“So, what, you want a reservation?” He laughs sarcastically.
“No,” I say in a firmer voice, “and stop accusing me of stupid things. I just heard from a customer that you guys are closed tonight. And—” I grip the top of my head with my free hand, hoping that’ll help me think of a lie. “And . . . you guys never close. So, ah, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Crap. I barely get the words out when I hear footsteps coming up the steps, and I remember the disaster I left Rowan with downstairs.
Sawyer doesn’t answer.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I hang up the phone and whirl around as my mother opens the door and peeks in at me.
“Are you sick? Rowan said you were pale as a ghost.” She comes up to me and presses the back of her hand against my forehead.
I give her a weak smile. “I’m okay now. I guess I forgot to eat lunch today. And I got dizzy there for a minute. But I had some juice and a sandwich. Sorry about that.” I’m saying sorry a lot lately.
“No fever. You just rest for a bit,” she says. “Dad’s cooking, I’m helping Rowan. Mary’s here. We’re covered. You need a break.” She smiles at me. “Go watch some TV.”
I glance at the TV, still on. “Thanks,” I say.
She closes the door and disappears. I hear her stepping unevenly down the stairs, and I wonder how she takes it. The hoarding. How she doesn’t crack, being married to him.
And then the phone rings right next to me and I nearly hit the ceiling. I look at the caller ID and wait for the name to come up.
It’s Angotti’s Trattoria.
Ten
I panic. Did he hit the call button on his caller ID by accident? If I answer, I’ll look desperate. What does he want? I’m sure it’s a mistake, and I imagine the awkward conversation that would follow.
Hello?
Um . . . oops. Wrong number. Hit “last call” by mistake.
Okay, bye.
Yeah. Bye.
Weird. Awful. After six rings, it stops.
I wait a minute more, and then scroll through the caller ID list. Stare at his number, then reluctantly hit delete, and it feels like the breakup we never really had. But if Dad sees that, he’ll freak.
And then I go back to the TV.
I rewind the show to the commercial, and just like last time, the scene appears. I watch it over and over in slow motion. There’s the snowplow, the parking lot, the building with the window just before the crash. This time I pause the scene here. There are blinds on the big window, but they are open. I see shapes—people’s upper bodies. And hanging light fixtures.
The upper half of the building looks like an apartment. There are several smaller windows up there, all curtained, but I can tell lights are on. I can’t make out what the words on the building say—they are mostly cut off from the frame. I go to the next frame, and the next, and the next. I can’t figure out why everything has to explode—why the truck doesn’t just crumple instead.
When I get to the newer part, with the fire and the wider shot, I pause again and stare at the TV. There are a few cars in the parking lot, but they are hard to make out in the dark. The only distinguishing feature I can see is the awning that’s dangling there from the explosion. I can’t even tell what color it is because of the smoke and shadows and the snow, but it definitely has wide stripes.
Like a restaurant awning would have.
An Italian restaurant.
I sigh deeply and squeeze my eyes shut, massaging the lids. I’ve been avoiding this thought, not wanting to face it. But nothing else makes sense. I don’t remember ever being behind Angotti’s before. We just never go there, for obvious reasons. But I think the vision is showing me the back of their restaurant. From memory, I can only picture the front of it, but even now, as many times as I’ve been past it, I don’t remember if they have an awning out front that might be a matching counterpart of the one in the vision. I don’t remember if there are apartments above the retail shops on that street or not. I can picture their sign and logo no problem—that part’s etched into my brain. But the other details . . . I just don’t know. I watch it to the end, and then turn off the TV and sit in the dark and think.
All I know is what I’ve been avoiding all along. These visions, or scenes, or whatever they are, are getting more and more frequent, and showing up in more places all the time. Obviously Sawyer isn’t in a body bag. So either that means I’m insane, or it means this hasn’t happened yet. I am seeing the future, and the only reason I can think of for why this is happening is that I’m supposed to do something about it. The vision is badgering me, trying to get my attention.
I guess I’m supposed to warn them, those nine people, even though I don’t know who eight of them are, and get them out of there. All by myself.
Either that or I’m the biggest nutcase in the history of this family.
• • •
After a while I get my notepad and a pencil and I turn the TV back on. I don’t have to go looking for the scene now—it’s right there. I pause it at the wide shot where I have the best view of the whole building, searching for any street signs or other landmarks. I argue with myself. Truthfully, I don’t even know if this place is in Melrose Park, or in Chicago, or even in the United States. But instinctively, I know where it has to be if there’s going to be a dead Sawyer Angotti in a body bag outside.
I sketch the back of the building—what’s left of it, anyway. Then I shove the sketch in my pocket, turn off the TV, grab my coat, and head downstairs. I pause before opening the door and look out the window.