With a sound like a sudden breath, the canopy spreads in the gloom. I bring it to eye level, fumble for the lock with my other hand. The trick is to keep breathing. The trick is to not stop.
I don’t stop.
The lock turns in my hand. The knob turns next. I crush my eyelids shut and pull. A gasp of cool air. The door dents the umbrella; I maneuver myself through the doorway.
Now the cold encloses me, hugs me. I scurry down the steps. One, two, three, four. The umbrella pushes against the air, plows through it, like the prow of a ship; with my eyes buttoned tight, I feel it flowing in sharp currents on either side of me.
My shins brake. Metal. The gate. I wave my hand until I’ve grasped it and draw it open, step through. The soles of my slippers slap concrete. I’m on the sidewalk. I feel needles of rain pricking my hair, my skin.
It’s strange: In all the months we’ve been experimenting with this ludicrous umbrella technique, it never occurred to me or (I assume) to Dr. Fielding that I might simply close my eyes. No sense in wandering around sightless, I suppose. I can feel the shift in barometric pressure, and my senses prickle; I know the skies are vast and deep, an upside-down ocean . . . but I screw my eyelids tighter still and think of my house: my study, my kitchen, my sofa. My cat. My computer. My pictures.
I pivot left. East.
I’m walking blind down a sidewalk. I need to orient myself. I need to look. Slowly I unshutter one eye. Light dribbles in through the thicket of my lashes.
For an instant I slow, almost stop. I’m squinting at the crosshatched innards of the umbrella. Four blocks of black, four lines of white. I imagine those lines surging with energy, bulging like a heartbeat monitor, spiking and sinking with the rhythm of my blood. Focus. One, two, three, four.
I tilt the umbrella up a few degrees, then a few more. There she is, bright as a spotlight, red as a stoplight: that scarlet coat, those dark boots, the clear plastic half-moon nodding above her. Between us stretches a tunnel of rain and pavement.
What will I do if she turns around?
But she doesn’t. I drop the umbrella and cram my eyelid shut once more. Step forward.
A second step. A third. A fourth. By the time I’ve stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, my slippers sopping, my body shaking, sweat sliding down my back, I’ve decided to hazard a second look. This time I open the other eye, lift the umbrella until she flares within my view again, a streaking flame. I flick a glance left—St. Dymphna’s, and now the fire-red house, its window boxes throbbing with mums. I flick a glance right: the beady eyes of a pickup staring down the street, headlights livid in the gloom. I freeze. The car swims past. I squeeze my eyes shut.
When I open them again, it’s gone. And when I look down the sidewalk, I see that she is, too.
Gone. The sidewalk is empty. In the distance, through the haze, I can make out a knot of traffic at the intersection.
The haze thickens, and I realize it’s my vision thickening, quickening.
My knees buck, then buckle. I start to sink to the ground. And as I do, even with my eyes reeling in my skull, I picture myself from overhead, shivering in my sodden robe, my hair pasted against my back, an umbrella dipped uselessly in front of me. A lone figure on a lonely sidewalk.
I sink further, melting into the concrete.
But—
—she can’t be gone. She hadn’t reached the end of the block. I shut my eyes, picture her back, the hair brushing her neck; then I think of Jane as she stood at my sink, one long braid plunging between her shoulder blades.
And as Jane turns to face me, my knees brace themselves against each other. I feel the robe dragging along the sidewalk, but I haven’t collapsed yet.
I stand still, my legs locked.
She must have disappeared into . . . I review the map in my brain. What’s beyond that red house? The antique shop sits across the street—vacant now, I remember—and beside the house is—
The coffee shop, of course. She must be in the coffee shop.
I lift my head back, raise my chin to the sky, as though I might fling myself upright. My elbows piston. My splayed feet press against