I took one of the jam jars out of my bag and went downstairs and knocked on the door of the sculptor, whom I’d asked to collect my mail while I was gone. “You been to the Caribbean or something?” he asked, referring to my tan. I told him Florida. “Well, your timing was good,” he said. “At the end of March they turned the heat off for two weeks and of course we had that record cold spell. And the water pressure’s been completely fucked up, although at least it’s hot now.” I could tell he wanted to get back to work and I didn’t exactly feel like having a long conversation so I asked him for my mail. He handed me a shopping bag of what looked like mostly junk. I gave him the jam as a thank-you and went back upstairs.

The water pressure, as the sculptor had warned me, was not what it used to be, and while I waited for the rust to run out of the kitchen tap I put on a tape of Chopin scherzos. Fran used to say that the scherzos reminded her of cats chasing each other over a bare floor. She wasn’t too fond of the recording I had, according to her the pianist was a little too showy, but I had always loved it. I put on water for tea and lay down on my floor mattress and listened until the kettle shrilled.

I’d left when it was bitter cold, and now I needed to figure out where I’d stored my fans. As I drank my tea without honey I noticed a sheet of memo paper taped to the refrigerator. I had to squint to make out my tiny sick scrawl:

join gym

eat better

find out specs for group show

call Reik center and get therapist?

I had accomplished none of these things. I ripped the paper off the fridge, turned it over, and made a new list in bold handwriting:

call people

call work

groceries

drugstore

My mail contained threatening notices from Con Ed and the phone company, but nothing from my landlord—I’d kept up with my rent at least. There was an enormous square envelope of heavy stationery that looked like a valentine—I could see that the card inside was red. It was, of all things, a wedding invitation. Silver curlicues on crimson:

Good God, Xiao Lu was getting married. Wimpy Xiao Lu who had once eaten an inchworm and two ants under the threat of being hung upside down by his ankles from the top bar of our swing set. Who was this girl who was willing to spend the rest of her life with him? A sweet one, for sure. Sweet as pie. One who wouldn’t laugh when he screwed up his face before bursting into tears, that is, if he still burst into tears.

I felt a pang of jealousy.

Marty wasn’t home. “She go back to New York for a couple of days,” Ma told me, but when I called the old number, there was no answer. “When you coming to New Haven?” my mother asked, and I told her I’d be there for my appointment with Valeric the day after tomorrow. “Good,” Ma said. “You come over afterward. I make special birthday dinner for you and your sister.”

On the phone I told my boss a little about what had happened, using the term nervous breakdown, although I didn’t mention Willowridge. She asked me how I felt now.

“Better,” I said.

“Well, since you left things have been exploding around here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t talk. Let’s meet for lunch.”

At O’Neal’s, two blocks from the office and exactly the kind of cavernous noisy New York restaurant I hated, she told me that the agency was in the process of being acquired yet again. She had decided to leave and start her own company. “I found a space in SoHo. Two thousand square feet, northeastern light, all the fixtures in. I already have a couple of accounts lined up.” She told me what they were and I knew I was meant to be impressed, so I said I was. The truth was I felt distanced from all that shop talk. Why was she persisting in treating me as if I were still Sally Wang-Acheson, senior art director? That person she thinks she’s talking to must have been good, I thought. She must have been something.

Finally my boss leaned over, laying her hand over mine, looking at me shrewdly. “Okay, I can see you’re not into this. The reason I called was I thought maybe you’d be interested in coming aboard as full-time staff. But only if you’re completely okay.”

“I’m a little distracted,” I said. “I’m sorry. How about part-time? Is that out of the question?”

“I’ll be straight with you, Sally,” my boss said. “You’re the most talented designer I’ve ever worked with. You’re my first choice.”

“Thanks.”

“Part-time is a possibility. When do you think you can start?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe in a couple of weeks.”

“Okay,” she said. “You call me when you’re ready.”

This was a second chance, but I couldn’t bear to think about it. It was too soon for me to be in the outside world. I couldn’t wait to return to the safety of my apartment.

In Valerie’s office there was a framed poster from an exhibition at the Met, an Indian tapestry of elephants crossing a river. It was all I’d been able to focus on, those last afternoons when I was trying desperately to keep a grip on my mind. The elephants were flat and brilliant, with intricate blue and gold trappings. I remember thinking that they resembled tropical fish and that if I were half as good an artist as that ancient court weaver I wouldn’t be in this fix.

“Welcome back,” Valeric said in her husky voice. There had been a time when I hadn’t liked the way she looked, when her lankiness seemed gawky, when I believed her to be cold and harsh. Now I thought of her as a warrior, someone who’d fight to the death to protect another soul. A fresh legal pad was balanced on her knee. “How’ve you been sleeping?”

“Not so well.”

“Oh? How is that?”

In Florida I’d slept long and drugged, at my aunt and uncle’s, in the condo with Mel. Now that I was back in my life I’d awaken in the night with a start, heart pounding, tensed as if ready to spring out of bed. Three A.M. on the dot, it got so I didn’t even have to look. I’d get out of bed and turn on the lights and it was a shock to see all the details of my apartment, not at all like I’d been imagining them in my uneasy doze. Sometimes a siren would be shrieking or a drunk yelling in the street below, adding to the surreal effect. The only thing that helped was food. Take-out leftovers or I’d make popcorn and bring it into bed with me, greasing up the sheets with butter. Then I’d smoke, even if I had managed not to all day—sometimes it was the only way to get through the night.

Mornings were another kind of torture. Walking around my apartment I got light-headed—or maybe it was more like light-bodied. I simply felt way too much: the blood pulsing through the veins in my wrists—Lillith said that it would be easy for me, had showed me the precise vertical cut to use if I really wanted out—the air tickling the hairs in my nostrils, the smooth warm dusty floorboards against the soles of my feet. It was like I had no skin.

I told Valeric about the conversation with my boss. She nodded. “Sounds promising.”

“But I’m too fucked up, I can’t go back.”

“How about part-time? Didn’t you just tell me she’d agreed you’d both think about that?”

“Maybe. If I can concentrate.”

“What’s that on your arm?”

“I had a relapse.”

“You could have picked up the phone.”

“I know. I didn’t think.”

“What happened in Florida?”

“I had a fling with Mel.”

Nothing surprised her. She nodded again and began writing.

The day before, I’d called Waterbury information and was lucky enough to get it right on the second La Monte. “Mel’s busy,” a woman, his mother, I thought, told me. In the background I could hear laughter. “It’s prom night,” the woman explained.