Past This Point Read online

The second I walked through my front door, I smelled chili verde simmering in the crockpot, a recipe handed down from my mom. After dropping the bags near the rapidly growing pile in my spare room, I changed into jeans and harnessed Zeke for his evening walk.

  Downstairs, we stopped at a tree so he could sniff out the scents of other dogs. The thin coat I’d foolishly thrown on wasn’t thick enough to combat the cold, and I shivered when a strong gust of wind blew down my street. Zeke, however, was enjoying the air flowing through his soft white fur. His head was high, and he was panting as he paused to enjoy the breeze. He was half American Eskimo and half cocker spaniel—they called it a Cockamo. His Eskimo coat was so thick that he almost always ran hot.

  An old woman wearing a surgical mask passed us, pushing a utility cart full of bottled water. She shot me an intense grimace, warning me with her eyes of some imminent calamity. Shaken, I turned away as Zeke pulled me to the next tree. I was probably reading too much into that look.

  At the end of the street, we crossed and made our way back up the block. Zeke ventured into the cement planter bordering a lofty oak tree and squatted in a patch of dirt to do his business, and a man coughed violently in the house nearest to us. The wet hacking followed by spitting made the hairs rise on my neck, and my skin felt clammy. I rushed Zeke through the rest of the walk, tugging him away from poles and shrubs while he looked up at me, annoyed.

  I ran up the stairs. Zeke, an unwilling participant in my hasty retreat, dragged his feet as I pulled him up each flight. When we got to our floor, I leaned against the wall and tried to catch my breath. I was anxious and ill at ease, feeling as if I couldn’t escape the flu no matter how careful I was. It was everywhere.

  In an effort to calm myself down, I put Damien Rice on my iPod, poured myself a glass of wine, and started slicing and sautéing onions for the cilantro rice to accompany the tender pork stew. My commitment to an unsocial life had allowed me the time to get back into cooking, something that comforted me in a way that nothing else could. I’d learned from my mother how to make everything from scratch, and I heard my mom’s words in my ear, correcting my dicing and measuring, making me feel less alone. My kitchen, while a bit outdated with its fifties-style stove and black-and-white-checkerboard tiles, was spacious and had a big window that overlooked a small park.

  I felt that certain foods went with different moods. When I was sad, I wanted pasta, grilled cheese sandwiches, or fried chicken with mashed potatoes and buttery corn on the cob. When I was happy, I craved steak, fresh vegetables, and chocolate. When I was angry, I could kill a Halloween-sized bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in under ten minutes. But in my current state, bored and lonely, I wanted slow-roasted pork that fell off the bone, my aunt’s chicken mole that took two days to make, and homemade sweet pastries. Perfecting my peanut butter cookies helped keep the apathy at bay.

  Since the breakup, I’d learned to wear my hardened personality like a coat of armor. While I ate dinner, I wondered if that was why I still hadn’t gotten sick. Others were out socializing and busy being part of society, sharing their lives, experiences, and the flu. I didn’t want any part of that society or their germs. The loneliness was easier to take than the continual line of commitment-phobic, always-looking-for-something-better men who had sucked the soul right out of me. I felt better about my self-imposed exile, heavyhearted but realistic about my future.

  Chapter 2

  December 11th

  I tossed and turned all night, intermittently dreaming about the man in the grocery store following me down aisle after aisle. I finally gave up around six thirty and crawled out of bed. I put water and grounds in the coffee maker and hit the start button, but my refrigerator revealed that I was out of cream, and the grocery store didn’t open for another hour. I sighed and switched off the appliance.

  I slipped on my sneakers, leashed Zeke, and headed down to The Burly Bean, coffee’s answer to Jamba Juice. Everything was organic with fancy names and even fancier price tags. I usually avoided shops like that, favoring small, family-run bodegas. But it was the only place in my neighborhood open so early. The anticipation of The Bean’s long line made me even crankier than usual.

  I clipped Zeke’s leash to the bike rack outside. As I turned to walk into the cafe, a man looking at his phone exited and almost plowed right into me. I took a step back to avoid running into him, but he didn’t even look up.

  “Excuse me!” I said loudly.

  Startled, he finally glanced at me. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there,” he said with a hint of an accent before going back to tapping the keys on his phone.

  “I’m sure you didn’t with your nose buried in your phone.”

  With his eyes still on the phone, he nodded and smiled as if I’d just given him a compliment. But he did reach over with one arm and pull the door open for me. For some reason, it irritated me. How can I be annoyed with him when he’s doing something nice? I felt cheated of the opportunity to be angry. I gave him a tight smile and walked through the door. I was surprised to find the café virtually empty. Only two people sat in front of the big-screen TV tuned to the Today Show, and one employee worked behind the counter.

  When I stepped up, the perky cashier looked my way, and I could almost hear the ding from her wide smile. “Good morning. What can I get for you today?”

  “Can I get a small coffee with cream and sugar?”

  “Of course you can! What kind of coffee would you like?”

  “Just coffee, regular coffee.”

  Her smile faltered for a second but quickly returned. “For here or to go?”

  “To go.”

  “All right. That’ll be four fifty-three.”

  I begrudgingly swiped my card, thinking I could have bought three coffees for that price at Kwan’s deli, and mumbled my thanks.

  I stood at the counter and watched Zeke through the window while she poured my coffee.

  A few minutes later, she handed over a paper cup with a protective sleeve. Just as I was about to take a much-needed sip, she said, “Have a wonderful day. Just remember, every day is full of new possibilities!”

  I scowled. “You see this coffee in my hand, right?”

  Her smile didn’t crack, but fear rose in her eyes. “Yes, I do. But it’s not just coffee. It’s great coffee!” She was really committed to the chipper act.

  “So clearly, I haven’t had my coffee yet. Do you really think I’m ready for your overly optimistic slogans right now?” I knew I was being surly, but for some reason, I felt the need to put the girl in her place.

  Her face fell, and she muttered, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m just trying to be nice.”

  I felt like an ogre. “Look, it’s not you. It’s me. I’m sorry. Have a good day,” I said as I walked away, embarrassed. I had no idea why I thought going off on that barista would make me feel better. It was exactly why I wasn’t fit to be in society anymore.

  As I was about to push through the door, one of the other customers, a wiry man with glasses, said, “Hey, can you turn this up?”

  I looked over at the TV while the cashier raised the volume. The screen had changed to say “Breaking News” with a ticker at the bottom slowly inching across the screen: Ten people confirmed dead from recent flu outbreak.

  That got my attention. Dead? That was unsettling. My hand fell from the door, and I walked closer to the television. I took a sip of my coffee—and I had to admit, it was great coffee—as the cashier came around the counter to join us.

  The image changed to a newswoman staring intensely at the camera. “Doctors are baffled by this rare strain of the flu. We go now to Dr. Herbert Schiffer with the Center for Disease Control.”

  A big man with thick glasses and a lab coat appeared on the screen. “We’ve never seen anything like it. We’ve tried every medication, every vaccine, and they do nothing to this mutation. We have designated it as NOS-9 because of its non-specific properties and symptoms. This is a deadly virus, and we are working day and night to find some way to diminish its effects.”

  The anchorwoman came back on and announced a press conference before the scene shifted again. The mayor of New York stood on a small platform in front of a crowd of reporters.

  He walked over to the podium, shuffled some papers, and cleared his throat a few times. When he looked up, he seemed worried and unsure of himself. “As of last night, the virus that has been sweeping across the eastern half of the United States has become deadly. Reports have come in from several states, some as far as Louisiana, confirming ten deaths from this virus, including five deaths here in New York City. We have not been able to ascertain whether the virus is airborne, but we should all proceed as if it is.

  “Because of the recent deaths and widespread infection, I am declaring a state of emergency and advising everyone to stay home. Do not go to work and only go outside if absolutely necessary. Subways and buses will be operating on a limited schedule and will be shut down after ten p.m. tonight. Non-emergency vehicles will be banned after eleven p.m. on city streets. Those who choose to ignore this directive will be fined.

  “If you are not at home, make your way there as soon as possible and stay there. Please exercise extreme caution. At the end of this broadcast, we will provide a list of hospitals in all five boroughs that have units dedicated to providing care for this virus. If you are experiencing any symptoms, go immediately to a participating hospital or call the number below, and we will send an ambulance for you. We will update you as soon as new information becomes available. Thank you all for your cooperation.”

  The scene shifted back to the set of the Today Show with the ticker at the bottom reiterating what the mayor had just said. I stared at the screen, my muscles tense and my stomach fluttering with anxiety. I
kept reading the ticker as it scrolled continuously, waiting for it to sink in. Al Roker looked as though he wanted to sprint off the set.

  “Oh my god!” the cashier exclaimed, breaking me out of my trance. “I can’t believe people are dying from the flu!” She put her hand to her forehead and ran it around her face as if testing for fever.

  “That’s because it’s not the flu,” the man in glasses said, jabbing a finger at the TV. “They aren’t telling us everything. That many people don’t die from the flu. Go home.” He grabbed his coffee and half-eaten bagel and walked out.

  I shivered. If he was right and it wasn’t the flu, then it could be even worse than I’d been thinking. The three of us stared at his retreating back, dumbfounded. The other customer, a woman with a baby in a stroller, took a cue from the cashier and felt her baby’s forehead then her own. She hurriedly grabbed her purse and rushed out of the shop, leaving her latte and muffin behind.

  The cashier’s hand fluttered to her chest. “But I’m not off until three.”

  “I think your manager will understand,” I replied. “I’d close up if I were you.” I walked out the door.

  Hearing a noise, I looked back over my shoulder. The cashier had taken my advice and turned the sign to Closed.

  My mind was racing as Zeke and I rushed home. They’d shut the subways down when storms made them unsafe, but they’d never done it for health reasons. Even though I’d been acting on my suspicions, I’d assumed it was my paranoid side rearing its annoying head. My hoard of food would soon come in very handy.

  When I entered my apartment, I locked the door behind me. I looked down at my dog. “Zeke, buddy, you were wrong.”

  He huffed in response and shuffled his paws, which had an overabundance of fur sprouting from between each toe. I’d nicknamed them his bedroom slippers.

  I ran to the bathroom and took my temperature. After an agonizing minute, I was relieved to see the digital window read ninety-eight-point-four. I relaxed against the sink while I thought about what to do next. I should knock on my neighbors’ doors to see if anyone else is home. We weren’t the most sociable neighbors, but my recent hermit-hood had caused me to ignore them more than usual. I racked my brain, trying to remember if I had seen any of them in the past month. The last time I saw Kelly from the second floor and her son, Isaac, was about two weeks ago. Isaac loved Zeke and always screamed when he saw him. She had said her mom was sick, and they were going to take care of her. That was the last contact I’d had with anyone in my building.

  My building was a block-C shape, the middle section thinner because it only housed the stairs. The east and west sides were almost mirror images, holding all two-bedroom apartments with the same layout. But on the first floor, the bodega took over the west side, leaving only seven apartments.

  I started at Kirk’s apartment since it was across the hall from mine. In spite of the proximity of our apartments, I rarely saw Kirk. He was a quiet man who usually just nodded to me and only became garrulous when talking about renovations to his apartment. I pulled the collar of my sweatshirt up over my face and knocked softly. After a few seconds, I knocked again, louder. I pressed my ear to the door, but all I heard was a vehicle racing down our street.

  I walked down one flight and knocked on the door of apartment four, which was directly beneath mine. I often speculated about the resident, middle-aged Tom, who had an impressive handlebar mustache, and his mysterious movements. I only saw him once every other month or so, and a few times, he had been with younger women. He always wore a suit, so I imagined he was a travelling salesman. But I also thought he could be married and using the small apartment as his love nest. I knocked and listened. No answer. I wondered if he was away on a sales trip and had managed to avoid the whole debacle.

  I walked the few feet to apartment five, where a gay couple lived. Out of everyone, I’d chatted with Terrence and Eric the most over the years, but I hadn’t seen either of them in at least a month because they had a condo in Florida where they spent most of the winter months. I knocked four separate times, waiting for an answer and hoping I wasn’t completely alone. But my knocks went unanswered.

  I ran down to the second floor and knocked at apartment two, where a single woman named Barb lived. When there was no answer, I put my ear against the door. The low sounds of a TV resonated through the door. Barb coughed, and I jumped back quickly, my back hitting the door of apartment three. My heart was beating as quickly as a bird caged in my chest. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

  Turning around, I knocked loudly on Kelly’s door, not expecting an answer. After my expectations proved correct, I went down to the solitary first-floor apartment, which belonged to Mr. Tablock. He was over eighty years old and had lived in the building for forty years. I’d seen his live-in Haitian nurse, Regine, in the hallway from time to time, taking out the trash. I used to ask her how he was doing, but her response was always the same: “He’s getting old, but he’s got spunk.” I stopped asking and just said hello.

  I pounded on the door, praying Regine and Mr. Tablock were still there and not sick. But all was quiet. Besides infected Barb, I was alone.

  Back in my apartment, I saw that it was nearing eight a.m., which meant the store on the corner would be open in a few minutes. I threw on my coat and wrapped my scarf around my face before running downstairs.

  When I reached the shop, there was a note on the door, stating that the store would be closing at six p.m. due to the quarantine. The place was already packed with people frantically grabbing food. The line for the single checkout stand disappeared down an aisle.

  There wasn’t much left in the canned goods section, and the dry-goods section had been almost cleaned out too. Since I had a stockpile of both, I decided to buck the trend and grab some fresh produce and a large pork shoulder, both of which were still in healthy supply. I could make a stew that would last a week or two if I froze half of it. I doubted the quarantine would last that long. I added four bags of dog food, a combo pack of batteries, and two cartons of much-needed half-and-half to my cart.

  Joining the line, I noticed that everyone had something covering their faces, making us all look as if we were about to rob the place as our eyes darted around suspiciously. It took thirty minutes to finally make it to the front and check out.

  Back at my apartment, I thought about calling my mom, but I procrastinated by washing my hands and face. Mom was overprotective with everyone, but where I was concerned, she took it to another level. I had been born four weeks premature and exhibited signs of what doctors called “failure to thrive.” In school, I was much smaller than the other kids, and when we moved to a new town during my third-grade year, none of the kids would talk to me. After my many failed attempts at friendship, I cornered a girl named Sarah, who happened to live across the street from me. She told me all the kids thought I was a five-year-old prodigy, and they didn’t want to play with a five-year-old. Once I persuaded her that I was eight, she launched a campaign on my behalf, pulling kids aside and convincing them of my age. Eventually, they were swayed, and Sarah and I became best friends. But it didn’t help when my mom called me Peewee in front of all my classmates one day as she dropped off my forgotten lunch box. My face had turned bright red as everyone snickered.

  I wasn’t allowed to go on roller coasters until I was fifteen because Mom was afraid I would fall out of the harness. I begrudgingly granted her that because, at the time, I only weighed eighty-five pounds. Her concerns were probably justified. All of that would have been enough fuel for my mom’s vigilant worrying, but then I did the unthinkable.

  My entire family was still living in California, where I grew up. My mom’s large Mexican side had each other’s backs, no questions asked. My dad came from a group of fun-loving Norwegians, and even though he had a brother and two sisters, his extended family couldn’t compare to the size of my mom’s. He had no idea what he was getting himself into by marrying into my mom’s loud, intrusive clan. He used humor to deflect their invasive questions, but at gatherings, I often found him alone outside, taking a much-needed breather from the chaos.

  When I decided to move to New York without knowing a soul in the city, none of them understood. I could never tell them that it was their protection that I wanted to escape. My two sides were polar opposites, and my identity was spread between both but not firmly planted in either. Even my appearance was ambiguous: I had brown eyes and olive skin but a slightly upturned nose and a small, bow-shaped mouth. People usually had a hard time placing my ethnicity. I’d always felt as though I was in the middle of nowhere, perpetually in between. I had needed to go in search of a version of myself that was true and not just who I was with them.