It was a freak accident. It never should have happened. The forensic people have finished their work now, and they say it took a perfect conjunction of unlikely events. But the fact is, an office elevator fell last month. And Jeannie is still on life support because of it.

I swear it’s dust. It’s always dust. There may only be one God, but dust motes are His messengers. Every time there’s a problem with machinery nowadays, it seems to boil down to an intermittent glitch somewhere very small. It’s got to be dust. Some mote lodging somewhere, momentarily blocking or constricting or otherwise affecting. That’s when they actually manage to find the problem. Most of the time the repairpeople just aim blame at other involved parties (they point at each other so much it’s called the Digital Age) and replace whole modules. It’s cheaper to do that than to find the problem and fix it.

Except maybe it isn’t dust.

My problem, no matter what the experts say, is I think I may have caused the accident. I rode the elevator that morning. And I dropped my key down the shaft.

That wouldn’t have happened if I’d been more awake. But I was suffering from a lot of sleep deprivation right then. And it wouldn’t have happened if I carried a collection of keys, like most people. But I love to travel light. I hate to bring along anything that turns out to be unnecessary. It really bothers me to return from a trip with something unworn in my luggage. Or to live in a house with a formal dining room or other unused space. So I carry single keys on clips when I can. And since the same key that opens our office door will give me access to the ladies’ room, that Schlage lives alone in my bag.

I was distracted as I exited the elevator that day. I’ll admit it – I was indulging in vengeance fantasies. I tell myself all the time that the best revenge is living well – I chant that as I book a facial or a massage (and would chant it as I make an appointment for hair color, except right now I don’t have my hair colored, because my friends advise me to look my age in court, and my attorney doesn’t disagree). I try to just concentrate on me and ignore Carl and Jeannie, but I’m human. I slip up.

And I was tired! I was running the script where his ED returns, and Jeannie gets to deal with the drag of trying to help, and Carl finds someone even younger. I was thinking some version of that when I stepped off the elevator, and I wasn’t even aware of it when my hand relaxed. My key fell between the edge of the elevator and the 14^th floor, flew like an arrowhead, downward between the strips of corrugated brass at my feet.

I remember feeling chagrined. I even thought about that word. What a fluky thing; I probably couldn’t have dropped the key so it fell that way if I tried all day. It was like those sneakers you see flung over a power line, hanging by their twinning laces and twisting in the wind; those dangling shoes are ugly, but you can’t help admiring the skill or tenacity that managed to hang them.

I wasn’t particularly inconvenienced by dropping my key. The office was already open and there were spares inside. But I thought fleetingly when it happened, and more elaborately since, about that plummeting metal piece. Did it slice through something vital at the bottom of the shaft? Did it manage to land without doing damage but then act as a metallic bridge between signals that never should have crossed?

The report said there was evidence of breakage and suggestion of a short, but there really was too much damage to be sure. They know the spring failed in a spot. And they acknowledged that the elevator was long past required inspection. But that’s true of nearly every elevator in the financial district; go ahead: take a look at the framed card the next time you ride one.

(continued/concluded tomorrow)