I threw off my double layer of blankets, went to my window, and looked down to the street, nine dizzying floors below. Was the building on fire? Did some old neighbor have a stroke? That was what caused me to wake up with a hundred-miles-an-hour heartbeat. I woke up to the scream of sirens speeding up Central Park West, maybe one of the most common sounds in New York City.
So I never heard a thing-no frantic thumping, no terrified shouting, no fracas at all. I'd been asleep downstairs, directly under my parents' bedroom, when it happened. He was right about the last part-and, as things turned out, the first part as well.īut I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? Please forgive me.… I do that a lot. The night my parents died-after they'd been carried out in slick black body bags through the service elevator-my brother Matthew shouted at the top of his powerful lungs, "My parents were vile, but they didn't deserve to be taken out with the trash!" I'm not sure if I can even tell the difference anymore.
So here goes nothing, or maybe everything. I have some really bad secrets to share with someone, and it might as well be you-a stranger, a reader of books, but most of all, a person who can't hurt me.
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