Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Prodigal Daughter Returns
New York City, December 2017
“She was a person you would not be surprised to find sitting by herself in a corner of the world where she didn’t belong, writing things in a notebook to prevent the rise of panic.”
~ Alice Munro
~***~
Therese stood at the gate exit watching the planes come and go. Inside her pocket, she worried a small string into a tight ball. She had to force herself to unclench her fists, to turn around… to leave the bloody airport. She sighed, slung her bag over her shoulder, and slowly made her way to the taxi line. She ran her palms down the seams of her dark green blazer, as if smoothing away the invisible lint of worry. New York was cold this time of year, much colder than D.C. Her silk scarf offered little resistance to the wind as she ducked into the cab and tucked her brown messenger bag under her arm like a nervous child.
“Do you have any other bags, miss?”
Therese started at the intrusion; pulled from her nervous reverie. “Oh, uh, no sir. Just this. Thank you.” She feigned a sweet smile.
The cab driver smiled back at her warmly and closed the door behind him. Therese watched through the fogged window as he shared an awkward moment with a young girl from airport security. She suddenly felt trapped. The cold air had cleared her mind and now she felt stifled, nervous, sweltering. She loosed the scarf and shrugged the blazer from her shoulders and forced her hands to her sides.
“Where to, miss?”
Therese startled again, this time shaking her head as if to clear the cobwebs.
“Are you ok miss? New York winds can be breathtaking this time of year.”
Therese chuckled. “Yes, indeed - breathtaking.” She gazed again through the fogged window, lost in the planes drifting down out of space. Flung out of space. She shivered.
“Miss?”
“Oh yes - of course. I’m sorry.” She fumbled in her pocket for a post-it, even though she had memorized the Tribeca address on Canal Street. She was still hopelessly attached to those post-its.
“Take your time, miss.” The cab driver turned on the radio, and gentle classical music wafted into her ears.
She took a steadying breath, and spoke with a new confidence that betrayed her cracking demeanor. “Actually, would you take me to the Ritz Tower, please?”
He smiled. “Of course. Right away, miss.”
The driver pulled the cab into traffic and Therese leaned her head back against the cool leather seats. She closed her eyes and tried to think of the fastest way to get this whole thing over with. The warm air of the cab lulled her into a gentle sleep, as an instrumental version of “Silent Night ” filled her ears. A bead of nervous sweat trickled down her brow, and visions of Carol filled her mind once again.
~***~
In her dreams now, there is always Carol. When she lived in New York, she never dreamed of Carol. She had no need for dreams when she could turn and stroke Carol’s cheek in the night; lace their hands together. She left New York three years ago with the clothes on her back and a chip on her shoulder. She moved to D.C. and started a career as a journalist for a small NBC affiliate. Finally, six months ago, she joined the ranks as a junior analyst for the politics division.
Carol would never have approved. Journalism, in Carol’s mind, was the weakest form of writing. “Never settle for parroting back the facts of the world to the mindless masses,” she would say. And again, Carol’s warm, low voice filled Therese’s dreamy mind. “If you take what you have been given and throw it away like this, I don’t even know who you are any more.”
After that terse meeting at the Ritz Tower, Therese had downed more than several glasses of bourbon alone at the bar. She smoked like a chimney back then, and she remembered the bartender sliding the stack of matchbooks away from her and handing her a lighter instead, with a soft smile. The ashtray in front of her had been quickly filled with cigarette butts, ashes, matchsticks, and her own tears.
She used to take the bus back then. She had gone straight back to her tiny studio loft to pack. Therese hadn’t just left her heart in New York on that cold winter night. She had literally left her whole life on Carol’s doorstep. In a large cardboard box meant to house many reams of paper she left a monument of sticky notes, filling it to the brim. Atop the colorful mountain she left the large stack of her writing draft journals wrapped in strings of brown twine. Tucked under the twine she left a pack of matches. On that pack of matches was the stamped emblem of the Ritz Tower.
~***~
Therese woke with a start as the cab slowed to a stop outside of the Ritz. Her heart was pounding in her ears. Her hands were trembling, and she reached into her pocket by habit to palm the post-it notes.
The driver smiled back at her. “Take your time, miss,” he said. “I have to run across the street to the bank right here. Just use the automated kiosk on the back of my seat.” He exited the cab, and Therese was thankful for the moment to gather her wits in peace. She swiped her credit card and left the driver a generous tip. She shrugged the blazer back over her shoulders, took a deep breath, and braced herself against the cold and against the day.
It was the smell of the place that hit her senses first. It was like a electrical charge sent directly to her memory bank, increasing the intensity of her throbbing headache. She made a mental note to find some aspirin in her bag. She remembered one of the first classes she ever took with Professor Aird. Carol had, as was her custom, again brought the class to tears. She sat on the corner of the massive, mahogany desk in the lecture hall, her long legs dangling casually, shoes off. She explained to the young writers that tapping into the senses was the most effective way to deliver cruelty, and that smell was the cruelest sense of them all.
Therese found the bathroom and took three aspirin from her messenger bag. She splashed her face with water and swallowed, allowing the harsh chemical taste of the pills to steady her. She allowed herself to glance at her reflection in the large gold-plated mirror. She thought of what her reflection must have been like staring into this same mirror three years ago. She had been forty pounds heavier and all rounded edges, always in soft baggy sweatshirts and tattered jeans. She raked her fingers through her hair and examined herself more closely. She was all hardened edges now. Her cheekbones were cut like glass, her eyebrows thinner. Dark-rimmed glasses shut out the cold light from her piercing green eyes. The soft light of the ancient bathroom caught her eyes in a different light - less green, more grey. A slight twitch had worried itself into her left eye. She removed her glasses and rubbed her temples, allowing herself one last moment of silent reprieve.
She noticed the landscape had changed as she wandered back towards the bar. Even this old institution had to give up its beloved smokers’ lounge, and that area had been transformed with plush furniture and large, dark, wooden tables. Against the back wall were shelves of books, adjacent to a lengthy self-service bar offering dozens of taps with bright craft beer logos. A loosely organized shelf of board games was placed in the corner where Therese used to sit atop her favorite old stool. The entire area gave off a very misplaced hipster vibe. Therese chuckled. With the exception of the smoking ban, this was exactly the sort of place she would have loved when she lived in New York.
She sat down at one of the smaller tables and a young blonde woman in whitewashed jeans and a simple black apron brought her a coaster and an empty pint glass. Therese shivered as she saw the Ritz logo etched into the glass. “No ashtrays, huh?” Therese inquired nervously.
The blonde laughed. “Oh, I wish,” she said.
Therese spotted her favorite IPA logo on the wall of taps, and she expertly poured herself a pint. She wasn’t quite sure why she had decided to come here. She needed a moment to collect her thoughts, to get some alcohol properly circulating before she headed to the Tribeca art gallery for Carol’s show. To be fair, she wasn’t sure why she had come to New York at all. She took her journal from her messenger bag and started to doodle as she sipped her beer. She was far too fidgety for reading. She allowed her mind to drift back in time as she sketched the outline of the Ritz logo into her journal.