Kitabı oku: «Freudian Slip»

Praise for the novels of
ERICA ORLOFF

MAFIA CHIC

“The author of Diary of a Blues Goddess and Divas Don’t Fake It scores again with a charming heroine and a winsome tale.”

—Booklist

SPANISH DISCO

“Cassie is refreshingly free of the self-doubt that afflicts most of her peers.”

—Publishers Weekly

“This fast-paced and funny novel has a great premise and some interesting twists.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

DIARY OF A BLUES GODDESS

“With a luscious atmosphere and a lively, playful tone, Orloff’s novel is a perfect read for a hot summer night.”

—Booklist

THE ROOFER

“Orloff’s characters are wonderful, most particularly Ava, who is resilient enough to take a chance on love.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“The Roofer is a fantastic novel…fans of urban noir romances will appreciate the contrast between glitter and grim and hopelessness and love in a deep, offbeat tale.”

—Harriet Klausner

Freudian Slip
Erica Orloff

To the memory of two people in heaven

I think of most often, Robert and Irene Cunningham

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, a thank-you to my agent, Jay Poynor, for his unflagging support.

Thanks to Margaret Marbury, the ultimate editor—brains and a sense of humor and an uncanny understanding of publishing all rolled into one.

Thanks to Doris E., an old and true friend. ABBA…what can I say? It was an inspiration during the writing.

I’d like to thank, as always, my family, Maryanne and Walter Orloff, Stacey Groome and Jessica Stasinos, J.D., Alexa, Nicholas, Isabella and Jack. To Ariana, who read the manuscript and said she laughed. To Charlie, for some really insightful reading. And to my faithful writing pals Pam, Jon and Melody. Without you, I’d be lost in the thicket of plot.

The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a

heaven of Hell, a hell of Heaven.

—John Milton

Paradise Lost

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

—William Shakespeare

The Tempest

Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments

when, whatever be the attitude of the body,

the soul is on its knees.

—Victor Hugo

Les Misérables

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

BOOK GROUP QUESTIONS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

KATE DARBY WILTED IN the August heat and decided she couldn’t handle the subway tonight. Too steamy, too grimy, too many commuters even at seven o’clock at night. She lifted an arm to hail a cab and smiled when one pulled over to the curb right away.

“Must be my lucky day,” she murmured. She opened the door and slid across the backseat, adjusting her skirt beneath her. “Ninetieth, between First and York.”

The cabbie, black beard flecked with gray, with warm brown skin and a regal nose, nodded his turban-covered head, clicked the meter and pulled into traffic.

Kate leaned back, enjoying the blast of air-conditioning on her damp skin. She lifted her hair, twisting it into a loose chignon, and let the coolness caress the nape of her neck. Her eyes roamed the cabbie’s unique domain. A picture of the Dalai Lama in saffron robes was paper-clipped to the right visor, the holy man’s serene visage beaming at her. A jade-colored Buddha bobblehead perched on the dashboard, happily nodding with each careening motion of the yellow cab. Amethyst rosary beads dangled from the rearview mirror, a silver Jesus, arms outstretched on the cross, swung gently from side to side. A picture of Pope John Paul II was taped to the glove compartment, one hand lifted as if to make a sign of the cross over the faithful. And if Kate was correct, she was pretty sure the turban meant the cabbie was a Sikh. Only in New York.

She leaned forward slightly. “Your cab reminds me of the United Nations.”

He looked at her in the rearview mirror and laughed heartily. “My wife is good Catholic woman. My son is a Buddhist. And I think…God loves us all.”

“You’re probably right.” She edged forward in the seat, resting her head on her forearm as she peered into the front of the cab. She could hear the world’s most infamous shock jock inflaming his listeners over the radio. “God loves everybody. Even him.” She nodded her head toward the radio.

A woman was having an orgasm—real or faked, Kate had no idea—on air.

“Oh, he’s a crazy man,” the cabbie said, in Indian-accented English. “Craaa-zzy.”

Julian Shaw’s raspy voice filled the cab. “You heard it here. Live. Lana Luscious, the world’s hottest lesbian porn star just gave oral sex to Jenna Jones. In my studio. Right here. On my couch. For those of you listening, let me tell you that, if you don’t know Lana, she’s a gorgeous, smokin’ hot brunette with 42-double-Ds, and Jenna is the platinum sex goddess of your wildest imagination. That was so hot. So friggin’ hot. If this couch could talk, baby. So Jenna…did you fake it or was that the real deal?”

“How can you listen to him?” Kate asked the cabbie. She only half listened to the radio now as Julian Shaw sped on to his next favorite point of conversation—mocking gays.

“I always wonder what he’s going to do next.”

“But as a spiritual man…” She gestured with her hand toward the religious items. “I mean…he’s really, really raunchy.”

“I think God has a sense of humor. And maybe…maybe this crazy man is the best and worst of America all in one being. I listen because I want to understand America.”

“America?” Kate tilted her head. “This guy helps you understand America?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” The cabbie nodded his head vigorously. “He is America. He is an insane demigod presiding over chaos.”

Kate smiled. “Now this theory I have to hear.”

The cab stopped at a light, and the cabbie turned his head slightly. “He is America. He is what your country is fascinated with. He is both sides. Yin and yang.”

Kate crinkled her nose. “Um…not seeing the logic yet. Both sides? Lesbians and porn stars? Lesbians and gay men? I don’t understand.”

“No. America loves its sex.” He gestured out the window toward a shop on Fifth Avenue, its mannequins futuristically haunting and sexualized, empty-faced yet erotic. The clothing adorning them accentuating every pointed body part. Yet the overall effect was strangely androgynous.

Kate gazed out, the cab speeding by the window. “Yes, America does.” The next window was Gucci, then a short time later Abercrombie and Fitch. Designers flaunted their wares behind plate glass, with beautiful models, their lips slightly parted with promise. A big poster for a new designer perfume showed a tousled-haired blonde looking as if she was in the throes of passion.

“But then,” the cabbie intoned, “America is very repressed. It pushes sex, sex, sex, but then it’s not happy with sex. It gets offended by sex. Very strange. Very strange.”

“That it is. But still, that show.” She looked at the radio dial. “That show is out of control. I never listen. There was even an argument in the office about him one day. One of the assistants had him on the radio at his desk. He almost got fired for it. The woman in the next cubicle complained that he was creating a hostile work environment.”

“Where do you work?”

“At a publishing house. I’m a book editor.”

“A very honorable profession. I love to read. My son, also. Always his nose in a book. He got a scholarship to university.”

Kate smiled at his pride.

“He wants to be a writer.”

“My boyfriend is a writer. He wrote The Jackal’s Feast.”

“I know that book!” the cabbie said excitedly. “I read it! It was a wonderful book. Very excellent.”

“I was the editor.”

“You are famous!”

“No. Not famous. My boyfriend’s not even famous. The book was well-reviewed though. I think his next one could be huge. If he ever finishes it.”

“I can say I know you,” the cabbie said.

“Sure.”

She leaned back as the DJ continued. Periodically, his words were bleeped. She shook her head. How could anyone stand that guy?

“Pull up over there.” Kate gestured toward the building where David lived. “I’m surprising him with a fresh-off-the-press interview he did with Gotham magazine. The magazine writer clearly adored him.”

“You are a very nice girlfriend then, miss. Surprises are very good. I always like to surprise my wife. One time, I brought home three dozen roses—three dozen. I made her cry happy tears.”

Kate’s eyes watered. She didn’t know why, but the little love stories of people’s lives always touched her.

The cabbie clicked the meter, which chattered and chinged as it spat out a receipt. She handed him a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you. You have a very nice night. God bless you.”

“Thanks. You, too.” She smiled at the bobblehead jiggling on the dash as she clambered out of the cab and walked to David’s building. The doorman let her in. “Evening.” He nodded at her.

“Hi, Henry. How’s your wife feeling?”

“Better, thanks. The doctor says the treatment is working.”

“Oh, that’s very good news.” Kate prided herself on remembering the names of doormen and bodega owners, the bagel guy, the little old man who walked his terrier each day near her apartment. Her father had always taught her that you could go through the world knowing no one, or go through it knowing everyone. She liked knowing everyone’s name, their little love stories and big love stories. It made Manhattan seem a little smaller.

She pressed the button for the elevator and took it to the seventh floor. David was the perfect guy. Smart, funny, unbelievably handsome. He was going to be famous someday. And she was positive this next book was it.

They hadn’t gotten involved until the first book went to press. But the attraction had been there all through the editing process. Everyone in the office felt it. Leslie, her best friend and fellow editor, told her she was the luckiest book editor in Manhattan getting to work with someone who looked like a Brooks Brothers model—with a brain. The chemistry culminated in a celebratory dinner after his first reviews came out—all positive. They’d been together ever since.

The elevator doors opened, and Kate walked to 7B. She put her key into the lock and entered his apartment. His style was, she teased him, “elegant bachelor,” all dark, sleek wood and clubby brown leather, accented with black-and-white photography on the walls in silver frames. The place was dimly lit and she wondered if he was even home. She was about to call out his name when she spotted it. An opened bottle of Kristal champagne. Two crystal flutes, nearly empty, the last champagne bubbles drifting lazily in the remnants. One glass emblazoned with lipstick on the rim. Red. Not her shade.

Feeling like her knees might buckle, she told herself there were a million possible explanations. His childhood best friend, Judy, could have come into the city for dinner. He could be entertaining his sister. But what blared through her head was what she had told him that morning as she left his place. I can’t see you tonight. I have to work late and then meet with an agent for cocktails.

But then she ran into the editor of Gotham, who handed her a crisp copy of the issue. After drinks with the agent, on the spur of the moment she decided to cab it up to his place.

Shaking, feeling like a fool, she stumbled, almost blindly to the bedroom. And there he was, naked, half-erect and hurriedly putting on his boxers. And there she was, frantically shoving her black-lace bra into her purse.

Leslie.

She turned, bile rising in her throat, and ran.

“Kate…Kate…wait!” He chased after her, grabbing her arm. “It’s not what you—”

She shrieked, not even recognizing the voice that came out of her own mouth. “Not what I think? Don’t patronize me! You bastard!”

“I thought—”

“I was working late? Had drinks scheduled. Couldn’t see you?” She felt tears streaming down her face, and she thought she was going to vomit. She wrenched her arm free and reached into her oversize purse to pull out the magazine. She flung it, as hard as she could, at his face, where, thanks to her high school softball career, it landed perfectly, smacking him on his perfect nose. “I ran into the editor of Gotham and wanted to surprise you.”

The magazine landed on the floor cover-side up. One of the heads read, “America’s Best New Writer.”

“Kate.” His face was pale, and he shook his head. “I was drinking. I…”

With all the fury and hatred she could muster, Kate glared at Leslie who stood, teary, in the doorway of his bedroom. Kate swallowed hard. “You two deserve each other.”

She opened the apartment door and fled down the hall. Over and over, in her mind, as if she were unable to control her own brain, the image of Leslie, topless, in his bedroom, came back to her. In slow motion. In fast motion. In frozen images.

She whispered a prayer, “Please let the elevator come right away.” Thankfully, it did. She stepped in and punched the button for the lobby, jabbing it three, four, five times, willing the elevator doors to close faster and deliver her even quicker to the ground floor and away from him. From them. Running out of the lobby, past Henry’s concerned gaze, she stepped into the hot night. She tried to gulp in fresh air, but it felt like breathing in a sauna.

She just wanted to go home and shower off the ugliness she just saw. She wanted to be alone. She turned to hail a cab and saw the cab she had taken not ten minutes before, with his “off-duty” signal, sitting parked on the street.

Wiping at her tears, she walked to the cab and bent over to peer in the window. Sure enough, it was the same bobblehead dashboard. Her turban-wearing cabbie. He waved and rolled down the passenger-side window.

“What is the matter, my someday-famous friend?”

“Surprising him was not a good idea.”

An expression of immediate comprehension crossed his face. “Let me drive you home.”

Grateful for his kindness, she again climbed into the backseat of his cab.

“Thank you,” she whispered, looking more closely at the name on his license, clipped to the viser, trying to discern the pronunciation—it had six syllables.

“You may call me Mo. That is what my American friends call me.”

“Thank you, Mo. I’m Kate.”

He turned to look at her. “I am very sorry. You tell me where to take you.”

She gave him her address and leaned back, shutting her eyes. A tiny sob escaped. Maybe she wanted conversation. Something to drown out that image seared on her brain.

“Why were you still here?” she asked. “I thought I was going to have stand out there and try to find a cab, and there you were.”

“Something very, very strange. I had to listen.” He pointed at the radio.

“To the sex-crazed DJ?”

“Yes, yes. He was shot.”

Kate opened her eyes wide. “Shot?”

“Yes. He is a crazy man, my new friend Kate, but someone else was even crazier. Someone tried to kill him.”

“That’s New York.”

“No, that too, is America,” he said sadly.

As he pulled onto York, Kate watched the bobblehead. The Buddha seemed less merry now, like he was mocking her.

With each nod of his head, the Buddha told her, “You should have known. You should have known. You should have known.”

CHAPTER TWO

JULIAN SHAW EXPECTED a long tunnel. Then a white light. Or at least his dearly departed Grandma Hannah.

Instead, he got Gus.

“Listen, old boy, try not to panic” was Gus’s advice, delivered in a clipped British accent.

“I’m too confused to panic,” said Julian, but then he spied his body in the hospital bed, and panic struck him like the shock of a defibrillator.

“Remember not to panic,” Gus urged, but it was far too late for that. Julian let out a Friday the 13th shriek, and frankly, Julian didn’t even care that his scream sounded like a girl’s—like the time he dropped a toad down his cousin Tori’s shirt the year she got a training bra.

“What the hell is going on?” Julian looked down at his body, which had a frightening assortment of tubes protruding from just about every orifice. Bags of dark blood and assorted other fluids hung from IV poles surrounding his bed like silent sentinels. Machines whooshed and whirred and beeped. Their eerie sounds echoed in the otherwise sterile quiet of the room, as if the body were just another machine being driven by devices and not life itself. A nurse appeared to be taking his vital signs, which, if her frown were any indication, didn’t seem to be too vital.

Julian approached her and asked, “What’s wrong with me?” but she looked through him as she walked away, pushed through the door, and back to the nurse’s station on the other side of the glass.

“Hey!” Julian shouted. He followed her, but she never acknowledged him, and when he touched her arm, she didn’t react at all. He turned to another nurse, and then a doctor, waving his arms wildly, “Hey! Someone tell me what’s going on!”

But they all continued working, talking with each other, looking at computer screens, ignoring him.

Because Gus had spoken to him, seemed to see him, Julian now faced the short, thin old man in the blue pinstripe suit, with the elegant little silver mustache and one of those old-fashioned monocles perched on one eye. “What’s going on? Do you know?”

“You don’t remember anything, young man?” Gus asked, clasping his hands together expectantly.

“No. I mean…how did I get to be here, and my body there? Am I…you know…dead?” He said dead in a whisper, because he really didn’t want to know the answer.

“No. Not dead. In a coma.”

“A coma?” Julian again looked at his body—long black hair, thick and curly. High cheekbones. Tattoo of an angel on one forearm, another of a hypodermic needle near his elbow, with the words Rock Or Die on the biceps above it. Yep. It was him. He was a good-looking SOB, he thought, even though his face was nearly as pale as the bedsheet.

“Yes, my dear chap. Seems you are in a coma or I wouldn’t be here.” Gus smoothed his burgundy tie, fussed with his diamond tie-tack, and then clasped his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on the heels of his highly polished black shoes.

“Where is here? And, for that matter, who the hell are you?”

“Well, no need for hostility, young man. We’re Neither Here Nor There. And I’m Gus, your Guide.”

“Come again?”

“Neither Here Nor There. As in, neither in Heaven nor in Hell. We’re in between. Or, rather, you are. And I’m to show you the ropes, so to speak.”

“Why aren’t I over there? With my body?”

“Good question, which begs a thorough explanation. As thorough as I can give you when we have a rather pressing agenda. How familiar are you with quantum physics?”

“You’ve gotta be friggin’ kiddin’ me, little man. Not at all. I’m a DJ, the shock jock at WNRQ, not a…physicist. Jesus, I must be dreaming. I gave up heroin a long time ago, but is this a flashback or something?”

“No. I am not a figment of your imagination. Trust me, you are not that creative. All right.” He sighed. “As best as I can explain it, the universe is always moving. Even a table, a chair, a rock, they have moving parts, tiny atoms and particles and, if the string theorists are to be believed—and they’re right, you know—there are parts even smaller than that, like tiny strings in a realm we can’t even begin to understand, it’s so microscopic. Mind-boggling, actually. And the universe—from the cosmos to tiny particles—is in a state of constant motion, ever expanding and accelerating, with the idea that one day, it may actually collapse back into itself, though I am not entirely privy to all the secrets the universe has up its sleeve.” He chuckled slightly.

“Speak English, pal.”

“I’m trying, young man. Again, I can’t be positive of what the future holds for the universe. However, I do know that the universe is not, ever, at any time, in a state of inertia. In terms of astrophysics, cosmic inflation describes the exponential expansion driven by a negative-pressure vacuum energy density.”

“Look, buddy…can we get past all this science stuff, which I can promise you I am not ever going to understand, and get to the part about how it is my body is lying there with tubes up my friggin’ nose?”

“Getting to that. You see the way God made the universe, She created Heaven and Hell, and then the place in between.”

“She?”

“Of course. You mean to tell me you never noticed how women are the nurturers, the creators?”

“Well, maybe but…you know, the whole Bible and…”

“Written, I’m afraid, with a bias. By men. The original Old Boy Network.”

“So you’re saying a chick made the universe. Including Neither Here Nor There.”

“I know. It’s an unwieldy name. I wish She had thought of something…I don’t know, catchier. But nonetheless, just because you happen to be in a coma, you do not, my new friend, have a free pass as far as the universe is concerned. You must be doing something. Consequently, you are Neither Here Nor There, and you have work to do while you are in the in-between realm. We have an agenda, which, I might add, we must get to. Soon.”

“And you?”

“Me? I’m a Guide.”

“Got any identification?”

“Afraid not. I would have presumed the very fact that your body is there and we’re here would be identification enough. It usually is.”

“What’s with the British accent?”

“I was British on earth, and apparently it’s quite difficult to lose the accent, even after centuries in the Afterlife. I’ve retained a love of stout, too. And scones.”

“Afterlife. I thought you said we weren’t dead. Afterlife sounds suspiciously like ‘after you’ve bought the farm.’”

“We aren’t dead. I am dead. Was dead, actually. Now I’m a Guide. Well, technically, I am still dead, but my spirit…Well, I suppose it’s all about whether you view the glass as half-full or half-empty. You, on the other hand, are not dead. You are…well, in this rather in-between state.”

“So what happened to me?” Though his body—the one in the bed—looked painfully uncomfortable, he didn’t feel any pain at all in his newly acquired spirit body. In fact, he felt surprisingly terrific, if he thought about it. Except for the sheer terror stuff.

“You really have no memory of it? Think back.”

“Well…” Julian tried. “You know it’s a little hard to think when I’m staring at my comatose self.” Again, he felt waves of panic sweep over him. He tried harder to remember. “I was on the air. Lesbians. I was talking about lesbians. They’ve made me the number-one late-afternoon and evening drive-time show in radio. Syndicated. I’m on every hour of every day somewhere in the country. Rebroadcasts. Cable. Chicks getting it on with other chicks? The audience loves it. And…” He tried to think. “Oh…yeah. I pushed the envelope big-time. Holy crap, but it was an awesome show. Live sex. On air. The switchboard went wild! Two women were having oral sex right there on my couch. That couch is like a shrine to sex. Then I wrapped up the show. I met with my producer. Then…I went outside. Was waiting for my limo to circle the block and pick me up. And that’s the last thing I remember.”

“Think back. Someone said something to you. On the sidewalk. Someone approached you.”

Julian fell silent, and then a flood of memory and more panic threatened to drown him. “Oh my God…I was shot.” He rushed over to his comatose self. “Oh Christ…in the stomach.” Julian could see bandages peeking over the top of the blanket. “By a guy who was pissed off about my show. Religious fanatic. He’s called in before. I recognized his voice.”

“Yes,” Gus said quietly.

Julian’s terror intensified. “Jesus.” He began pacing. “Oh my God. Holy shit…Am I going to make it?”

“I don’t know,” Gus said. “I’m not privy to that information. It’s not in your dossier.”

“I don’t get it. I don’t get any of this.”

“That’s understandable. Give yourself time. You’ll adapt. In the meantime, you have a job to do. Get your mind off the situation, so to speak.”

“What kind of job? What? Do spirits need a call-in radio show?”

“Hardly. No, this is far more important than any earthly job. Particularly an earthly job involving prattling on about lesbians.”

“You got something against lesbians?”

“No.”

“Does God?”

“No. She’s of the opinion it’s not who you love but that you love.”

“She.”

“Yes. I told you that already. Keep up, young man. Take notes if you must.”

“I’m trying. Give me a break. I’m still working to fathom that. A woman. God is a woman. Damn. All right, I’ll bite. Do I get to meet her?”

“You don’t want to. If you meet her that means…” Gus looked over at the comatose Julian and then moved his hand across his own neck in a cutting motion of death.

“Gotcha. No meeting God. Okay, so you gonna tell me about my job?”

“Yes. You see, we’re not angels. And we most certainly don’t work for the Other Team.” Gus shuddered. “We don’t have the power of either extreme. We talk and eventually, those on earth start to hear us—maybe. And if they listen, then we have some influence.”

“So what? We talk to schizophrenics? People who hear voices?”

“Oh, no. Those unfortunate souls hear voices from chemical imbalances in the brain. Occasionally, I suppose, they may intercept voices from one of us. No, in our case, the people we speak to hear a voice urging them to do something.”

“Like a conscience?”

“Yes. Or maybe, sometimes, if we have a very strong connection to our assigned case, they may actually blurt out what we say to them. You’ve heard of a Freudian slip?”

“Sure.”

“Freud himself had a strong connection to his case worker.”

“So does everyone have one of these voices? One of us?”

“No. There aren’t enough of us to go around, I’m afraid. Those few in-betweeners like yourself are assigned a case, usually based on need.”

“Need?”

“Yes. The person prays for guidance. Or sometimes those around the person pray. A relative will plead their case. And what he or she gets is us. Or, in this case, you. You have one person, one case, you’ll be seeking to influence and help.”

“That’s it? I talk? Like I do on the air. For an audience of one? That’s it?”

“That’s it? My God, man, have you not been listening? You must not be fully comprehending the gravity of this. Perhaps it’s the shock. We take this job quite seriously. This isn’t a ‘that’s it’ sort of matter. Someone’s life—their very well-being, their sense of hope—is placed in your very hands for help.”

“Well, if they’re looking for help from me…they must really be desperate.”

Gus smiled. “She knows what She’s doing. So no time to waste. Come along and meet your assignment. According to the Boss, your case is fairly desperate. She has had a terrible day of unseemly proportions. Simply ghastly.”

Gus took Julian by the elbow and led him out of the intensive care unit. As they walked past other comatose patients, machines whirring like whispering sentinels, Julian saw other Guides, and even a dog—a big old chocolate Lab—lying by the bed of what he presumed was its master. Deducing that no hospital allowed dogs in the ICU, he guessed the dog was a spirit, too.

As he walked through the lobby, Julian struggled to discern who was real—as in alive—and who were spirits. He quickly understood that anyone dressed anachronistically—like Gus with his monocle—was a spirit. And the ones who walked through things—well, they had to be spirits, too. He had a million questions as they left the hospital. So many questions that Julian felt dazed.

The two of them wandered Manhattan’s streets, unseen. Julian kept looking at people, stepping in front of them at times, but no one acknowledged him. Finally, he and Gus arrived at an apartment building in Greenwich Village, which they entered as a resident left, slipping through an open door, and then ascended a flight of stairs to an apartment door.

“Come along,” Gus said.

“What? Do we ring the doorbell?”

“No, we walk through. Just don’t hesitate—that can get messy.”

Gus took him more firmly by the hand and half pulled him through the door. The two of them were now invisible visitors in a small one-bedroom apartment near Washington Square Park. Two policemen in uniform stood in the middle of the messy living room.

“There she is,” Gus gestured toward a brunette with hair to the middle of her back, neither thin nor plump, with rosy apple cheeks and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She clutched a tissue and looked around her apartment as if in shock.

“Can you see anything immediately missing?” the female officer asked, a notebook open, pen poised.

The brunette shook her head. “The TV. But other than that…it’s just the mess. My jewelry box is gone, but my good jewelry I kept in the freezer—I saw it on a TV show once and always have done that. I just checked. It’s still there. They didn’t take much. My dog must have scared them.” Then she started crying. “And now she’s gone.”