A Woman Alone

by Nina Laurin

  She licks her lips before she speaks. “An interesting choice of timing, Cecelia, for me to meet my granddaughter for the first time.”

  “Please,” I say in a loud whisper. “Don’t start.”

  “You could have given me a call, or something.”

  “There was no time. I don’t even have my phone. It’s back home.”

  “There’s a surprise,” she says, smirking. “And does this little girl even know I exist?”

  My face warms. Truth be told, I have no idea. Maybe it came up in conversation once or twice, between me and Scott perhaps, and she overheard. But she didn’t press. She never asked us about who this grandma might be and if she could meet her. Now, since hindsight is 20/20, of course, I know that she was too far gone in her virtual world to care.

  “What happened to your face?” Her tone conveys more morbid curiosity than maternal concern. While I ponder what to say, Therese evaluates the situation and comes to her own conclusions. “So. I suppose you’ve finally done it? Scott threw you out?”

  “What?” As preposterous as that suggestion is, it does remind me of something. “Can I— I need to use your phone. He doesn’t know where I am…” Or where Taryn is. My stomach tightens. IntelTech must have called him by now, and he’s probably worried sick about Taryn with no way to reach me.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t think of many reasons you’d show up here, looking like you got mauled by a wolverine and with your daughter in tow. Whom you clearly never intended me to meet.”

  “Mom,” I say, “I really need a phone. I had to ditch mine.”

  With a huff, she goes to get her old-fashioned cordless and thrusts the receiver toward me. “There. Call him now. Say whatever you need to say but make up with him. I’m sorry but you’re not cut out to be on your own. You never were.”

  I swallow that in silence. Snatching the phone out of her hand, I punch in the number of his cell.

  He picks up on the first ring. “Hello,” I say.

  “Jesus Christ, Cecelia!” His voice is so loud that I’m certain Therese can hear it all. I glare at her but she doesn’t even think of leaving. “What the fuck!”

  “Wait,” I stammer. There’s so much I need to say to him. “The house—it locked me out. My chip must have malfunctioned.” I notice how Therese grimaces when I say the words. Right, she still thinks my chip is the Devil’s work. The irony is that I’m starting to agree with her.

  “What the hell are you talking about? The door was broken down. Taryn is— Is she with you?”

  “Yes.”

  His exhale rattles within a burst of static in my ear. “Thank God. What on earth were you thinking? Where are you right now?”

  “They expelled her from day care,” I say, and shut my eyes. “Scott, please, you have to hear me out. We’re not safe in that house. You have to leave right now.”

  “You’re nuts.” He groans. “Not this again, Cecelia. You need help. And now you’re dragging my daughter into your craziness. You’re as bad as your mother!”

  Therese is imperturbable. I grit my teeth.

  “There was someone at the house before we lived there, Scott,” I say. “Lydia Bishop. And the house did something to her, and IntelTech covered it up. And I’m going to find out what happened.”

  “Stop it. No one lived in the house. You’re deranged.” He’s practically yelling, and I wince.

  “I have proof. That’s why the house went haywire and locked me out. But I have proof, on tape. Just…please, please get out of there.”

  I hear his deep sigh, and for a moment, I dare think that I got through to him. That he believes me. That he’s going to leave and come join us and it’ll be the three of us again, just as it should be. I’ll even forgive him for what he tried to do. I don’t even mind living in a one-bedroom. I’ll be plenty happy in a shed, as long as I’m far, far away from Venture, from 32 Rosemary Road.

  In that moment, I find myself pathetically, small-mindedly eager to give up the whole Lydia thing, throw out the cassette, and forget about it forever. If only I could undo the last year. Just gouge out that stupid IntelTech chip and renege on our agreement and tell them to go to hell.

  “Cecelia, I give you until morning,” my husband says. “You can come back here, and we’ll try to move on. You’re going to get help though, serious help, not just some shrink appointment once a week. Medication. And I’ll program Saya to track that you’re actually taking it.”

  My heart sinks. All my nascent hopes, annihilated.

  “Do you hear me?” he asks in an impatient voice.

  “Yes,” I say, my own tone colorless, and hang up the phone.

  “Now you’ve done it,” says Therese. Hell, I almost forgot she was there.

  I look up at her, and there must be something in my eyes that makes her choke on whatever she was going to say next. The smug expression slides off her face like a mask, leaving it even more sallow and pale.

  “Mother,” I say, “please, for once, just shut the fuck up.”

  I reach into the pocket of my jeans where I stuffed the piece of paper while I carried Taryn up the stairs to Therese’s door, and at first, I feel a rush of panic when I can’t find it. But then my fingertips meet the edge of the folded square. I take it out and meticulously unfold it, holding it up to the light so I can see what’s written on it.

  This is my last chance.

  * * *

  TRANSCRIPT: Session 10, Lydia Bishop.

  Dr. Alice Stockman, PhD.

  June 19th, 2018

  LB: This is what you wanted to talk about, isn’t it? It’s the thing that interests you the most. That’s okay. That’s what everyone wants to know about.

  So fine. I’ll tell you. Before I ended up here, I had an unremarkable life. But I liked it. I liked it because it was wholly my own. I built it. After a lifetime of being told by everyone that I wouldn’t amount to anything. Sure, I wasn’t as flashy as my sister—it was Faye who had the looks and the brains.

  The irony is I always thought it was so unfair but it ended up being in my favor. She was the one my parents pressured to do well, to get into a top college, to pursue law as a career. Me, no one minded that I went into psychology. So I followed my heart. And I loved what I did. I still miss it. I hope to go back to it one day but honestly, I’m not kidding myself. The world doesn’t forget anymore, not with the internet.

  I don’t know why I was always so drawn to troubled people. I want to say it was my natural empathy and drive to help and all the other stuff you’re supposed to say. But looking back, I don’t think that’s what it was. I don’t think that’s what it was at all. I had a kind of fascination with brokenness. I was like a child who feels compelled to take a toy apart to see what’s inside.

  And so when Walter showed up in my office, impromptu, I couldn’t resist. Even though I must have realized deep down that I should have told him to leave—to seek the help of a psychiatrist, not just a psychotherapist. I wasn’t equipped to handle his kinds of problems.

  But after that first session, I realized how bored I was with it all. With the career ladies and their mommy-guilt, the suburban housewives and their fretting about their wrinkles. To be in his presence was like being jolted with electricity, in a good way, if such a thing is possible. I felt replenished afterward. Alive. Needed, even. For once I had a real challenge in front of me, someone I could—or thought I could, in my arrogance—save.

  But then the day came when I knew, definitely and without doubt, that I was in over my head. He’d been talking about self-harm before and even suicidal ideation. But that day, he showed up and told me that he was thinking about hurting another person.

  I sat there, in my chair, kind of the way you do right now, except I was afraid to move. Goose bumps raced up my arms, as if I knew I was walking on the blade’s edge. I kept my calm though. I asked him who he was thinking about.

  Instead of answering, he asked me if I could think of someone I wanted to hurt. “This isn’t abo
ut me right now,” I said. “I’m sure you can,” he said. “Everyone can. We all have people who deserve to be hurt. But most people could never go through with it. If you knew 100 percent you could get away with it, maybe. Or if you were dying, terminally ill or something, and had nothing to lose either way. Could you?”

  “I don’t think I could,” I said.

  “Really?” And he smirked at me. And I had that eerie feeling like he was a closed book to me, yet he was the one who could see inside my head. And that he could see plain as day who it was I thought of in that one split second. I mean, he wasn’t wrong. We all think of someone. Do you?

  [sighs]

  LB: Anyway, he sat there smirking, looking at me in that knowing way he had. And I felt challenged, infuriated, on the edge. More than I ever did. And so I told him. I told him who it was I’d kill, if I could get away with it.

  Yes, you’re looking at me like that. I expected it. And you know what? I know this is being recorded. I don’t really care. Maybe I have, as he put it so succinctly, nothing to lose?

  [laughs]

  LB: So when I told him who it was, he laughed too. “Well, Lydia,” he said, “I knew you had it in you.”

  “But I wouldn’t really do it,” I repeated. “I don’t think I’m capable of taking a life.”

  And he said, “Wanna bet?”

  And that’s when he lunged at me with that knife.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I turn off the player. It’s nearing six a.m., and the apartment is shrouded in silence. Imperfect silence, nothing like back at the house. I hear the street outside, the odd car passing, sirens somewhere far away. I feel utterly disconnected from the world without my phone by my side. Therese doesn’t have a computer so there’s no Wi-Fi or cable. It’s like traveling back in time. Any moment now I expect to wake up in my childhood bed, only seven years old, and to realize all this has been nothing but a dream.

  Except for the cassette player and the piece of paper on the dining room table in front of me, which anchor me in this reality.

  Lydia was a psychologist, and she was attacked by a patient. That’s how she ended up at 32 Rosemary Road. This is what I know so far but it doesn’t answer my questions. Only Lydia herself can do that.

  I get up, my spine stiff and limbs leaden after the chaotic day followed by the sleepless night. With a groan, I walk over to the doorway into the bedroom, doing my best to step quietly. When I peer in, I see an idyllic picture: Therese asleep on top of the bedspread while Taryn is tucked safely beneath the covers, also snoring away, her mouth open and a little thread of drool on her chin. I consider coming over and placing the gentlest of kisses on her silky cheek but worry it might wake her up and spark another tantrum, which would then wake Therese, rendering my escapade impossible. So I content myself just watching her for a few silent, perfect seconds.

  Since I no longer have a wallet to speak of, everything being connected to my phone and my SmartBlock account, I grit my teeth and reach into Therese’s handbag, which is hanging from a hook by the front door. It’s an ancient thing that looks like she bought it at a street vendor, faux leather and plastic that is starting to peel and disintegrate. When I plunge my hand into its depths, a smell of stale perfume wafts into my face.

  Her wallet is stuffed full of crisp twenties—no doubt the money I wired her, which she wasted no time converting to cash, the only currency she trusts. I pocket a few bills, not bothering to feel remorseful. It’s my money after all. Sort of.

  I tiptoe over to the front door, put my shoes on, and grab my purse, making sure the cassette player and tape are inside. The paper I fold and put in my pocket before I leave the apartment.

  It’s time to get answers. It’s time to find Lydia.

  Once I’m outside, I realize how truly early it is. The street is deserted. I have to walk for a good twenty minutes before I hit a semibusy artery where some fast-food places and coffee shops are starting to open. It’s a bit of a shock to me how run-down everything looks, from the cracks in the sidewalk and the overflowing trash cans to the storefronts and the people shuffling listlessly by.

  I break one of the crisp twenties to buy a coffee and drink it, wincing. I can’t remember the last time I had coffee this bad. It’s simultaneously sour and bitter, burnt and too hot, scalding the top of my palate right off. Like it or not, in that moment, I kind of miss the coffee machine at the house.

  Chasing the thought away, I look around. It takes an additional ten minutes to find a cab. Apparently, in the time I was gone, the entire city converted to Uber, which is off-limits since I don’t have my phone. Or has it been that way for much, much longer than I remember, and I just didn’t notice? It’s a bit like falling out of the glorious science-fiction future and being dunked headfirst in the Stone Age.

  Finally, I flag the cab down. I’ve never been so happy to see one of those yellow cars. Climbing into the back, I catch the driver’s curious gaze in the mirror. I fumble through my pockets until I find the square of paper.

  “I need to go here,” I say, handing it to the driver.

  He looks a little squeamish to take the piece of paper from my hand. Which is rich, coming from a guy whose stench of cheap cologne and tobacco I can barely breathe through. But beggars can’t be choosers. I watch in the mirror as he skims the address with his gaze.

  Then he turns around. He doesn’t just look up—he turns around all the way to look at me, which, I can tell, costs some effort since he’s somewhere between 250 and 300 pounds. His face now looks fully awake, his eyes interested.

  “Are you sure you wanna go there?”

  “Yes,” I say, impatient, fidgeting in my uncomfortable seat.

  “Really? What do you need there, of all places?”

  “I’m looking for someone,” I say carefully. I search his face for any ill thoughts, any sign of maliciousness, anything to further fuel my paranoia.

  “And you’re looking for him here.” He waves the paper in the air.

  “Her,” I correct. “Yes. Someone gave me this address.”

  The cabbie shrugs. “Very well, then,” he says. “If you’re sure, then I’ll take you there. But it’s far out.” He names a price that doesn’t sound reasonable or even remotely fair.

  “That’s outrageous,” I say.

  “You can always walk,” he says, and gives another shrug.

  “Fine,” I say, seething. It’ll deplete my budget significantly. I might have to take public transit to go back. Assuming I can even figure out which bus to take with no phone, no GPS, and no Maps app. How did I ever do this? How did anyone ever do this?

  One thing he turned out to be right about—it’s a long drive. I watch intently as the streets float by, mentally noting each intersection, but soon enough, I lose track. Alarm fills me when the car roars onto the highway, and when I turn back to look, the city recedes into the distance.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Where are we going?” I yell. I can barely hear myself through the sound of the engine and the terrible music pouring from the car’s speakers, scratchy with static.

  “Where you wanted me to go,” he yells back, without making any attempt to turn the music down.

  I sink back into my seat and resume playing nervously with the seat belt. Soon enough, he takes an exit but instead of relief and clarity, I feel ever-rising apprehension. The road is almost empty. On one side, rows of electrical towers rise out of yellowing grass; on the other side, nothing, except some plain gray buildings in the distance. We pass some grimy-looking warehouses, and just as I’m about to let my nerves get the best of me and tell him to turn around and go back, it rises out of nothingness.

  “Is this it?” I ask hoarsely.

  “Yup.”

  “This…this is the address.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His eyes in the mirror are humorous. “Do you still want me to drop you off? I can bring you back for free. I have to head back to the city
anyway. Hardly any fares out here.”

  “N-no,” I stammer. Heat rises into my face because, for half a second, I actually consider taking him up on the offer. For the first time, I start to wonder if this is all a joke. Or whether Radley—whatever his real name—was in cahoots with IntelTech and gave me this address to mislead me.

  I squeeze my hands into fists. No. I’m going in there. I need to find out.

  “Whatever you say.” The cabbie drops me off in a parking lot. I pay the fare, leave a modest tip, and get out. Then I watch as the car pulls out of the lot, onto the road, and out of sight, its dirty yellow the only color for what feels like miles. And then even that is gone.

  I turn away and toward the place that looms over me, menacing. Just the sight of it fills me with a deep existential dread that should be reserved for cancer wards and morgues. I can’t make myself go in there.

  The gate towers over me, ominous, all its chain-link and barbed wire reminiscent of a gate into hell or something worse.

  Because my search for Lydia has brought me to a prison.

  * * *

  TRANSCRIPT: Session 10, Lydia Bishop.

  Dr. Alice Stockman, PhD.

  June 19th, 2018

  LB: …but, you say to yourself, I already know all this. He lunged at you with a knife. And then you managed to turn it against him, and he died of a gut wound, shortly before the police got there. I heard about all that. How boring. Where’s the big secret? you ask. Where is it?

  Well, I hate to disappoint. I wish it was something bigger and more satisfying. But some have wondered why I waited to call the police, the ambulance, et cetera. The incident report says that time elapsed between the stab wound and the 911 call. I explained it all, of course. I’m a psychologist after all. Shock. In numb shock, I just watched him bleed out and die.

  But here’s the truth, such as it is. In that time, while Walter bled out on the beige carpet in my home office, I saw it all fall apart, in my head. This very office, my practice, my career. And so, instead of calling 911 or doing any of the other things I should have done, I watched and waited for him to die. They finally concluded that he couldn’t have been saved regardless, even if I’d pounced on the phone right away. Which is just as well because I needed him to be dead, you see? I needed him to be gone, and the thing I told him had to be gone too.