Page 15 of The Shape of Night

Grief suddenly overwhelms me, a sense of loss so profound that my steps falter. I come to a stop right there on the crowded sidewalk as people stream past me. I don’t understand why I’m crying. I don’t understand why the passing of Captain Brodie should fill me with such sorrow. I drop down onto a bench and rock forward, my body shaking with sobs. I know that I am not really weeping for Jeremiah Brodie. I weep for myself, for the mistake I’ve made and for what I have lost because of it. Just as I cannot bring back Captain Brodie, I cannot bring back Nick. They are gone, both of them ghosts, and my only escape from the pain is the blessed bottle that waits in my kitchen cabinet. How easily one drink becomes two, then three, then four.

That is how it all went wrong in the first place. A few too many glasses of champagne on a snowy New Year’s Eve. I can still hear the happy clink of glassware, feel bubbles fizz on my tongue. If only I could go back to that night and warn New Year’s Ava:Stop. Stop now while you still can.

A hand touches my shoulder. I snap straight up on the bench and turn to see a familiar face frowning at me. It’s that doctor I met in the hardware store. I don’t remember his name. I certainly don’t want to talk to him, but he sits down beside me and asks quietly:

“Are you all right, Ava?”

I wipe away tears. “I’m fine. I just got a little dizzy. It must be the heat.”

“Is that all it is?”

“I’mperfectlyokay, thank you.”

“I don’t mean to be nosy. I was just on my way to get coffee and you looked like you needed help.”

“What, are you the town psychiatrist?”

Unruffled by my retort, he asks gently, “Do you think you need one?”

I’m afraid to admit the truth, even to myself: Maybe I do. Maybe what I’ve experienced in Brodie’s Watch are the first signs of my sanity unraveling, the threads spooling away.

“May I ask, have you eaten anything today?” he says.

“No. Um, yes.”

“You’re not sure?”

“A cup of coffee.”

“Well then, maybe that’s the problem. I prescribe food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“How about just a cookie? The coffee shop’s right around the corner. I won’t force-feed you or anything. I just don’t want to have to stitch you up when you faint and hit your head.” He holds out his hand, an act of kindness that takes me by surprise and it seems rude to turn him down.

I take his hand.

He leads me around the corner and down a narrow side street to the No Frills Café, which turns out to be a disappointingly accurate description. Under fluorescent lights, I see a linoleum floor and a glass case with an unappetizing array of baked goods. It’s not a café I’d ever choose to step into, but it’s clearly a gathering place for locals. I spot the butcher from the grocery store biting into a cheese Danish and a mailman standing in line to pay for his cup of to-go coffee.

“Have a seat,” the doctor says. I still can’t remember his name and I’m too embarrassed to admit it. I sit down at a nearby table, hoping someone will call him by name, but the girl behind the counter greets him with only a cheery “Hey, Doc, what’ll it be?”

The door swings open and yet another person I recognize steps into the café. Donna Branca has shed her blazer and the humidity has fluffed up her usually tidy helmet of blond hair. It makes her look younger, and I can see the girl she once must have been, sun-kissed and pretty, before adulthood forced her to don a businesswoman’s uniform. Spotting the doctor, she lights up and says, “Ben, I was hoping to run into you. Jen Oswald’s son is applying to medical school and you’d be the perfect man to give him advice.”

Ben.Now I remember. His name is Ben Gordon.

“I’d be happy to give him a call,” he says. “Thanks for letting me know.” As he heads toward my table, Donna stares after him. Then she stares at me, as if something is not right with this picture. As if I have no business sharing a table with Dr. Gordon.

“Here you go. That should get your blood sugar up,” he says and places a cookie in front of me. It’s the size of a saucer, thickly studded with chocolate chips.

I have absolutely no interest in eating this cookie, but to be polite I take a bite. It is irredeemably sweet, as boringly one-note as spun sugar. Even as a child, I knew that in every good recipe, sweet must be balanced with sour, salt with bitter. I think of the first batch of oatmeal raisin cookies I ever made by myself, and how eagerly Lucy and I had sampled the results after they came out of the oven. Lucy, always generous with praise, pronounced them thebest everbut I knew better. Like life itself, cooking is about balance, and I knew that next time I must add more salt to the batter.

If only every mistake in life could be so easily corrected.

“How is it?” he asks.

“It’s fine. I’m just not hungry.”

“Not up to your high standards? I’m told you make killer blueberry muffins.” At my raised eyebrow, he laughs. “I heard it from the lady at the post office, who heard it from Billy.”

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