The Woman in the Window
Page 25
“I’ve unlocked the door. You can come up. If you want,” I add.
Before I’ve finished, the door opens, and he stands before me, two steps down, in a snug T-shirt and balding jeans. We look at each other.
I speak first. “I wanted to—”
“I’m clearing out,” he says.
I blink.
“Things got . . . weird.”
I nod.
He rummages in his back pocket, pulls out a slip of paper. Hands it to me.
I accept it wordlessly, unfold it.
Not working out. Sorry I upset you. Left key under door.
I nod again. I hear the tick of the grandfather clock across the room.
“Well,” I say.
“Here’s the key,” he says, offering it to me. “Door’ll lock behind me.”
I take it from him. Another pause.
He looks me in the eye. “That earring.”
“Oh, you don’t need—”
“It belonged to a lady named Katherine. Like I said. I don’t know that Russell guy’s wife.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
Now he nods. And closes the door.
I leave it unlocked.
Back in my bedroom, I send Dr. Fielding a terse text: I’m fine. See you Tuesday. He calls me immediately. The phone rings on, rings out.
Bina, David, Dr. Fielding. I’m clearing house.
I pause in the doorway of the master bath, eyeing the shower the way one might appraise a painting at a gallery; not for me, I decide, or at least not today. I select a robe (must wash the stained one, I remind myself, although by now that splash of wine will be tattooed into the fabric) and wander down to the study.
It’s been three days since I sat at my computer. I grip the mouse, slide it to one side. The screen lights up, prompts me for the password. I enter it.
Once again I see my sleeping face.
I rock back in the chair. All this time it’s been lurking behind the dark of the screen, an ugly secret. My hand strikes the mouse like a snake: I whip the cursor to the corner, click the picture shut.
Now I’m looking at the email it was smuggled in. guesswhoanna.
Guess who. I don’t recall doing this, this—what was it Norelli said? “Little midnight selfie”? Hand to heart, I’ve no memory. Yet those are my words, our words; and David has an alibi (an alibi—I’ve never before known anyone with, or for that matter without, an alibi); and no one else could have accessed the bedroom. No one’s Gaslight-ing me.
. . . Only wouldn’t the photograph still be in my camera roll?
I frown.
Yes, it would. Unless I thought to delete it, but . . . well. But.
My Nikon is perched on the edge of my desk, strap dangling off the side. I reach for it, drag it toward me. Switch it on and inspect the photo cache.
The most recent picture: Alistair Russell, wrapped in a winter coat, hopping up the front steps of his house. Dated Saturday, November 6. Nothing since. I switch the camera off, set it on the desk.
But then the Nikon is too bulky for selfies, in any case. I pull my phone from the pocket of my robe, enter the passcode, tap the Photos icon.
And there it is, first up: that same shot, shrunk within the iPhone screen. The open mouth, the loose hair, the bulging pillow—and the time stamp: 02:02 a.m.
No one else has the passcode.
There’s one more test, but already I know the answer.
I open the web browser, type in gmail.com. It loads instantly, the username field filled in: guesswhoanna.
I really did this to myself. Guess who. Anna.
And it had to be me. No one else knows the computer password. Even if someone else was in the house—even if David had made his way in here—I’m the only one with the code.
My head lists toward my lap.
I swear I don’t remember any of it.
80
I slide the phone back into my pocket, draw a breath, and log on to the Agora.
A trove of messages awaits me. I sift through them. Mostly regulars, checking in: DiscoMickey, Pedro from Bolivia, Bay Area Talia. Even Sally4th—preggers!!! she writes. due in april!!!
I stare at the screen for a moment. My heart aches.
On to the newbies. Four of them, seeking help. My fingers hover over the keyboard, then drop to my lap. Who am I to tell anyone else how to manage their disorder?
I select all the messages. Hit Delete.
I’m signing out when a chat box appears.
GrannyLizzie: How are you, Doctor Anna?
Why not? I’ve said goodbye to everyone else.
thedoctorisin: Hello Lizzie! Are your sons still with you?
GrannyLizzie: William is!
thedoctorisin: Great! And how is your progress?
GrannyLizzie: Really pretty amazing. I have been getting outside regularly. How are you?
thedoctorisin: All good! It’s my birthday.
Jesus, I think—that’s true. I’d completely forgotten. My birthday. I hadn’t thought of it once this past week.
GrannyLizzie: Happy birthday! Is it a big one??
thedoctorisin: Not at all. Unless you think 39 is big!
GrannyLizzie: What I wouldn’t give . . .
GrannyLizzie: Have you heard from your family?
I squeeze the mouse.
thedoctorisin: I need to be honest with you.
GrannyLizzie: ??
thedoctorisin: My family died last December.
The cursor blinks.
thedoctorisin: In a car accident.
thedoctorisin: I had an affair. My husband and I were fighting about it and we drove off the road.
thedoctorisin: I drove off the road.
thedoctorisin: I see a psychiatrist to help me deal with the guilt as well as the agoraphobia.
thedoctorisin: I want you to know the truth.
Must end this.
thedoctorisin: I’ve got to go now. Glad you’re doing well.
GrannyLizzie: Oh my dear girl
I see that she’s typing another message, but I don’t wait. I close the chat box and sign out.
So much for the Agora.
81
I’ve gone three days without a drink.
This occurs to me as I swipe a toothbrush across my teeth. (My body can wait to be cleaned; my mouth can’t.) Three days—when did I last hold off that long? I’ve scarcely even thought about it.
I bow my head, spit.
Tubes and canisters and pots of pills crowd the medicine cabinet. I remove four.
I walk downstairs, the skylight shedding gray evening light overhead.
Sitting on the sofa, I select a canister, tip it over, drag it across the coffee table. A trail of pills follows it like bread crumbs.
I study them. Count them. Brush them into my cupped hand. Scatter them upon the tabletop.
Bring one to my lips.
No—not yet.
Night falls fast.
I turn to the windows and cast a long look across the park. That house. A theater for my unquiet mind. How poetic, I think.
Its windows are blazing, birthday-candle-bright; its rooms are empty.
I feel as though a madness has released me. I shiver.
I lift myself up the stairs, up to my room. Tomorrow I’ll revisit some favorite films. Midnight Lace. Foreign Correspondent—the windmill scene, at least. 23 Paces to Baker Street. Maybe Vertigo again; I napped through my last viewing.
And the day after . . .
Lying in bed, sleep filling my head, I listen to the pulse of the house—the grandfather clock downstairs, tolling nine; the settling of the floors.
“Happy birthday,” Ed and Livvy chorus. I roll over, roll away.
It’s Jane’s birthday too, I remember. The birthday I gave her. Eleven eleven.
And later still, in the dead of night, when I’ve surfaced for a moment, I hear the cat, prowling the ink-dark well of the staircase.
Friday, November 12
Sun cascades through the skylight, whitewashing the stairs, pooling in the landing outside the kitchen. When I step into it, I feel spotlit.
Otherwise, the house is dark. I’ve drawn every curtain, closed every blind. The darkness is smoke-thick; I can almost smell it.
The final scene of Rope plays on the television. Two handsome young men, a murdered classmate, a corpse packed into an antique chest in the center of the parlor, and Jimmy Stewart again, all staged in what appears to be a single take (actually eight ten-minute segments stitched together, but the effect is pretty seamless, especially for 1948). “Cat and mouse, cat and mouse,” fumes Farley Granger, the net drawing tight around him, “but which is the cat and which is the mouse?” I say the words out loud.
My own cat is stretched along the back of the sofa, his tail switching like a charmed snake. He’s sprained his rear left paw; I found him limping this morning, badly. I’ve filled his bowl with a few days’ worth of food, just so he doesn’t—
The doorbell rings.
I jolt back into the cushions. My head twists toward the door.
Who the hell?
Not David; not Bina. Not Dr. Fielding, surely—he’s left several voicemails, but I doubt he’d show up unannounced. Unless he announced it in a voicemail I ignored.
The bell rings again. I pause the film, swing my feet to the floor, stand up. Walk to the intercom screen.
It’s Ethan. His hands are jammed in his pockets; a scarf is looped around his neck. His hair flames in the sunlight.
I push the speaker button. “Do your parents know you’re here?” I ask.
“It’s okay,” he says.
I pause.
“It’s really cold,” he adds.
I press the buzzer.
A moment later he enters the living room, frigid air chasing him. “Thanks,” he huffs, his breath short. “So freezing out there.” He looks around. “It’s really dark in here.”
“That’s just because it’s so bright outside,” I say, but he’s right. I switch on the floor lamp.
“Should I open the blinds?”
“Sure. Actually, no, this is fine. Isn’t it?”
“Okay,” he says.
I perch on the chaise. “Should I sit here?” asks Ethan, pointing to the sofa. Should I, should I. Very deferential, for a teenage boy.
“Sure.” He sits. Punch drops down the back of the sofa, quickly crawls beneath it.
Ethan scans the room. “Does that fireplace work?”
“It’s gas, but yes. Do you want me to turn it on?”
“No, just wondering.”
Silence.
“What are all these pills for?”
I snap my gaze to the coffee table, studded with pills; four canisters, one empty, stand together in a little plastic glade.
“I’m just counting them,” I explain. “Refills.”
“Oh, okay.”
More silence.
“I came over—” he begins, just as I say his name.
I steam ahead. “I’m so sorry.”
He cocks his head.
“I’m just so sorry.” Now he’s peering into his lap, but I press on. “For all the trouble, and for involving you. I—was so . . . sure. I was so sure that something was happening.”
He nods at the floor.
“I’ve had . . . it’s been a very hard year.” I close my eyes; when I open them again, I see that he’s looking at me, his eyes bright, searching.
“I lost my child and my husband.” Swallow. Say it. “They died. They’re dead.” Breathe. Breathe. One, two, three, four.
“And I started drinking. More than usual. And I self-medicated. Which is dangerous and wrong.” He’s watching me intently.
“It isn’t like—it’s not that I believed they were actually communicating with me—you know, from . . .”
“The other side,” he says, his voice low.
“Exactly.” I shift in my seat, lean forward. “I knew they were gone. Dead. But I liked hearing them. And feeling . . . It’s very tough to explain.”
“Like, connected?”
I nod. He’s such an unusual teenager.
“As for the rest—I don’t . . . I can’t even remember a lot of it. I guess I wanted to connect with other people. Or needed to.” My hair brushes my cheeks as I shake my head. “I don’t understand it.” I look directly at him. “But I’m very sorry.” I clear my throat, straighten up. “I know you didn’t come over here to see an adult cry.”
“I’ve cried in front of you,” he points out.
I smile. “Fair enough.”
“I borrowed your movie, remember?” He slides a slipcase from his coat pocket, places it on the coffee table. Night Must Fall. I’d forgotten about that.
“Were you able to watch it?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“What did you think?”
“Creepy. That guy.”
“Robert Montgomery.”
“Was he Danny?”
“Yes.”
“Really creepy. I like the part where he asks the girl—uh . . .”
“Rosalind Russell.”
“Was she Olivia?”
“Yes.”
“Where he asks her if she likes him, and she’s like, no, and he’s like, ‘Everybody else does.’” He giggles. I grin.
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“Yeah.”
“Black-and-white’s not so bad.”
“No, it was fine.”
“You’re welcome to borrow anything you like.”
“Thanks.”
“But I don’t want to get you in trouble with your parents.” Now he looks away, studies the grate. “I know they’re furious,” I continue.
A quiet snort. “They’ve got their own issues.” Eyes back on me. “They’re really difficult to live with. Like, super-difficult.”
“I think a lot of young people feel that way about their parents.”
“No, but they really are.”
I nod.
“I can’t wait to go to college,” he says. “Two more years. Not even.”
“Do you know where you want to go?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. Someplace far away.” He hooks his arm behind himself, scratches his back. “It’s not like I have friends here anyway.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Boyfriend?”
He looks at me, surprised. Shrugs. “I’m figuring things out,” he explains.
“Fair enough.” I wonder if his parents know.
The grandfather clock booms once, twice, three times, four.
“You know,” I say, “the apartment downstairs is empty.”
Ethan frowns. “What happened to that guy?”
“He left.” I clear my throat again. “But—so if you want, you can use it. The space. I know what it’s like to need your own space.”
Am I trying to get back at Alistair and Jane? I don’t think so. I don’t think so. But it might be nice—it would be nice, I’m sure—to have someone else here. A young person, no less, even if he’s a lonely teenager.
I go on, as though it’s a sales pitch: “There’s no TV, but I can give you the Wi-Fi password. And there’s a couch in there.” I’m talking brightly, convincing myself. “It could just be a place for you to get away to if things are hard at home.”
He stares. “That’d be awesome.”
I’m on my feet before he can change his mind. David’s key is on the kitchen counter, a little shard of silver in the dim light. I palm it, present it to Ethan, who stands.
“Awesome,” he repeats, tucking it into his pocket.
“Come over anytime,” I tell him.
He glances at the door. “I should probably get home.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks for—” He pats his pocket. “And for the movie.”
“You’re welcome.” I follow him to the hall.
&nbs
p; Before leaving, he turns, waves at the sofa—“Little guy’s shy today,” he says—and gazes at me. “I got a phone,” he announces proudly.
“Congratulations.”
“Want to see it?”
“Sure.”
He produces a scuffed iPhone. “It’s secondhand, but still.”
“It’s awesome.”
“What generation is yours?”
“I have no idea. What’s yours?”
“Six. Almost the newest.”
“Well, it’s awesome. I’m glad you have a phone.”
“I put your number in. Do you want mine?”
“Your number?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.” He taps the screen, and I feel my phone buzz in the depths of my robe. “Now you’ve got it,” he explains, hanging up.
“Thank you.”
He reaches for the doorknob, then drops his hand, looks at me, suddenly serious.
“I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you,” he says, and his voice is so soft that my throat constricts.
I nod.
He leaves. I lock the door behind him.
I float back to the sofa and look at the coffee table, at the pills dotting it like stars. I reach out, clasp the remote in my hand. Resume the film.
“To tell you the truth,” says Jimmy Stewart, “it really scares me a little.”
Saturday, November 13
83
Half past ten, and I feel different.
Perhaps it was the sleep (two temazepams, twelve hours); perhaps it’s my stomach—after Ethan left, after the movie ended, I made myself a sandwich. Closest thing I’ve had to a proper meal all week.
Whatever the case, whatever the cause, I feel different.
I feel better.
I shower. Stand beneath the spray; the water soaks my hair, pounds my shoulders. Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. Half an hour. When I emerge, scrubbed and shampooed, my skin feels new. I wriggle into jeans and a sweater. (Jeans! When did I last wear jeans?)
I walk across the bedroom to the window, part the curtains; light blasts the room. I close my eyes, let it warm me.