I don’t think he’s flirting this time, but he’s staring at me like I’m fascinating, and I don’t have time for the way my body responds to that.

“I’m not trying to air-condition the hallway,” I say, ushering him out.

A flush spreads over his cheeks so quickly that it’s almost startling, but he steps out into the humid hallway and doesn’t stop until he’s outside. He jogs down the stairs, then turns to wave and trips over a raised corner of slate sidewalk and it’s cute.

I look away so I don’t watch him head into his house. Somewhere nearby a jackhammer is breaking up solid ground, and the whine of construction machinery floats through the air. A Black woman with high cheekbones and a brown-skinned Asian woman walk down the street, chatting in accented English; each pushes a stroller with a white child tucked inside. They nod at me in greeting, and Toby starts up his barking as they pass by.

As I close the door, I hear the phone ringing upstairs. All the way upstairs. In Mommy’s apartment.

It could be a telemarketer—every time I bother to answer, it’s someone warning about auto insurance default for a car I don’t own or trying to scam me with questions about tax evasion. Those threats are nothing compared to the call I’m dreading, and I can’t keep avoiding said calls because that could lead to worse consequences. I bolt up the stairs, pull the key from my pocket as I round the banister, and fumble the door open.

“Hello?”

I pray for the automated click of a recording trying to sell me something or scam me, but a man’s voice says, “Hello, is this Yolanda Green?”

A lifetime of lying to bill collectors enables me to lie smoothly and without hesitation. “She’s out right now. May I take a message?”

“She gets out a lot for a woman in her condition,” the man says.

“Can I take a message?” I repeat, putting a little steel in my tone. These weasels had found her number at the hospital, trying to find out her condition. Getting her into the retirement home had felt like a spy mission, even if it had gone to shit in the end.

“No message. I’ll call back at a better time. Which would be . . . ?”

“Actually, I have your number here, I’ll have her call you back. Does that work?”

He chuckles. “Sure.”

With that I hang up and walk out of the apartment, feeling like I’m wobbling on stilts, my head spinning like it’s in the clouds. My heart is still hammering from my dash up to the apartment, and I sit down in the middle of the staircase and drop my forehead to my knees, forcing myself to breathe deeply. The air is humid and thick in the stairwell, and my nose itches from dust because I haven’t swept up here in a while, but I don’t get up.

I can do this. I’m my mother’s daughter. I can do this.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and text Drea.

Are you busy? I’m sorry to bother you every time but they called again.

I’m at work. We can talk about this later.

Okay. ?3

I put the phone down and just breathe. I start to nod off a bit, the heat and the soul-deep fatigue threatening to pull me under. I feel too heavy, and the thought of carrying this body all the way down to my apartment is overwhelming.

My eyes are drifting closed when Toby starts barking next door. I try to ignore him like I usually do, since he barks at damn near everything, but his bark is so insistent and almost desperate that I drag myself to my feet. This isn’t how he sounds when demanding a walk or barking at whoever walks by outside. I stumble down the stairs, still in a pre-nap fog, cursing Josie and Terry for not putting him into the new doggie day care that they can certainly afford.

When I get to the main landing, the front door of the house is wide open, and I freeze on the bottom step. Hadn’t I closed it after Theo left? I was in a rush and I haven’t been super sharp lately, but closing and locking the door is instinct for me. Second nature.

Mommy drilled that shit into me, especially because I’d sometimes be home alone during the time between when I left school and she got home from work. It was muscle memory now.

I peer over the banister into the hallway, which is dark even in midday because Drea always turns off the light as she heads out to work, another habit instilled by my mother.

Toby is still barking wildly, but I stand on the bottom step like a kid afraid to hang their foot over the side of the bed because they expect a monster to pull them down into the darkness. I don’t see anything, but fear gathers at the nape of my neck as I stare because I feel like someone, or something, is looking back.

I think of Drew the Uber driver’s calm as he ignored my demands that he stop. How he knew my last name and there was no trace of him on my phone, and I haven’t even told anyone what happened.

The shadows near the door shift and my heart slams in my chest. Someone is there.

“Sydney?”

I jump, and damn near piss myself, but the voice is coming from outside. Ms. Candace, gripping her cane and peering in.

“You okay?”

I nod, even though tremors of fear are running through my body, a light thrum against my constant tension.

“I was like, ‘Did this child forget to lock the door?’ and instead you just standing there looking like you saw the boogeyman.” She laughs.

I step firmly down onto the hardwood floor, forcing myself not to look behind me into the dark end of the hallway. It’s only a few wobbly steps to the doorway, and then I flip on the hall light.

There’s nothing there but the heavy wooden apartment door, closed tightly. Did I close it before walking Theo to the door? Yes. The air conditioner is on. Of course I did.

“Girl, you need a nap. You always did turn into a bobble-headed little thing when you was tired, and I see that’s still the case.”

I shake my head and step out onto the stoop, where it’s slightly more humid than the hallway and about fifteen degrees hotter. “I’m fine.”

“Here, take this,” she says, reaching into the plastic bag hanging from her arm to hand me a round aluminum container with a plastic lid. As I reach for it, the smell of plátanos and rice and beans from the Dominican spot on the corner makes my mouth water. I try to remember the last thing I ate and come up blank.

“No, that’s o—”

“Take. It,” she says firmly. “I have enough here to feed ten people instead of two, anyway. Gonna take some over to Ashley and Jamel, too. We’re all we got.”

The reminder of my neighbors, who are dealing with every Black parent’s worst nightmare, puts my own problems in perspective. I can’t just fall back into the hole of self-pity.

“You’re right. Thanks.” I blink and inhale deeply. “Are you doing okay?”

She shrugs. “I’m old, my body hurts, but my brain is sharp as ever, even though some people wish that was otherwise.”

My fingers press into the sides of the aluminum container. “Who?”

She sucks her teeth. “These fools playing on my phone, trying to trick me into selling my house like I didn’t spend thirty years processing loans at Apple Bank and wasn’t blessed with two helpings of good sense.”

Some of the sauce from the beans dribbles out onto my fingers and I loosen my grip. “The real estate people?”

She nods. “Been coming to my door, too. Telling me all kinds of bullshit, thinking if they talk fast I’ll go along with it.” She sucks her teeth again, holding it for longer this time to show the true depth of her disdain. “My hair is gray, but my gray matter is still functional, thank you very much.”

“It’s terrible,” I say woodenly. “But they can’t get anything over on you.”

“Not today, not tomorrow, not in this lifetime, baby,” she says with a laugh. “Let me get going. I’ll see you later. Make sure you get that tour ready.”

She says it the same way she used to say, “Make sure you do your homework” when I was a kid, except when I go into the kitchen to do my work now, there won’t be a bologna sandwich and a cup of SunnyD waiting for me.

“Yes, Ms. Candace,” I reply. I linger a bit, take a deep breath, then head back into the apartment, checking every possible hiding place before grabbing a fork, pushing a stack of papers aside, and making myself eat.

Gifford Place OurHood post by Jamel Jones:

Thank you everyone who has stopped by, called, prayed, or sent a message. Ashley and I are hanging in there, but we talked to Preston on the phone and he’s not doing too great. We’re figuring out financial stuff, and we’re treading water for now, but as much as I hate this, I have to ask if anyone has worked with BVT. We have some questions. When it comes to our son, we’re willing to do anything.

Josie Ulnar: I highly recommend them.

Kim DeVries: Same. They’re extremely professional.

Jamel Jones: Thank you both. I am looking for people in the neighborhood who’ve used them to sell a property quickly or have heard from any of our neighbors who sold.

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Chapter 8

Sydney