Page 36 of The New Couple in 5B

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“Hey,” I say, walking around to the driver’s window. “Where’s the box?”

But how could he know? He never left the driver’s seat. Abi took the box, put it in the trunk.

The cabby, a thickly muscled, middle-aged guy with dark, slicked-back hair, shrugs, looks unconcerned. “What box? Hey, can you shut the trunk?”

“The doorman put a box in the trunk. You saw him. He tapped when he was done.”

He offers an apathetic eye roll indigenous to New Yorkers. “I don’t know, lady. If it’s not there I can’t help you.”

I walk back over and look again, traffic flowing past, drivers leaning on their horns, annoyed at the stopped taxi. Finally, there’s nothing for me to do except to shut the lid and step onto the sidewalk.

What the fuck? What happened to that box?

Hey, Rosie. Don’t tell anyone in the building that you’re meeting me.

I didn’t. I didn’t tell anyone, not even Chad.

Unless Abi was listening. Over the intercom. Or he saw Dana’s name on the box and put it together. Or Xavier did. He did seem—off.

But why would anyone care if I gave Dana things that rightly belong to her? Did Abitake it? Could the trunk have popped open while we were driving, and the box fell out? No. No way. Did he make a mistake? Meant to put it in, but left it on the curb by accident? No. I waved goodbye. I would have seen it sitting there. Wouldn’t I?

I feel a terrible sense of loss. All those photographs and news clippings, proof positive for Dana that her father loved her, thought about her, kept track of her. Not digital images floating in the cloud—but real paper, vulnerable to damage and misplacement—real things that Ivan touched. The letter. His final words to his daughter. Entrusted to me by the fact that I found them. It was my duty, wasn’t it, to broker this meager peace after Ivan’s passing? And I lost it.

I watch bereft as the cab disappears into a sea of vehicles and is swept away.

Max is waiting at the table when I arrive, gets up to give me a kiss on the cheek. But I’m rattled and he sees it right away.

“What’s wrong?”

I tell him about Dana’s call, the box, how it’s disappeared. He watches me with a concerned frown.

“Any chance you just left it in the apartment?”

The question is a little annoying. “You mean did Iimaginecarrying it to the elevator, handing it to Abi, watching him carry it to the trunk, hearing him knock to let us know that we could go?”

He pushes up his thick glasses, frowns. “I mean—there’s that thing that happens to you, right?”

His words give me a little jolt.

I have been doing a decent job of powering through some of the weirdness of the past few days—the boy in the basement, the panic attack at the theater. I’ve been doing my breath work, repeating the phrases given to me by Dr. Black.

The only truth is the moment.

The activities of my mind are a fantasy. I only need to respond to what is directly in front of me.

The past is gone. No one can see into the next moment.

My family of origin felt differently.

My father called me aseer. Someone who glimpses into the future, who receives messages or visions—some of them true, some of them just possibilities, some of them deceptions.

But years of therapy have allowed me to understand that for what it was—gaslighting. A way for my family to rope me into their various frauds and schemes, to make me afraid and unstable so that they could keep me in their control, use me to further their reputation as a family of mystics.

While most parents would tell you that your nightmares and imaginings weren’t real, your father convinced a creative, imaginative child that her dreams, night terrors or vivid imaginings were a window into the future.

I have an appointment with Dr. Black tomorrow.

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