Ninety Days Read Free Page B

straw, that he can no longer help me and I will need to find somewhere else to crash while I get back on my feet.
    I go slowly. I stop and start dozens of times on the stairs and rest even longer on the first- and second-floor landings. I’m almost to the third floor, nearly at the top of the last flight, when I lose my grip on one of the shoes and— oh God no —it falls and bangs loudly down the entire flight of stairs. When it finally smacks against the landing below I freeze and listen for footfalls, creaking floorboards, any signs of suddenly awake tenants. A few minutes pass and with my breath held I reach up and place the remaining shoe at the top of the stairs so I don’t drop it. I inch back down until I reach the landing. The steps creak and belch the whole way and my progress—with numerous stops and starts—is excruciatingly slow. I pick up the renegade shoe and squeeze and twist and shake the thing viciously to punish it for causing so much trouble.
    I turn back and look up the narrow flight of stairs to the third-floor landing. Nothing has ever seemed so far away. I consider going to sleep right where I stand. I can’t bear the sound of another plank of wood screaming under my feet. How did I end up here? Homeless, broke, alone, and frozen with panic on the second-floor landing of someone else’s building? How will I ever put my life back together? I stand very still.
    Shaking off the drowsiness that’s tugging my eyes closed and making my body sag against the wall, I try to be hopeful. The apartment is only one more flight. If I’m quiet enough no one will hear me. If I’m careful enough no one will be angry. The air is damp in the stairwell and my shirt is soaked through with sweat. I imagine everyone in the city safely tucked away in their beds. I wonder again if Noah is alone or with someone. I think of the thirty-one days I have to go until I reach ninety and decide, ominously, that it’s easier to count days in psych wards and rehab, not so easy in the city.
    Up ahead, the other shoe is sitting at the top of the stairs, exactly where I left it. It’s inches from Dave’s door, steps from the pullout bed I can collapse into and the pile of blankets I can hide beneath. Eventually, I move toward the bottom step. The wood moans under my feet. My damp back itches but I don’t dare scratch it. A toilet flushes on a higher floor and a door slams somewhere below. I wait for what seems like forever before taking the next step. There is a long way to go.

Home
    Sixty days. It’s my first thought before opening my eyes after a restless night on Dave’s pullout. And then: Thirty to go. I look at my watch and it’s a few minutes past nine. I jump from the creaky pullout, hurry through my shower, get dressed, fold the mattress back into the couch, rearrange the cushions, and tidy up the place. I want to be up and out by the time Dave arrives. I don’t want to be underfoot and, more than that, I don’t want—not right now—to see him. I can’t bear that look of worry on his face. Though we’ve been friends for years, the look belongs to someone more warden than friend. It says without saying a word, Get sober and then we’ll talk, and I don’t blame him. So I tiptoe down those wretched steps and leave for the day.
    It’s almost ten by the time I’m out of the building. I buy a cup of coffee from the closest bodega and wander around the neighborhood to get my bearings. None of it seems familiar. I’ve lived in New York for twelve years and I feel like I’ve never been here before. It’s quiet and leafy and appears unimaginably expensive. Every shop is one I haven’t seen before, every restaurant a place I can’t afford. I eventually make my way toward the meeting to see Asa, as planned, and as I’m approaching 10th Street and Fifth Avenue I remember a deal I struck with Jack: never to step within a two-block radius of One Fifth. This rules out Washington Square Park, all of University Place