I reached for my China silk robe and hurried out of the bedroom. With my robe barely on before reaching the door, I looked through the peephole before unlocking two locks and a reinforced chain. A short, perky, dark-haired woman about my age stood there, with a light dusting of flour on a delicately freckled face. She wore masses of gold and diamond jewelry, despite running shorts and a tank top.
“Hi. I’m Sarah Kitt. I moved in across the hall a few days ago.”
She peered around me. Even at barely five foot three, I was taller.
Winking at me but looking at Jake, she continued, “Nice place.”
Understanding Sarah’s reference, I laughed, “I think so too. Come on in.”
“Sorry to barge in on a Saturday afternoon, but I’m in the middle of a cake—well, not in the middle of a cake—in the middle of baking a cake. It’s raining and I don’t have enough sugar for frosting. I bake when I’m depressed. My boyfriend and I just broke up.” 1
It was jarring to hear liveliness mix with heartbreak, and I was surprised a complete stranger would share so much. But there was something endearing about the spunky brunette.
Jake’s voice, in the background, distracted me. I absently fingered my chai—chai meaning “life” in Hebrew—on a delicate gold chain around my neck. Sarah took note of the charm.
“You’re Jewish?” she asked. “Me, too. Funny, you don’t look Jewish.”
I was used to the comment. People think we all have large noses or else we’ve had rhinoplasty.
I pulled Sarah inside the door, locking and bolting it again.
Sarah noticed and raised her eyebrows. “Am I being held captive?”
I laughed and pointed to Jake. “He’s the one held captive— by his little black beeper. I’ll get the sugar, be right back.”
I strained on tiptoes for the ceramic sugar canister on the top shelf of a kitchen cupboard, glimpsing myself in the mirror that hung inside the cupboard door. I gasped at my weary mirror image. Just out of the shower, my damp, long hair was frizzing as it dried. Brown eyes, normally big and wide, were red from lack of sleep.
Christ. How much more stress can I take?
I stuck out my tongue. “Funny, you don’t look Jewish,” I mimicked.
I headed to the front door and handed the sugar to Sarah. “Just like Mayberry.”
Jake hung up the phone and came to stand next to me.
“Jake, this is my neighbor, Sarah Kitt. We’re just meeting now.”
The phone rang. I jumped and said too tersely, “I’ll get it.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow as I took the ringing phone into the nearby bedroom, staring at it as if it was a mortal enemy.
I picked up the phone. “Hello. Hello. Hello!”
I slammed down the phone.
While chewing on a thumbnail, I looked out the bedroom window at steady, driving rain.
I reentered the living room.
Flatly, I stated, “Him.”
Jake coldly replied, “You ought to change your telephone number, Suze. This has gone on too long. You’re only playing into his hand.”
I bit my lip, searching for a reply.
Sarah awkwardly spoke up. “Well, uh, I’d better be going. I’m a flight attendant and have an early call tomorrow. Thanks for the sugar.”
Jake unbolted and unlatched. Sarah backed out of my door, holding the canister up high.
She mocked a Shakespearean actor, bowed, and bid us goodbye. “Sweets to the sweet, farewell!”
I still can’t add images; very frustrated. No one live to talk to. sigh
- Sarah committed suicide when she was 33-years old, only a few years after this. I had already moved to California, so I was not there for her like she had been for me for me. (see Rain Dodging, pp. 143-159. ↩︎
Suicide and Crisis Lifeline: dial 988
