The Woman in the Window: A Novel

by A. J. Finn

  Silence. I open a cabinet by the fridge.

  “Well,” he continues, “let’s discuss this on Tuesday.”

  “All right,” I say, selecting a bottle of merlot.

  “It can wait that long, I assume?”

  “Yes, absolutely.” I twist the cap off the bottle.

  “And you’re sure you’re feeling all right?”

  “Completely.” I fetch a glass from the sink.

  “You’re not mixing with alcohol?”

  “No.” Pouring.

  “Good. Well, I’ll see you then.”

  “See you then.”

  The line goes dead, and I sip.

  52

  I travel upstairs. In Ed’s library, I find the glass and bottle I abandoned twenty minutes ago, brimming with sun. I collect them, ferry the whole lot to my study.

  At the desk I sit. And think.

  Spread across the screen before me is a chessboard, pieces already in place, night-and-day armies braced for battle. The white queen: I remember claiming Jane’s. Jane, in her snowy blouse, saturated with blood.

  Jane. The white queen.

  The computer chirps.

  I look toward the Russell house. No signs of life.

  GrannyLizzie: Hello, Doctor Anna.

  I start, stare.

  Where had we left things? When had we left things? I expand the chat box, scroll up. GrannyLizzie has left the chat at 4:46 p.m. on Thursday, November 4.

  That’s right: just as Ed and I had broken the news to Olivia. I remember how my heart thrummed.

  And six hours later I dialed 911.

  And since then . . . the journey outside. The night in the hospital. The interview with Little, with the doctor. The injection. The ride through Harlem, sun aching in my eyes. The hustle inside. Punch, snaking into my lap. Norelli, circling me. Alistair in my house. Ethan in my house.

  That woman in my house.

  And Bina, and our Internet searches, and her prim snores in the night. And today: Ed, disbelieving; that phone call from “Jane”; David’s apartment, David’s anger; Dr. Fielding’s voice croaking in my ear.

  Has it only been two days?

  thedoctorisin: Hello! How are you?

  She cut me off cold, but I’m taking the high road.

  GrannyLizzie: I’m fine, but more importantly I am SO sorry for leaving so abruptly the last time we spoke.

  Good.

  thedoctorisin: That’s all right! We’ve all got things to do!

  GrannyLizzie: It wasn’t that, I PROMISE. My internet gave up on life! Rest in peace internet!

  GrannyLizzie: This happens every couple of months but this time it was on a Thursday and the company couldn’t get anyone out here until the weekend.

  GrannyLizzie: I’m SO sorry, I can’t imagine what you must think of me.

  I put the glass to my mouth, drink. Set it down and sip from the other glass. I’d assumed that Lizzie didn’t want to hear my sob story. Me of little faith.

  thedoctorisin: Please don’t apologize! These things happen!

  GrannyLizzie: Well I feel like a real rhymes with witch!!

  thedoctorisin: Not at all.

  GrannyLizzie: Forgive me?

  thedoctorisin: Nothing to forgive! I hope you’re doing well.

  GrannyLizzie: Yes I am well. My sons are visiting :-)

  thedoctorisin: :-) indeed! How nice for you!

  GrannyLizzie: Wonderful to have them here.

  thedoctorisin: What are your sons’ names?

  GrannyLizzie: Beau

  GrannyLizzie: And William.

  thedoctorisin: Great names.

  GrannyLizzie: Great guys. They’ve always been a huge help. Especially when Richard was ill. We raised them right!

  thedoctorisin: Sounds like it!

  GrannyLizzie: William calls me every day from Florida. He says HELLO THERE in his biggest voice and I smile. Gets me every time.

  I smile too.

  thedoctorisin: My family always says “Guess who” when I talk to them!

  GrannyLizzie: Oh I like that!

  I think of Livvy and Ed, hear their voices in my head. My throat swells. I swallow some more wine.

  thedoctorisin: It must be very nice to have your sons with you.

  GrannyLizzie: Anna, it is SO nice. They are back in their old bedrooms and it feels like “old times”.

  For the first time in days, I feel relaxed, in charge. Useful, even. Almost like I’m back on East Eighty-Eighth, in my office, helping a patient. Only connect.

  I might need this more than Lizzie does.

  And so, as the light dims outside and the shadows fade across my ceiling, I chat with a lonely grandmother thousands of miles away. Lizzie loves to cook, she tells me; the boys’ favorite meal is my famous pot roast (not really famous), and she bakes cream cheese brownies every year for the fire department. There used to be a cat—here I tell her about Punch—but now she has a rabbit, a brown girl named Petunia. Though not a film buff, Lizzie likes cooking shows and Game of Thrones. The latter surprises me—pretty gritty.

  She talks about Richard, of course. We all miss him very much. He was a teacher, a Methodist deacon, a lover of trains (with a big model set in our cellar), an affectionate parent—a good man.

  A good man and a good father. Suddenly Alistair steps into my mind. I shudder, wade deeper into my wineglass.

  GrannyLizzie: Hope I’m not boring you . . .

  thedoctorisin: Not at all.

  I learn that Richard was not only decent but responsible, and managed all the house work: maintenance, electronics (William brought me an “apple TV” I cannot work, Lizzie frets), landscaping, bills. In his absence, explains his widow, I feel overwhelmed. I feel like an old lady.

  I drum my fingers atop the mouse. It isn’t exactly the Cotard delusion, but I can propose some quick fixes. Let’s solve this, I tell her—and instantly my blood runs warm, the way it does when I’m walking a patient through a problem.

  I take a pencil from the drawer, slash a few words onto a Post-it. At the office I used a Moleskine notebook and a fountain pen. Makes no difference.

  Maintenance: See if there’s a local handyman who can visit weekly—can she do that?

  GrannyLizzie: There is Martin who works at my church.

  thedoctorisin: Great!

  Electronics: Most young people are good with computers and TVs. I’m not sure how many teenagers Lizzie knows, but—

  GrannyLizzie: The Roberts on my street have a son with an ipad.

  thedoctorisin: He’s your man!

  Bills (a particular challenge for her, it seems; Paying on line is difficult, too many different user names and pass words): She should Choose consistent and easy-to-remember logins for both—her own name, I suggest, or a child’s, or a loved one’s birthday—but switch out some of the letters for numbers and symbols. W1LL1@M, for example.

  A pause.

  GrannyLizzie: My name would be L1221E

  I smile again.

  thedoctorisin: That’s catchy!

  GrannyLizzie: Laughing Out Loud.

  GrannyLizzie: The news said I could be “hacked”, is that something I should worry about??

  thedoctorisin: I don’t think anyone will crack your code!

  I should hope nobody would, anyway. She’s a septuagenarian in Montana.

  Finally, outdoor work: Winters are really really cold here, Lizzie notes, so she’ll need someone to clear snow off the roof, spread rock salt on the front walk, shear icicles from the gutters . . . Even if I am able to go outside, it’s a heck of a lot of work to get ready for winter.

  thedoctorisin: Well, let’s hope you’re back in the world by then. But either way, maybe Martin from church could help you. Or kids from the neighborhood. Your students, even. Don’t underestimate the power of $10 an hour!

  GrannyLizzie: Yes. Good ideas.

  GrannyLizzie: Thank you so much, Doctor Anna. I feel SO much better.

  Problem solved. Patient helped. I feel a
s though I’m glowing. I sip my wine.

  And then it’s back to pot roast, and rabbits, and William and Beau.

  A light in the Russell parlor. I peek around the side of the desktop screen and see that woman walk into the room. I haven’t thought about her for more than an hour, I realize. My session with Lizzie is doing me good.

  GrannyLizzie: William is back with shopping. He better have bought the donuts I asked for!

  GrannyLizzie: I have to go stop him from eating them.

  thedoctorisin: Please do!

  GrannyLizzie: Have you been able to go outside yet, btw?

  btw. She’s learning Internet slang.

  I splay my fingers, fan them over the keyboard. Yes, I’ve been able to go outside. Twice, in fact.

  thedoctorisin: No luck, I’m afraid.

  No need to go into it, either.

  GrannyLizzie: I hope you will be able to soon . . .

  thedoctorisin: That makes two of us!

  She signs off, and I drain my glass. Set it on the desk.

  I push one foot against the floor, set the chair slowly spinning. The walls revolve before me.

  I will promote healing and well-being. I did that today.

  I close my eyes. I’ve helped Lizzie prepare for life, helped her live it a little more fully. Helped her find relief.

  I will place others’ interests above my own. Well, yes—but I benefited, too: For nearly ninety minutes, the Russells retreated from my brain. Alistair, that woman, even Ethan.

  Even Jane.

  The chair drifts to a halt. When I open my eyes, I’m looking through the doorway, into the hall, into Ed’s library.

  And I think about what I haven’t told Lizzie, what I didn’t get to tell her.

  53

  Olivia refused to return to the room, so Ed remained with her while I packed, my heart booming. I trudged back to the lobby, where the flames were simmering low in the grate, and Marie dragged my credit card through a reader. She wished us folks a pleasant evening, her smile absurdly broad, her eyes wide.

  Olivia reached for me. I looked at Ed; he took the bags, slung one over each shoulder. I gripped our daughter’s hot little hand in my own.

  We’d parked in the far corner of the lot; by the time we reached the car, we were starchy with flakes. Ed popped the trunk, stuffed the luggage inside, while I swept my arm across the windshield. Olivia clambered into the backseat, slamming the door after herself.

  Ed and I stood there, at opposite ends of the car, as the snow fell on us, between us.

  I saw his mouth move. “What?” I asked.

  He spoke again, louder. “You’re driving.”

  I drove.

  I drove out of the lot, tires squealing on the frost. I drove into the road, snowflakes thrilling against the windows. I drove onto the highway, into the night, into the white.

  All was silent, just the hum of the engine. Beside me, Ed gazed dead ahead. I checked the mirror. Olivia was slumped in her seat, head bobbing against her shoulder—not asleep, but eyes half-shuttered.

  We coasted around a bend. I gripped the wheel harder.

  And suddenly the chasm opened up next to us, that vast pit gouged from the earth; now, under the moon, the trees below glowed like ghosts. Flakes of snow, silver and dark, tumbled into the gorge, down, down, lost forever, mariners drowned in the deep.

  I lifted my foot from the gas.

  In the rearview I watched Olivia as she peered through the window. Her face was shiny; she’d been crying again, in silence.

  My heart cracked.

  My phone buzzed.

  * * *

  Two weeks earlier we’d attended a party, Ed and I, at the house across the park, the Lord place—holiday cocktails, all glossy drinks and mistletoe sprigs. The Takedas were there, and the Grays (the Wassermen, our host told me, declined to RSVP); one of the grown Lord children put in a cameo, girlfriend in tow. And Bert’s colleagues from the bank, legions of them. The house was a war zone, a minefield, air-kisses popping at every step, cannon-fire laughter, backslaps like bombs.

  Midway through the evening, midway through my fourth glass, Josie Lord approached.

  “Anna!”

  “Josie!”

  We embraced. Her hands fluttered over my back.

  “Look at your gown,” I said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  I didn’t know how to respond. “It is.”

  “But look at you in slacks!”

  I gestured to my pants. “Look at me.”

  “I had to retire my shawl just a moment ago—Bert spilled his . . . oh, thank you, Anna,” as I tweezed a length of hair from her glove. “Spilled his wine all over my shoulder.”

  “Bad Bert!” I sipped.

  “I told him he’s in a lot of trouble later. This is the second time . . . oh, thank you, Anna,” as I pinched another filament from her dress. Ed always said I was a hands-on drunk. “Second time he’s done that to my shawl.”

  “The same shawl?”

  “No, no.”

  Her teeth were round and off-white; I was reminded of the Weddell seal, which, I’d recently learned from a nature program, uses its fangs to clear holes in Antarctic ice fields. “Its teeth,” the narrator had pointed out, “become badly worn down.” Cue shot of seal thrashing its jaws against the snow. “Weddell seals die young,” added the narrator, ominously.

  “Now, who’s been calling you all night?” asked the Weddell seal before me.

  I went still. My phone had buzzed steadily throughout the evening, humming against my hip. I would slip it into my palm, drop my eyes to the screen, tap a reply with my thumb. I’d been discreet, I thought.

  “It’s a work thing,” I explained.

  “But what could a child possibly need at this hour?” Josie asked.

  I smiled. “That’s confidential. You understand.”

  “Oh, of course, of course. You’re very professional, dear.”

  Yet amid the roar, even as I skimmed the surface of my brain, mouthed questions and answers, even as the wine flowed and the carols droned—even then I could think only of him.

  * * *

  The phone buzzed again.

  My hands jumped from the wheel for an instant. I’d stowed the phone in the cup well between the front seats, where now it rattled against the plastic.

  I looked at Ed. He was watching the phone.

  Another buzz. I flicked my eyes to the mirror. Olivia was staring out the window.

  Quiet. We drove on.

  Buzz.

  “Guess who,” Ed said.

  I didn’t respond.

  “Bet it’s him.”

  I didn’t argue.

  Ed took the phone in his hand, inspected the screen. Sighed.

  We cruised down the road. We hugged a turn.

  “You want to answer it?”

  I couldn’t look at him. My gaze bore through the windshield. I shook my head.

  “I’ll answer it, then.”

  “No.” I snatched at the phone. Ed held it from me.

  It kept buzzing. “I want to answer it,” Ed said. “I want to have a word with him.”

  “No.” I knocked the phone from his hand. It clattered beneath my feet.

  “Stop it,” cried Olivia.

  I looked down, saw the screen trembling on the floor, saw his name on it.

  “Anna,” Ed breathed.

  I looked up. The road had vanished.

  We were rocketing over the edge of the gorge. We were sailing into the dark.

  54

  A knock.

  I’ve drifted off. I sit up, groggy. The room has gone dark; night beyond the windows.

  The knock again. Downstairs. It isn’t the front door; it’s the basement.

  I walk to the stairs. David almost always uses the front door when he visits. I wonder if this is one of his houseguests.

  But when I flick the kitchen lights and open the basement door, it’s the man himself on the other side, looking up at me from two
steps below.

  “I thought maybe now I should start coming in this way,” he says.

  I pause, then realize he’s trying to joke. “Fair enough.” I step aside, and he moves past me into the kitchen.

  I shut the door. We eye each other. I think I know what he’s going to say. I think he’s going to tell me about Jane.

  “I wanted— I want to apologize,” he begins.

  I freeze.

  “For earlier,” he says.

  I twitch my head, my hair loose around my shoulders. “I’m the one who should apologize.”

  “You did apologize.”

  “I’m happy to apologize again.”

  “No, I don’t want that. I want to say I’m sorry. For shouting.” He nods. “And for leaving the door open. I know that bothers you.”

  An understatement, but I owe him at least that. “It’s fine.” I want to hear about Jane. Can I ask him again?

  “I just—” He strokes the kitchen island with one hand, props himself against it. “I get territorial. Probably this is something I should’ve told you before, but.”

  The sentence ends there. He swings one foot in front of the other.

  “But?” I say.

  He lifts his eyes from beneath those dark brows. Rough and ready. “You got any beer?”

  “I’ve got wine.” I think of the two bottles on my desk upstairs, the two glasses. I should probably empty them. “Should I open a bottle?”

  “Sure.”

  I move past him to the cabinet—he smells of Ivory—and remove a bottle of red. “Merlot okay?”

  “I don’t even know what that is.”

  “It’s a nice red.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I open another cabinet door. Bare. Over to the dishwasher. A pair of glasses clash in my hand; I set them on the island, pry the cork out of the bottle, and pour.

  He slides a glass toward himself, tips it toward me.