Previously on Haverbrook [read the full episode here]
“Hello, Amy, where did you go last night? When you weren’t here, I was concerned you were caught in the rioting.”
“No, I couldn’t make sense of your bathroom teleport and ended up in Haverbrook,” I explained, not going into detail about my overnight adventure.
“You should think about getting out of town for a while,” Gayle offered, making it seem like a routine excursion. “I’m going to Monmar for a retreat until this dies down. Where do you live?”
“Silverton Square.”
“I’m so sorry,” was Gayle’s only comment. “Is there somewhere else you can go?”
“Yes. Can I use your teleport?”
And then I was in Haverbrook again. With the teleport vertigo – the feeling of having no place, no form. Though part of my unsteady feeling wasn’t just the teleport. I likely had no home and not much of anything else. A quick mental inventory produced only the clothes I’d been wearing since yesterday morning, the contents of my purse, and a bag full of work papers that may or may not be irrelevant. My cash consisted of my wallet’s contents, $62, and the little money I still kept at the bank. The grocery store had a bank branch, so I wandered to the counter to find out if I could withdraw it. The teller informed me the limit was only $100 per day now. I took it and stuffed it into my bra.
I walked out of the store and headed to John’s apartment block. I didn’t have his gate card, so I walked around to the visitor's lobby.
I opened the solid, spotless glass door that led into the lobby. As uninteresting as the apartment buildings looked, the lobby was surprisingly fashionable and inviting. Ivory paneling and immaculate tile floors surrounded me as I walked in. Plush grey rugs created casual seating areas with blue toile overstuffed wingback chairs. Glass tables sat in the middle of each seating area where you could nonchalantly set your wine spritzer or single malt scotch. Because those would be the only drinks that could do the scene justice. Must have been a recent renovation. The concierge at the massive front desk greeted me with a smile and a, “How can I help you?”
As I waited in the lobby for the concierge to call John, I suddenly needed to sit down. The chair was comfortable, but my thoughts were not. I was depending on someone I’d known less than twenty-four hours to shelter me for – how long? What if he didn’t let me in? Not many places I could go for $162. Then came the familiar existential dread at my lack of social network and poor life choices.
“Ms. Poppin, you can go through. Do you need directions to Mr. Thorne’s building?” offered the concierge as I tried not to appear too relieved about not being homeless.
“No, I’ve been there before.” After I said it, I thought she gave me an odd look.
When I arrived at John’s door, it was already partially open to let me in. Security must be good.
“Hello…John?” I called into the seemingly empty apartment.
“Hello Amy,” he rolled into sight in his desk chair from his office at the end of the hall. “I’m working but make yourself at home. There’s some food in the fridge.” And then he closed the office door behind him.
I contemplated my priorities, food or shower. Shower won as food always tastes better when you’re clean.
As I stepped out of the shower, now with clean hair and scrubbed face, I looked at my dirty two-day worn clothes. I didn’t want to put them back on. I could wash them, but what could I wear until then? John’s bathrobe was hanging on the back of the door. That would have to do for now. As I slipped the robe on, the surrealness of the situation hit me again. I was wearing an almost complete stranger’s bathrobe, all my girly bits airing out underneath and about to scrounge through his fridge looking for lunch. And then I thought, “I guess he’s a bathrobe kinda guy.”
When I stepped out of the bathroom, barely-dressed, looking for the washing machine, I was relieved to see John’s office door still closed. I found the washer in an alcove off the kitchen and put my clothes in to wash. Then I took a look in John’s fridge and found some leftover chicken and mashed potatoes. An orange from the fruit bowl sitting on the kitchen island completed my feast.
As I ate, I tried to plan my next steps. I needed to check in with my office to see if they were still operating. But if they were still operating, I wasn’t sure how I could go on working for them. I needed somewhere to live in the city since staying forty miles out in Haverbrook was not feasible. I wouldn’t be able to find many accommodations in the city with the $400 I still had in the bank. I couldn’t count on my stash of cash and coins to still be in my old apartment.
After eating, I dutifully put my dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I hadn’t used a dishwasher in years, but it still felt like habit. It wasn’t until after I loaded my dishes, that I noticed John had sorted the dirty silverware by type – all the spoons in one basket, all forks in another. I wonder if he’ll notice that I didn’t follow his system?
Clean and fed (but not yet dressed!), I grabbed my phone from my bag and called my office’s main extension. No answer and the call wasn’t forwarded to another phone. I called my boss’s mobile phone – it went straight to voicemail. I left a message and tried one more call to my colleague, Cynthia, on her mobile phone. She picked up.
“Hello, Amy?” she answered with a hint of panic in her voice, “are you ok? We didn’t know if you were ok. Silverton Square got the worst of it last night. Tanya is missing. The office is closed until who knows when. Are you safe?” Good old Cynthia, explaining everything in a single breath.
“Yes, I’m safe,” which came out sounding more like a question than I intended. “I’m in Haverbrook, staying with a friend.”
“Who do you know in Haverbrook?” Cynthia asked with what I hoped was jealousy in her voice.
“Just an old school friend who took pity on me and let me stay at his bachelor pad,” I lied. I didn’t need Cynthia’s attention on a situation I didn’t completely understand myself.
“Well, stay safe and stay out of trouble.” Had I heard Cynthia just wink at me over the phone?
After my call, I sat on the couch, staring out the picture window overlooking the other apartment buildings. No job, no income, no savings, no home, and staying with someone I had just met. The buzzer on the dryer went off, but I didn’t move. As bleak as my prospects were, I couldn’t say that I was unhappy sitting on the couch in nothing but a stranger’s bathrobe looking out onto a quiet town.
Eventually, I snapped out of my daydream when I remembered the potential embarrassment of John finding me in just his bathrobe. I dressed in my newly clean and dry clothes and replaced John’s bathrobe on the hook in the bathroom. None the wiser.
John was still working in his office with the door closed. I turned on the TV and looked for some news. Something that might give me an idea when I could return to the city and rebuild my life. John was kind, but I’m sure he had limits to strange women staying in his apartment. “Make yourself at home,” he said when I arrived. I hoped I wouldn’t make him regret those words.
After about an hour, I turned off the news. It was not helpful, which I should have known. Doomsday predictions were not what I needed to hear. Before the depressing news led me to contemplate drastic life changes, I decided the best course of action was a nap. I pulled the nondescript blanket off the back of the couch, fluffed the nubbly throw pillow, and settled in.
I woke up to John in the kitchen, making dinner.