching the ever-changing leaves turn from yellow to orange to red, a little each day. I chew a thick pumpernickel bagel smeared with cream cheese and lox and think of Dr. Alexander, his advice to stop stalking Gabriel. I don’t see it as stalking. Not really. I have no ill intentions. I just need to know…

I swallow what’s in my mouth and pause, envisioning it: Gabriel’s face, lit up with happiness.

I need to know it’s real.

I fold the rest of the bagel into its paper and toss it in the nearest trash can. The rest of my coffee goes with it, making a satisfying clunk as they hit the bottom. A bookstore is two doors down, and with a quick glance at my watch—Gabriel won’t be by for another twenty minutes—I duck inside. The store has just opened, and two employees murmur behind the counter as they sort books. I brush by them to the self-help section.

Build the Life You Want.

Secrets to a Happy Marriage.

Life Sucks. Get Used to It.

I could’ve written the last one…

My eyes catch on a stand near the checkout section. It’s half empty, but what remains are spiral-bound journals with bright splashes of color. Rainbows and sunrises and the sort.

I reach out and pick one up. Scrawled across the front is It’s never too late to start writing a new chapter. I stare at it, slipping back into the before world, when I got to see my own patients. When I’d ask them to pick out a journal and write in it every day as part of their therapy. Dr. Alexander assigned no such task, but a little self-assigned homework never hurts. I look to the register, where the two employees are chitchatting away, paying no attention to the patrons. I make a rash decision and tuck the journal into my purse. My heart starts to pound, a frantic whoosh of blood filling my ears. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. And I’m certain I have a few hundred dollars in my wallet, not to mention two or three credit cards. I have no idea why the hell I do it, but I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin with every step I take toward the door. Once I’m outside, I keep walking, power walking almost, until I get to the end of the block, turn right, and duck into the doorway of a store that isn’t open yet. Then I can’t help it. I smile. It feels exhilarating.

It takes a few minutes for my heartbeat to slow. A glance at my watch tells me it’s time. So I head to my post, stop one on my daily Gabriel Wright tour. He comes out right on time as usual.

It’s easy enough to not be seen as I follow. The morning rush of people headed to work, to the gym, to the subway, is my camouflage. He strides down the sidewalk, hands tucked into leather gloves and holding nothing, headed north. I let him pass, wait five seconds, then follow.

Within a couple of minutes, I know where he’s heading—the same place he went yesterday. Instead of continuing on to Columbia, he takes a left, then another. This time, I stop across the street and press my phone to my face, turning partially away. He enters the redbrick building lined with dozens of little windows that is Manhattan Mini Storage and disappears through the glass door. The same light flicks on as yesterday. This time I count—twelve tiny windows down from the entrance. I haven’t gone as far as to follow him inside yet. I’m too afraid he’ll see me. Though I am curious what he’s doing in there. Plenty of New Yorkers have storage lockers. With minuscule apartments, it’s often a necessity. But yesterday he came with nothing and left with nothing. Was he sorting through boxes? Organizing things? Looking for something in particular? I suppose whatever it was, he didn’t find it. Maybe that’s why he’s back again.

A breeze picks up, whipping my hair around my face. I reach for it, tie it at the nape of my neck, and hazard a glance at the sky. It’s been cloudy all morning, but those clouds have darkened. With the high buildings all around me, it’s claustrophobia-inducing—like the sky might actually fall on me, and there’s no escape. But then, soon enough, Gabriel emerges and my blood starts pumping—the same as when I slipped that journal into my purse and walked out of the bookstore a thief. He’s again empty-handed, again headed uptown toward Columbia—and I hurry to not lose him.

His classes are the same on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so after he enters his building, I know I’ve got two hours before he’ll emerge and take a lunch break. I find a bench and sit, withdrawing the journal I stole, feeling in my purse for a pen. Around me, students walk to class, clutching satchels or shouldering backpacks. Few seem dressed warmly enough for the brisk autumn day.

I suddenly feel eyes on me, a steady gaze, and I look up, searching for its source. But there’s only a passel of students, a group of sorority girls, all bottle-blond, all wearing matching sweatshirts—no one in particular is watching. Probably I’m imagining it. It makes sense that I feel paranoid, considering what I’ve done at the bookstore, and that I’m sitting around waiting for a man to come out who doesn’t know I’ve been following him. I search around me once more, but it’s just college students crisscrossing campus.

I push the thought aside and write about the past week. About seeing Gabriel in the coffee shop and following him. About wondering how long he can go on pretending to be happy. About the twelfth window in Manhattan Mini Storage, and Columbia University, the sprawling campus in the middle of jam-packed upper Manhattan.

When Gabriel skips down the stairs, presumably headed to lunch, something is different. I notice it right away—the lightness of his step, the lean of his body, the tautness around his eyes. He’s not just headed to the cafeteria to grab a sandwich. He’s going somewhere to do something.

And I want to know what.

Five minutes later, he opens the door to an Italian café on the edge of campus, and I can’t help myself—I duck in after him. My skin chills, forming goose bumps with the knowledge of the risk I’m taking. It’s darker in here, low lighting and fake plants in the corners. Square tables with red-checkered tablecloths. Booths and tables, and a woman at the front who’s got ten years on me.

“Any table’s fine, hon.” She waits with a menu in hand. I scan the dark room, trying to catch sight of him. Then I realize I’ve passed over him twice, because he’s already seated, back to me, in a booth in the rear corner. Directly across from a woman.

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