Leigh had already endured nearly four months of round-the-clock clogging, something that might have been funny if it was happening to someone else. Her nerves were directly tied to the volume and frequency of the steady thump-thump-thump that segued into a thumpety-thump-thumpety-thump-thump pattern when Leigh’s heart began to pound right along with it. She tried to breathe slowly, but her exhales were short and raspy, punctuated by little guppy gasps. As she examined her pale complexion (which on good days she thought of as ‘ethereal’ and all other times accepted as ‘sickly’) in the mirrored hallway closet door, a thin sheen of perspiration dampened her forehead.
It seemed to be happening more frequently, this sweating/breathing issue – and not just when she heard the wood-on-wood banging. Sometimes Leigh would awaken from a sleep so deep it almost hurt, only to find her heart racing and her sheets drenched. Last week in the middle of an otherwise completely relaxing shavasna – albeit one where the instructor felt compelled to play an a capella version of ‘Amazing Grace’ over the speakers – a sharp pain shot through Leigh’s chest on each measured inhale. And just this morning as she watched the human tidal wave of commuters cram onto the N train – she forced herself to take the subway, but hated every second of it – Leigh’s throat constricted and her pulse inexplicably quickened. There seemed to be only two plausible explanations, and although she could be a bit of a hypochondriac, even Leigh didn’t think she was a likely candidate for a coronary: it was a panic attack, plain and simple.
In an ineffective attempt to dispel the panic, Leigh pressed her fingertips into her temples and stretched her neck from side to side, neither of which did a damn thing. It felt like her lungs could reach only ten percent capacity, and just as she considered who would find her body – and when – she heard a choked sobbing and yet another ring of her doorbell.
She tiptoed over to the door and looked through the peep-hole but saw only empty hallway. This was exactly how people ended up robbed and raped in New York City – getting duped by some criminal mastermind into opening their doors. I’m not falling for this, she thought as she stealthily dialed her doorman. Never mind that her building’s security rivaled the UN’s, or that in eight years of city living she didn’t personally know anyone who’d been so much as pickpocketed, or that the chances of a psychopathic murderer choosing her apartment from more than two hundred other units in her building was unlikely … This was how it all started.
The doorman answered after four eternally long rings.
‘Gerard, it’s Leigh Eisner in 16D. There’s someone outside my door. I think they’re trying to break in. Can you come up here right away? Should I call 911?’ The words came out in a frantic jumble as Leigh paced the small foyer and popped Nicorette squares into her mouth directly from the foil wrapper.
‘Miss Eisner, of course I’ll send someone up immediately, but perhaps you’re mistaking Miss Solomon for someone else? She arrived a few minutes ago and proceeded directly to your apartment … which is permissible for someone on your permanent clearance list.’
‘Emmy’s here?’ Leigh asked. She forgot all about her imminent death by disease or homicide and pulled open her door to find Emmy rocking back and forth on the hallway floor, knees pulled tight against her chest, cheeks slick with tears.
‘Miss, may I be of further assistance? Shall I still—’
‘Thanks for your help, Gerard. We’re fine now,’ Leigh said, snapping shut her cell phone and shoving it into the kangaroo pocket of her sweatshirt. She dropped to her knees without thinking and wrapped her arms around Emmy.
‘Honey, what’s wrong?’ she crooned, gathering Emmy’s tear-dampened hair from her face into a ponytail. ‘What happened?’
The show of concern brought with it a fresh stream of tears; Emmy was sobbing so hard her tiny body trembled. Leigh ran through the possibilities of what could cause such pain, and came up with only three: a death in the family, a pending death in the family, or a man.
‘Sweetie, is it your parents? Did something happen to them? To Izzie?’
Emmy shook her head.
‘Talk to me, Emmy. Is everything okay with Duncan?’
This elicited a wail so plaintive it hurt Leigh to hear it. Bingo.
‘Over,’ Emmy cried, her voice catching in her throat. ‘It’s over for good.’
Emmy had made this pronouncement no fewer than eight times in the five years she and Duncan had been dating, but something about tonight seemed different.
‘Honey, I’m sure it’s all just—’
‘He met someone.’
‘He what?’ Leigh dropped her arms and sat back on her ankles.
‘I’m sorry, let me rephrase: I bought him someone.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Remember when I got him a membership at Clay for his thirty-first birthday because he was desperate to get back in shape? And then he never went – not one fucking time in two whole years – because, according to him, it wasn’t “an efficient use of his time” to just go and stand on the treadmill? So rather than just cancel the whole damn thing and forget about it, I, genius extraordinaire, decide to buy him a series of sessions with a personal trainer so he wouldn’t have to waste one precious second exercising like everyone else.’
‘I think I can see where this is going.’
‘What? You think he fucked her?’ Emmy laughed mirthlessly. It sometimes surprised people to hear Emmy trash-talk with such ferocity – she was, after all, only five-one and looked no older than a teenager – but Leigh barely even noticed anymore. ‘I thought so, too. It’s so much worse than that.’
‘That sounds bad enough, sweetheart.’ All-out loving sympathy and support were the best she could offer, but Emmy didn’t appear comforted.
‘You probably wonder how it could get worse, right? Well, let me tell you how. He didn’t just fuck her – I could maybe deal with that. Noooo, not my Duncan. He “fell in love” with her.’ Emmy jabbed out air quotes with the forefingers and middle fingers of both hands and rolled her bloodshot eyes. ‘He’s “waiting for her,” quote-unquote, until she’s “ready.” She’s a VIRGIN, for chrissake! I’ve put up with five years of his cheating and lies and kinky, weird sex so he can FALL IN LOVE WITH A VIRGIN TRAINER I HIRED IN THE GYM I PAID FOR? In love! Leigh, what am I going to do?’
Leigh, relieved that she could finally do something tangible, took Emmy’s arm and helped her to her feet. ‘Come in, honey. Let’s go inside. I’ll make us some tea and you can tell me what happened.’
Emmy sniffed. ‘Oh, god, I forgot … it’s Monday. I don’t want to interrupt. I’ll be fine …’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I wasn’t even doing anything,’ Leigh lied. ‘Come in this minute.’
Leigh led her to the couch and, after patting the overstuffed arm to indicate where Emmy should rest her head, ducked behind the wall that separated the living room