This Story Might Save Your Life(49)

“They’re just placeholders. These are the raw tracks.”

Sarah frowns at me. “Why raw tracks, do you think? Why not the edited episodes?”

“Because…” I have no idea.

“Do you think the clue lies in what was cut?”

It’s a good question, one I wish I’d asked myself, though in fact we don’t usually cut much content. Just microphone mishaps and off-putting bodily noises. And sometimes, as in the case of the attic raccoon, excessive laughter. But there was one notable cut two weeks ago in the dismemberments episode. We had a battle with some bugs in the middle of recording, and I told Mallory to go ahead and trim it down. I never bothered to check if she did.

“Hold on, I might have an idea.” I pull the episode up now and scrub through to the middle. When at last I hear myself say, “You can cut it,” I rewind a few minutes.

“It would never have occurred to me to use rubber bands to stop the bleeding,” Joy says.

“I think it’s probably most effective with fingers.”

“Ew.”

“I know.”

“No, look, ew!” Joy says. “By the door. It’s like a whole army of— Oh my god, ew. Where are they coming from?”

There’s a shuffling sound as Joy gets up to inspect. She’s across the room when her voice is heard next. “Oh, come on. This is so disgusting.”

“What was it?” Sarah asks as the commotion continues on the track.

“Silverfish.” I watch the waveform scrolling across the laptop screen. “Dozens of them. Coming through the crack under her door.”

More shuffling sounds as Joy and I remove the bugs with tissues. Joy’s at least ten feet away from the mic when she says, “Remember how bad the silverfish were at Chez Moi?”

“Only your apartment. They must like you.”

“Well, it’s not reciprocal. Oh, hey, I forgot to tell you! Xander and I drove past the building the other day on our way to the doctor. They changed the name.”

“No they didn’t. To what?”

“Chez … shit.”

“Has a real ring to it.”

Joy laughs. “It’ll come to me.”

But it didn’t come to her. When we returned to our seats a minute later, I saw that our mics were on. “Still rolling?”

“Thought there might be something worth keeping,” Mallory says.

“Eh, you can cut it.”

I stop the playback and turn to Sarah, who is clearly not following. “It’s Chez Moi. Our old apartment building.” Three mentions in three weeks. Which might not otherwise be odd, but she hadn’t brought it up in ages. And then, three times in a row, she’d wedged it into the conversation while we were recording. The attic raccoon, the old dishwasher, and now this. I explain this all to Sarah.

She clasps my forearm. “You think that’s the password? Chez Moi?”

I try it, hope swelling with each tap of the finger, and then exhale heavily. Invalid.

“Maybe it’s the new name,” Sarah suggests.

Nodding, I type the address into Google Maps and toggle into street view. There it is: dirty cream stucco with faded mint-green trim, bifurcated by open-riser stairs. They must have changed the name since they took these images, though, because CHEZ MOI is still prominent in mint-green cursive below the number 710.

“Maybe the address is the password.”

I try this too. Again, invalid. But I’m not giving up. In fact, I’m now brimming with renewed hope. “Or maybe…”

“What?”

I’m afraid to utter it aloud for fear it might not be true. I stand. “Do you want to go for a drive?”





Joy Moore


EXCERPT FROM UNTITLED JOINT MEMOIR WITH BENNY ABBOTT

Twelve Months Ago

I rehearsed for hours in my head.

It’s not you, it’s me. Don’t take this personally. I am drowning.

What I eventually said over breakfast one windy morning last October: “I need space.”

Xander stared at me over his toast and scooted his chair a few inches away.

“In a broader sense,” I added.

He raised an eyebrow. “From me?”

“Just a few hours.”

“Right now?”

I matched his raised eyebrow with a raised shoulder. “Whenever it’s convenient.”

“But the stalker.” He’d recently begun using that word. I hated it.

“You said your friend had an extra ticket to that premiere tonight, didn’t you? Why don’t you go? I’ll stay home and lock the doors.”

We’d been joined at the hip for several months straight. I wasn’t sure what he would say.

“This year’s been a lot, hasn’t it?”

His tone was nebulous but his words were reassuring. “A lot” was an understatement. The tour. The new house. The sta—no, I refused to use that word. The superfan. I nodded.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me? Do you not like the way I chew my food?”

An uneasy sensation began to form in my stomach. “You chew just fine.”

“Do I bore you?”

“Xander.” I forced a laugh.