Chapter 13
I told Marcy I wanted to see the building for myself.
It was a Tuesday morning in early December, three weeks after Julian had brought the signed papers to her office. My temp assignment had rolled into a second extension. Denise had given me the morning off because I asked, not because I was sick. I wore my gray blazer again, the same one from Gate 6, but with a navy scarf because the wind on Lexington cut straight through.
Marcy had said, "You don't need to go there to decide. I can file electronically the minute you say so." I knew that. I still took the 6 train downtown to Centre Street. I wanted to know what it felt like to stand where the decision became real.
The courthouse was not what I expected. It was a big stone building with wide steps and people moving fast around me with folders and strollers and coffee cups. A sheriff stood by the door checking bags. I had not brought my suitcase. For the first time in months I was carrying only a small shoulder bag, and my hands felt light and strange without the telescoping handle.
I sat on the low wall across the street and watched. A couple came out holding hands, arguing quietly about parking validation. A woman went in alone with an envelope like mine, clutching it with both hands. I thought about Gate 6 at midday, the harsh sun on the sidewalk, the black bus idling with its yellow door trim, the sharp shadow of the glass shelter on the concrete. I had been ready to board and be gone. Julian's hand had reached for the handle at exactly the wrong second, and his voice had said, "You really think you can just leave like that?" I had answered with the one sentence I had practiced in my apartment for a week: "Let go, Julian. I already signed the divorce."
I had thought signing meant leaving. Sitting across from that courthouse, I realized it didn't.
My phone buzzed. It was Julian. He had kept his promise about contact only on my initiation, but he had texted once a week, short, no pressure. This one said: At hardware store on 79th. Saw that shelf you wanted for the walkup. No need to reply. Just thought you'd want to know it's back in stock.
I stared at it. Three weeks earlier I would have read it as control, as another way to hold the handle. Now I read it as what it was: a man walking past a shelf and thinking of me without asking for anything.
I stood and crossed the street. I went up three steps and stopped. The doors were heavy and voices echoed inside. I could go in, take a number, file, and be done. Marcy's drawer had two copies with both signatures notarized. One word from me and the 90-day clock would become a court stamp.
A clerk came out to smoke and looked at me standing there. "You going in or no, miss?"
I turned around and went back down the steps. I called Marcy from the sidewalk.
"It's Elise," I said. "I'm at Centre Street. I'm not filing today."
"Okay," she said. I could hear her smile. "You want me to keep holding?"
"Keep holding. I thought I needed to prove I could leave by leaving fast. I was wrong. I need to prove I can stay if I want to. That's the test."
May you like
"That's a good test," she said. "The papers are safe until late January. Go to work. The steps will be there when you decide."
I walked back to the subway. I did not feel indecisive. I felt like someone who had finally understood that the bus at Gate 6 was never the only way out. The choice was in my bag's absence, not its weight.
