To Build a Home

33 | New York

My apartment was dark and warm when I arrived in Manhattan. The first thing I did was drop my bag at the door and find the window unit to turn on the air condition. I stood at the small window that overlooked 106th Street and let the cold air dry my sweat in the dark. I had forgotten about the long walk up the four flights of stairs in my building and was obviously out of shape. New Yorkers used different muscles.

I looked below at the old woman pushing a cart with groceries, the homeless man across the street sleeping next to his dog, and the couple holding hands as they ignored everything around them. There was a jogger or two and a line of cars waiting for the light to change at the end of the block. As soon as it turned green, the car in the back honked his horn, which began a chorus of honking. I was finally home.

Once I was sufficiently cool, I fumbled for the lights. The apartment looked like a museum diorama for a twenty-first century artist struggling to pay rent, dusty Ikea furniture stuffed into every corner of the tiny square room, poorly assembled and leaning in places or missing essential pieces. My yoga mat was still rolled out on the floor and there was a stack of unopened mail still waiting for me on the coffee table from before I had left.

There was a photo of my brother and me on the end table, next to the pink lamp and empty candy dish. Theresa had captured it when they had visited New York to tell me I was going to be an uncle. We were in a crowded pizza place down the street standing at the counter, too excited to search for a restaurant and too hungry to wait for a table. "We'll go somewhere fancy next time!" Phil had said. "New York's known for pizza anyway, right?" All we could talk about was how excited our parents would have been for a grandchild and how they'd visit New York every summer once the baby was born.

I walked towards the kitchen and immediately smelled something foul. I turned the corner to find a dead mouse caught in a trap. I yelled for Darren, but instantly realized where I was and that I no longer had an in-house rodent collector or fly swatter or handyman or lawnmower. Well, I no longer had a lawn to mow or central air. Or a family. I ignored my wandering thoughts and placed the trap in a plastic bag, tossed it down the shoot. I lit every candle and kept the windows open through the night.

The first morning in my apartment I woke to the scent of the hot dog vendor outside wafting in from the street mixed with the vanilla-scented candles and the dead mouse stench. There was stale bread and rotten eggs in the kitchen, so I ran to the corner store to pick up some essentials. I cooked way too much for breakfast, still accustomed to family-size meals and instead of putting away the leftovers, I threw them in the garbage. I didn't want the constant reminder of everything I left in Windber.

When I had arrived at the house in the carshare the day before, the driveway was empty and I knew Darren was either still at the lawyer's office or back at a job site. It was getting late and I didn't have long if I wanted to avoid him. Just as I was thanking the driver and getting out of the car, Mrs. Whitman called my name from behind. "Ryan!" she had said, "Ryan!" Much like the first time I had encountered her and the condolences parade, I thought about making a run for it.

"Hi, Mrs. Whitman," I had said. "I'm sorry, I'm in a rush."

"Oh, I just wanted to say that I heard about you and Darren. I'm so thrilled for you both. You know," she went on, "that first day you came back I had a feeling something might happen between you two."

I could barely form words. All I thought to say was, "Who told you?"

"You don't have to be a genius to see it," she said. "But you know how this town is, someone sees a look or a kiss and stories kind of take on a life of their own. But how nice for the little one, after losing two parents, to gain two more."