Page 11 of The New Couple in 5B

Sarah and her dreams. We used to share a room, and the kid was plagued by nightmares, which was no surprise since our waking life was not a safe or secure one.

“It was about you,” she continues when I don’t say anything.

“Okay.” I should tell her I have to go. But instead, I sit at the small kitchen table, put down my tote.

“I dreamed that you were trapped in a castle, and that there was a monster drinking your blood. Except you didn’t know it. He was drinking it slowly, little by little, taking it while you slept. And you were just wasting away, getting thinner and paler, weaker, until you couldn’t even get out of bed. You couldn’t even move to save yourself.”

A chill moves through me even though I’ve donned my coat and the apartment is overwarm.

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “I’m happy and safe.”

You’re fine, I used to whisper to her in the dark.You’re safe. I’m here.It wasn’t true. She wasn’t safe, neither of us was. And I left her the first chance I got.

“You are?”

“I have a good marriage, a good career, a nice place to live. There’s no monster. No castle. I’m okay.”

It helps to say it and maybe it helps her to hear it. She breathes softly on the other line. I strain to listen for other sounds but there’s nothing.

“If my baby is a girl, I’m going to name her Rosie,” she says. “And I hope she’ll never leave me.”

Wow. That one really hurt. The knife twists; I bleed out.

“I’m sorry, Sarah. But when you’re ready to leave there, I’ll help you find your way.”

“This is my home,” she says, sounding a little angry now.

“Then I wish you all the best.”

A heavy silence pulses on the line. My sister, my childhood, the place where I grew up—just hours away by plane, but the distance seems uncrossable. That she could come here, or I could go back there—it doesn’t even seem possible.

“Be careful, Rosie, please. If there’s something you’re planning to do, someplace you’re planning to go, don’t do it. It’s wrong. It’s bad.”

I push out a little laugh. If I don’t believe in luck, or justice, then I most certainly don’t believe in Sarah’s dreams. In fact, what I believe is that you are the author of your life. That you write your own story. That you are the hero and the villain and everyone else.

“Okay,” I say gently. These calls, or the letters that come from her or Grandma, they always sting. I know she’s reaching out for me, trying to make a connection in this way. Sharing her dreams, which she thinks are prophetic. But it only serves to make me want to get farther away. “Thanks for calling, Sarah.”

A bigger person would be able to give her more. Some love, some words of encouragement, some laughter even. But when it comes to my family of origin, I’m all dried up.

“Rosie,” she says. “I love you.”

She hangs up before I can say it back. Which is fine because maybe it’s not even true. The heaviness I always feel after contact with my family, a deep fatigue, a kind of weighing down of limbs, a dullness of mental acuity, pulls at me. Abuse, it lives in your body, haunts like a demon. If there was a monster drinking my blood, I’ve already defeated it. Or escaped it anyway—through years of therapy and active work on myself.

I stand and shake the phone call off.

I’m going to the Windermere, our new home, to get started on my new book.

Life—it’s ahead of us, not behind.

Abi, the Windermere doorman, always pressed and polished, unfailingly proper, seems to be waiting for me when I arrive. In fact, healwaysseems to be waiting, as if he never leaves his post. Which he must. But I’ve rarely walked in through the varnished wood doors without his having opened them for me. He’s a romantic apparition of New York past, an upright, polite and helpful doorman and elevator operator.

“Ms. Lowan,” he says, swinging the door open. “Wonderful to see you as always.”

I’ve asked him to call me Rosie many times, but he never does.

I step into the small, well-appointed lobby. Marble floors, a polished doorman station, dark wainscoting, ornate red-and-gold wallpaper. All the finishings in the building, from the crown molding to the polished brass doorknobs, are original. The residents are dedicated to preserving the history of the building infused in its rich details. When things need to be replaced or repaired, a committee meets to make sure the grandeur of the Windermere is maintained.

“Good morning, Abi,” I say.

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