And when they come back in, Mr. Keller’s face is streaked red and wet, his glasses askew. He shakes his head back and forth, back and forth as if to rattle something out of himself. Mrs. Keller says it simply, mouth curling over the words, pert and ordinary. “I’m dying.” And, “Can you clean up the backyard?”

19

My apartment feels barren now. Before, when I felt like part of its walls, when I drank the dark in like it was something delicious, it felt full. Full enough for me. But now when I come home, it feels lonely, isolated, like the walls are caving in instead of hugging me. I’m there less and less, only to work a few hours a day and sleep, and I don’t miss it. The cabinets are bare. The refrigerator houses one lone bottle of water, mocking me whenever I open it for a late-night snack. I don’t have a life here anymore.

Even after our rooftop chat, Gabriella still seems skeptical of my constant presence in the apartment. She comes late after work, after a date, and sees me on the couch with Anneliese, talking or drawing or reading, my legs curled up under me as I lean on her sturdy arm. Her distrust galls me. Shouldn’t she be happy to have another hand with the kids?

Usually, I take her arrival as my cue to leave, packing up my stuff and thanking her for having me, pecking Anneliese on the cheek as I go out the door.

But one evening, it’s raining hard and fast, the sound pattering incessantly on the windowpanes. I’m tugging on my flip-flops, hoping to just run to the subway without getting too drenched, when Gabriella looks up from pouring herself a mug of tea. “You can stay here, you know. Just make yourself comfortable on the couch. I’ll grab you a pillow and blanket.”

She comes back with the linens and lays them on the end of the couch. “You make my sister happy. When she’s happy, it’s easier for us all,” she says as an explanation for her generosity. I watch her pound the pillow, fluff it up for me.