The doors opened and she let out a loud sigh. Oh, thank goodness! There was no one else inside. She would have taken the stairs, except it was six floors down and would only prolong her sojourn outside. Thankfully, the elevator continued to the first floor without stopping and as soon as the doors opened, she made a run for the exit, bursting through the double doors and out into the street.
The Meatpacking District in New York was a cacophony of sounds as well as smells and sights. The blare of car horns. The smell of grilled meat from a nearby food cart. The seemingly endless parade of people as a tour group crossed her path. It assaulted her senses, making her dizzy.
The doctor at the hospital said it was psychosomatic, that there was nothing wrong with her. It was all in her head, Dr. Stevens had prognosed. But she knew it wasn’t and insisted that all these physical symptoms were real. Her father had been so furious that he took her out of the doctor’s care and that hospital immediately. Since then, she hadn’t seen him or any other doctor. But that was fine because she was fully healed from the bus accident, physically anyway.
As the wave of dizziness passed, she made a beeline for the corner store. The minimart wasn’t crowded at this time of the day, so she was able to zip toward the snack aisle for her cookies. The sour-faced man at the register didn’t try to make small talk, and she did her best to avoid looking into his eyes. After tapping her debit card on the machine to pay, she grabbed her stuff and scampered back to her building. Her stomach tied up in knots when she saw the people waiting for the elevator, so she did a one-eighty turn and headed for the stairs.
Six flights up later, she was finally inside her apartment. Sure, her lungs nearly gave out, but she was here, safe and sound. Her fingers played with the silver ring on her right finger, twisting it around. Though she’d had the ring for what seemed like forever, it was a nervous habit she’d developed in the past three years, as if it were some magic charm, protecting her from whatever harm her brain had cooked up since the accident.
Why couldn’t she just be normal? She sank back against the door and buried her face in her hands. How come everyone else could leave their homes every day and not have a panic attack? Why were they able to go about their day interacting with other people without anxiety creeping in on them?
Minutes ticked by before she finally found the will to get up, then headed toward the kitchen. Her loft took up an entire floor of the building and had one large living area in the front that flowed into the kitchen and dining room, while the rear part was where her bedroom and studio were located. Her coffee was no longer hot, but she didn’t bother to reheat it. Instead, she ripped into a box of cookies and scarfed two down before swallowing a gulp of the leftover brew.
The loud buzzing of the doorbell made her slam the cup down in surprise. It was five thirty, so it could only be one person.
“Hi, Dad,” she greeted as she opened the door. “You have a key, you know, you can always come in anytime. You do own this loft, though one day you’re going to let me buy it off you or at least pay you some rent.”
As always, Jonathan S. Strohen looked immaculately groomed and dressed in his tailored navy suit, his white hair combed back. He smiled at his daughter, his brown eyes turning soft. “I told you, this place is yours. And I wouldn’t dream of intruding on your privacy, sweetheart.” He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, his mustache tickling her. “How are you today?”
“Oh, you know.” She stepped aside to let him inside. “The same.”
There was a flash of sadness across her father’s face, but he quickly pasted on a smile. “How’s the latest work going?”
“It’s going. Want to see?”
He nodded, and she led him to her spacious, light-filled studio. Several paintings were propped up on easels around the room in varying states of doneness. Usually, she worked on one painting at a time, but all of these just seemed to come out of her brain together.
“These are beautiful, sweetheart.” Jonathan took his time looking at each painting as he always did. “I don’t see a theme, though.”
“Um, there’s no theme, really. Just stuff that came to me.”
There was a painting of a bench from Central Park that was almost done, while beside it was the beginnings of a scene from one of her favorite coffee shops. Then there was one of the subway stop on Eighth Avenue, and another of the interior of her studio. Actually, there were three canvases that featured scenes from her loft, including one that she painted back when she had a lot of plants. When she came back from the hospital after the accident, she had found her loft bare, and her father said he had to get rid of most of them because they had died while she was away.
She sighed and fiddled with her ring nervously. “I don’t even know if I’ll show them. Barbara wasn’t too enthusiastic when she saw them.” Compared to her other works—usually dazzling landscapes or thought-provoking portraits—these seemed almost mundane. There was also a hint of sadness in them, like there was something lacking, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what that was.
“Well …” He turned to her. “I’m sure they’ll turn out great once you’re done. And your next show will be another smashing success.”
“You’re supposed to say that. You’re my dad,” she said wryly.
He harrumphed. “I’m so
