Page 67 of The New Couple in 5B

His eyes search mine; what he sees there seems to satisfy him, his frown fading.

“Eventually, she just—disappeared. From my life, from Ivan’s. She met someone and they got married. We weren’t invited to the wedding. She had children. Ivan never met them. I thought maybe she’d found happiness and I was glad for her, even if she had to separate from us to do that.”

I understand making that call, deciding that you can’t be well or happy with your family of origin. That you’re just so different, so utterly incompatible, that the relationship only brings pain to all parties involved. The idea of the happy family is so ingrained in our culture, that we cling desperately to even the worst origins. It takes a deep, abiding courage to let go.

She always wanted something that I couldn’t give, Ivan told me.And I’m sorry for that. Maybe some people shouldn’t be parents.

“She’s gone now,” he says. “Ivan’s gone.”

It’s so final. We always think that we’ll die with everything resolved, a happy ending to all the challenges in our lives. Not Dana and Ivan. The box of his memories sits in my office; the letter he wrote her disappeared. But I won’t think about that now, this thing that’s utterly out of my control.

“We’ll build our own family,” I say. “We’ll learn from the mistakes of others. Do better.”

The pendant around his neck glitters in the firelight.

Maybe it worked after all. For him anyway. I should put mine on.

Later that night when Chad is sleeping, I sneak into the bathroom and take the pregnancy test I’ve been hiding. My hopes are not very high because I’ve been disappointed so many times and I’ve grown a bit numb to the whole process. As I wait, I stare out the narrow window that looks across Thirty-Seventh Street. All the windows are dark, too far to see inside anyway.

A noise out in the hallway attracts me to the peephole and I stare out into the elevator lobby we share with Charles and Ella.

Standing there is the little boy from the basement. I draw in a deep gasp.

He stares at my door, his face still and pale, wearing the same school uniform, shorts and a little jacket, pressed white shirt. I’m frozen with fear, want to scream but can’t.

Slowly, the elevator door opens behind him, but the elevator is not there. It’s just a gaping maw. I fumble with the lock, watching in horror as he backs up and disappears into the shaft. I hear his wailing, growing fainter then stopping abruptly.

But when I open the door, my heart hammering, the elevator is closed, the hallway empty, bright and clean. I stand staring at the emptiness. There’s music coming from Charles and Ella’s, a light piano tune. My heart is a jackhammer, blood rushing in my ears.

I stand there for I don’t know how long.

Looking, watching the empty space, heart finally slowing, breath easing. Trauma. Anxiety. These visions are how my form of PTSD manifests itself. That’s what Dr. Black says. I cling to that. Repeat the mantras he gave me. Finally, my breath returns to normal, and I step back inside the apartment, mind boggling, grasping at what just happened. What did I see?

Still shaking a little, I remember the posting on the chat forum. Ghosts of the Windermere. What if I’m not the only one who’s seen him?

“Ms. Lowan?”

I practically leap out of my own skin. It’s Abi on the intercom. What the actual fuck?

“Yes, Abi,” I manage, my voice sounding cold even to my own ears.

“Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“I saw you come out into the hallway. You looked frightened.”

“That’s all you saw? Just me.”

I can still see those dark eyes, that intense little face. Who is he? What does he want?

“That’s all.”

“I thought—I heard something.”

“Quiet night tonight. Everyone’s in. No visitors.”

So he’s like the gatekeeper to the Windermere? I still have yet to see another person working the door and the elevator.

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