This Story Might Save Your Life(65)

“Just the two of you?”

I search their eyes. They know. I know they know. But how? The file disappeared. Mallory and I looked in every folder, every— “Mallory found it, didn’t she?”

Keller’s lips form a smug line as she reaches for her phone. A few seconds later, Joy’s voice fills the room. “I’m not sure how to do this, so I’m just going to say it.” It hits me like a sock to the stomach, and for a moment I can’t breathe.

Keller presses pause. I rub my palms on my shorts and close my eyes.

Joy’s voice returns. “I can’t.”

The room falls silent. I open my eyes. Keller is watching me. “Why was Joy leaving Xander, Benny?”

“It says everything in her memoir.”

Keller puts on an exaggeratedly grave expression and presses play again.

“Luna divorced me because she knew I could never love her enough,” my voice says.

“But why?”

“Because she knows I’m in love with you.”

I feel sick. “You took that out of context.”

Keller offers a skeptical sniff.

“It’s no secret we love each other,” I say. “We’ve been best friends for years.”

“What I heard just now doesn’t sound like platonic love.” Her voice has a serrated edge to it.

“Out of context,” I repeat.

“What about this? Is this out of context?” I know what’s coming and I can’t do anything to stop it.

“What did he do to you?” My voice is a shotgun of emotion. “What did he do? If he hurt you, I swear to god I’ll kill him.”

My ears ring. I grip my seat, trying to calm myself before asking, “Is that all? Can I leave now?”

“You’re not under arrest,” Price says again. No air quotes this time.

I push out my chair and stand.

“Before you go, one more question,” Keller says.

My feet stop even as my brain tells me to keep moving.

“Does Joy love you back? As much as you love her?”

I take one last look at the memoir on the table, then slam the door behind me.





Joy Moore


Day Four

My room is simple. Plain white walls, one basic pine nightstand, one oak dresser, and a closet-sized bathroom with cream linoleum and a walk-in shower stall. My sheets are worn ivory cotton. The quilt is handsewn in various shades of blue: periwinkle florals, navy filigrees, cerulean stars.

From under these covers I listen to the morning shuffle—the buzz of an alarm clock, rushing water from a nearby shower, the whistle of a teakettle. As the day progresses the noises will grow louder. Doors slamming. A television at full volume. Intermittent cries and shouts. The pattering and stomping of feet across my ceiling. I’ve only left my room once, when I staggered out in the middle of the night with the equilibrium of a drunk, pressing my hand to the wall for balance as I tried to get my bearings.

My hallway has eight doors. At one end is a shared kitchen; it’s utilitarian and smells of fish, and most of the food is labeled. At the other end is a communal lounging area filled with mismatched couches, a television, a bookshelf packed with ex-library books, and a wall of colorful plastic toys.

I don’t know how many floors there are in this building, or how many rooms are full, or where in the city I am. Four nights ago, I awoke on a faded sofa with an ice pack pressed to my cheek. I had a lump the size of a walnut above my brow, and my eye was swollen shut. A woman with fuchsia eyeglasses exhaled loudly and said, “Oh, thank god.”

I came around slowly and she helped me sit up. Gave me juice. There were two other women in the room whose faces I didn’t commit to memory. They asked if it would be all right to take pictures of my bruises. I nodded, and they photographed me from several different angles. When I was ready to walk, Fuchsia Eyeglasses brought me up two flights of stairs, through the fishy kitchen, and into my room. It smelled like fabric softener and hair spray. “You’re safe now, honey,” she said.

I locked myself in, lay down on the bed, and immediately fell asleep.

The next morning, she returned to check on me. “It’s Gloria,” she called through the door. “I brought you some toiletries.”

It took me an eternity to answer. My legs wobbled as I unfastened the latch. “Thank you,” I said, accepting the proffered plastic bag.

“That doesn’t look good.” She was referring to my face. “Let me get you another ice pack.”

She let herself in when she returned. I was already back under the covers.

“You can have this room up to thirty days,” she said, sitting on my bed. “We can talk more about your options when you’re in better shape. In the meantime, there’s an open kitchen. And clothing downstairs. Plenty of items in your size.”

I nodded, as if this all made perfect sense. My head throbbed with the effort. “Thank you.”

“Joy?” She paused on her way out.

I rolled to face her. I didn’t remember giving her my name.

“I’m sorry you’re here.”

Pain and exhaustion had cut my defenses. My eyes welled with tears. “Thank you.”

I went back to sleep.

My memories from that night are scattered: running out the back door; feeling nauseated as I awoke on the faded sofa. Despite the manic shuffling, my meds made it to my room. I reach for them now. Seven days in a colorful plastic organizer separated by a.m. and p.m. Stimulants, antidepressants, birth control pills, nighttime sleep aids, vitamins. Xander assembles them for me, and every day I dutifully take my doses at their designated times. We’ve been doing it this way for years at Xander’s insistence. It makes him feel useful, like we’re tackling my health “as a team.” When the color of my birth control pills switched from yellow to white three months ago, I thought it odd. For years I’ve skipped the week-four nonhormonals and jumped straight to the next pack in order to forgo my period, so the tablet has never changed. “No idea,” Xander said when I asked about it. “Packaging is the same.” I found the empty box in the trash later that afternoon, and he was right. Same name, same pink cursive logo.