I make it about fifteen minutes alone in the tiny apartment before I start to feel the walls close in on me. I thought that taking a little time to myself might help stop the spinning in my head that I feel whenever I start to think about what Barnes' said to me. But instead of helping, all I end up doing for those few minutes is pace in front of the window and glance anxiously around. His words are bouncing back and forth in my brain and I start to feel like I can't breathe, like the room is getting smaller, and that I will break into a million tiny pieces and scatter on the floor. I know that's panic, and if I give in to it it might be the end of me.
So instead I do what my instincts tell me. I grab my bag and I get the hell out. When it comes to fight or flight responses I am definitely among those who default to the latter, a habit which has kept me out of reasonable trouble for most of my life. I employ it once again as I'm trying to be as stealthy as I can in this Tower, making my way down to what I assume is a ground floor and my path outside. I need to get out of this place. It's not that it's completely unpleasant, just a little sterile with all the clean white lines and tiled floors. The windows everywhere help it's overall feel, but right now I need to breathe fresh air and as far as I can tell none of the windows around me open to the outside.
My elevator opens on to a high-ceilinged lobby and I pull myself as close to the wall as I can to avoid being seen by any cameras they may have posted. I skirt along the edge of the room and make it to the doors and through before I let out the breath I didn't know that I'd been holding in. I press forward and dive into the crowd of people passing on the sidewalks and lose myself in the anonymity of the city street.
It's refreshing to be outside in the early autumn sunshine. The further I travel from The Tower the more relaxed I start to feel. I let my feet carry me along and know where I'm headed without having to think about it. There's something I need and I know exactly where to find it.
It takes me a solid hour to get to my apartment, a hole in the wall place on a quiet street. It's been my haven ever since I took up residency at NYU, and when I ascend the stairs inside the building I feel the familiar blanket of safety that always comes over me when I'm home. Standing outside my door I hold perfectly still and listen for any stray sounds, thinking that if someone was following me I would hear the shuffle of their feet or their attempts to stay hidden from me. I don't hear anything but the normal noise of the building and I slip quietly through my door and am alone in my place before I know it.
Everything is just as I left it. My bed made, clean dishes in the drainer beside the sink, and a notepad on the counter with a reminder to myself to pick up milk the next chance I get. It's like my life is just paused and I can feel myself completely relax as I stand in the quiet enjoying the feeling of the familiar. I need a moment to take it in before I attend to the task I've come for.
I drop my bag and head to the wooden chest that's at the end of bed and take a deep breath of the cedar scent when I throw open the lid. It was handed down to me and I keep my precious memories inside, those things I can't trust anywhere else.
I pull out the family album and flip to a few pages in, where I collected all the photos I could of my grandparents and mother before they were split apart by the war. There is one formal family picture, of all three of them, one of my mother and grandmother, and then what I think is a candid photo of my grandfather at a large desk in an office, surrounded by high bookshelves filled with tomes. I take out that picture and flip it over to trace the date written on it. 1939. The year before the split. The year that the continent erupted into chaos. He looks so peaceful in the picture and I understand why it was one of the few that my grandmother had chosen to bring with her. It was the picture that inspired me to follow in his footsteps, except my path differed along the way to head into neurology instead of psychiatry.
I dig deeper in the chest and at the very bottom I find what I consider to by my most prized family posession: my grandfather's notebooks. They were pressed hastily into my grandmother's one free hand that she wasn't using to hold on to her infant daughter as she boarded one of the last trains that would take them out of Austria and into temporary safety until they could get to America. She'd told me that he had said over and over that they may come in handy, that she may want that piece of him someday. Up to that point they hadn't spoken of the possibility that they may never see each other again, it had remained the unacknowledged elephant in the room. They're a set of three notebooks, page upon page of handwritten notes on patients, studies, and assorted research. It's all written in German and I've never had the inclination to try and translate them, though many times I've sat with them and thumbed through, trying to feel closer to him in some way even though I had never met him.
When I hold the notebooks close to my chest, pressing them against my body, I feel like I can absorb their secrets. I figure that now is as good a time as any to begin the long process of sorting through the pages of my grandfather's work, that maybe it will give me some insight into what happened to James Barnes.
I'm packing the notebooks and my family album into my bag when there's a knock on my door. It startles me and I stand up straight and just stare at the door, confused beyond belief. Nobody knows that I'm here. I creep to the door, avoiding every squeaky floorboard and sidle up to the peep hole in the door. Two men in black tactical clothing are standing outside the door, and I know that if I open the door they'll be inside my apartment before I know what's happening.
"You have to be fucking kidding me," I whisper to myself as I back away from the door. I glance around the apartment and decide again that running away is best. My bag is in my hand and I'm halfway out a window on to the fire escape when the two men knock again. They're calling my name but it barely reaches me as I descend. I get down and drop myself onto the street, but I don't make it ten feet before someone grabs me and pulls me into a side alley. I'm pushed up against the wall and register the red hair and severely annoyed face of Natasha.
"What are you doing?" She says, her voice even and serious and I know she's not messing around.
"I wanted something from my place," I start to explain.
"You're being reckless and stupid," she says and eases away from me only when she's sure that I'm not going to run away.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm going to assume that you don't always take the fire escape," she says, glancing back up at my windows. My silence is all the answer that she needs.
"Come on," she says, beckoning me to follow her. I do, but only because I don't want to end up shoved against a wall again. We move quickly down the block and slide into a waiting car, driven by someone I don't recognize. I get in the back and Natasha takes the passenger seat, turning around almost immediately to start in on me.
"I'm not a babysitter," she states. "So the next time that you decide to just wander off it'd be best if you could clear it with someone."
"I don't need anyone's permission-" I start in, but I'm cut off by an exasperated look from Natasha.
"Here's the thing," she says. "Those guys up there, they're looking for Barnes. He was quite the valuable asset for a long time and there are those who would do anything to find him again. It's a good thing that we got to him and you before they did.
"Now, you need to understand that you can't just leave. If you want out, we'll make that happen, but you can't just walk away on your own. It doesn't work that way anymore."
Her words take their time sinking in, but I just let them push me into the back seat as the weight of what she means takes hold. She shifts back in her seat and throws a look at the man in the driver's seat who just smirks at her.
My life as I knew it is over.
My day comes full circle as I stand outside Barnes' room again, this time in the warm evening light that streams down the hallway. I hate being resigned to a fate that I never asked for or a new reality that was unceremoniously thrust upon me, but here I am. And since the flight scenario hadn't panned out the way I had intended, I might as well get used to the idea that I am stuck. But I'm not alone.
When I open the door, I move slowly and with caution, remembering the stricken cry I'd heard that morning and unsure of whether or not Barnes was still angry with me. I find him sitting on his bed again, staring at the window and holding the little recorder in his hands. I hear my own voice coming from it, gently prodding him with questions. He doesn't look at me, but instead let's the recording play out and and then rewinds it to listen over again. It makes me cringe when we get to the end, when the voices suddenly stop and I know that we were interrupted and what follows. But he rewinds it again and listens all over. Again and again we listen to the recording, not saying a new word to each other but letting our digital conversation fill the space.
I walk over to the window and look out on to the city, but the view has changed and it feels like I am far away from the little home I'd made for myself. Like even though we are just above them, we can't reach out and be a part of that world any more.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I say into the room. Barnes stops the recorder and lets me talk.
"I know I can help you," I continue, "but I need you to help me, too. Everything feels like it's just spinning out of control and I don't know even know who I am let alone who my family is. But you do. You know him. You knew him. I mean, if I help you then you can help me. We help each other."
He nods at me. I smile just a bit. It's a tenuous agreement, there's no doubt about that, but it's all I can count on at the moment.