‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly. My husband’s at work today, and I have some cleaning to get done. But definitely soon, okay?’
‘Yes, dear. That would be great. Stop back anytime. Congratulations,’ I said, and Jane was gone, her lean legs carrying her down my porch steps and across the yard to her house, the skip in her step matching her bubbly personality.
I smiled, feeling I now had the best neighbours in the world, even if she did rush off pretty quickly. It was so thoughtful of her to bring by a pie, to spend time with an old woman like me, even if it was just a few minutes. I wished for a moment she would’ve stayed longer, but I didn’t want to cause trouble, not on our first meeting. So I let it go, thinking about how great it would be to have someone to talk to, wondering why I’d gotten goose bumps at the sight of her walking away.
* * *
As often happens, life for the young gets overrun by daily routines and to-do lists and the pressing matters of youth. She hasn’t been back since that first day. The rhubarb pie is long gone, and it saddens me a little bit. I had high hopes for us back then. I’d imagined all of the conversations, the lunches, the teas we’d share. I’d imagined what it would be like after all these years to have, dare I hope, a friend of sorts. But dreams don’t always go as planned, do they? And sometimes our biggest hopes are shattered by reality.
In truth, 312 Bristol Lane hasn’t quite turned out like I’d imagined at all. There has been little interaction for the past few months except for a few small encounters – and arguably, even they were a bit off-kilter.
On Sunday, I was making my glorious trek in my good old station wagon to Mark’s Mart for a few supplies. Jane had been cleaning the windows outside the house, and she gazed at the street from the top of her ladder. I smiled and tooted the horn. She didn’t wave, staring as if in another world.
I suppose she’d just been busy. That had to be it.
Regardless, there have been no visits, no more pies. I tell myself I can’t be annoyed, though. Life at that age is blissfully full. There will be plenty of time for tea drinking and porch sitting with elderly ladies and other generally dull tasks. Right now, she’s got other priorities.
I do worry. There’ve been subtle changes, small happenings, that have caused that nervous anxiety to resurge. Mostly, the anxiety is for them, the couple at 312 Bristol Lane.
Fewer goodbye kisses on the porch step, less hand holding at breakfast. I’m sure I’m overanalysing. It’s not enough to worry just yet. It’s a subtle change – but a change nonetheless.
Then again, maybe it’s all me. Maybe I’m imagining it. Perhaps these are just the musings of an overly bored woman. It’s no secret that I’ve got way too much time on my hands. Perhaps I need to find a hobby – but what? Knitting always did seem quite monotonous. Besides, these bones are too achy, too rickety, to be of any real use. And who would I knit for? Amos? I doubt the white Persian would want anything to do with a scratchy, crooked sweater I’d put together.
Besides, it’s much more fun watching. I’ve become quite a good observer in my late age.
It’s not all bad, either. Jane at 312 Bristol Lane still seems happy. She still smiles, skips around the house in a chipper fashion, saunters to the mailbox in her gorgeous sundresses, kicks back her feet as she leans on the front porch step.
To most, she probably looks the same. To her husband, she probably looks the same.
To me, though, I can see it, the shifting, the small clues that not all is well. Like a detective in waiting, I sit, pondering over the signs, wondering how they all fit together in the bigger picture that is her.
The only question is: what can I do about it? What can this old lady in her rocking chair who can barely walk the twenty feet to the bathroom in time do about it?
For now, all I can do is keep watching, keep waiting, and keep hoping she’ll come over. In truth, it would be good to feel a little needed.
Chapter 3
It’s Saturday, and they’re raking leaves together. It looks warm out, the picture-perfect day you see on cards or those made-for-television movies that make me seriously want to crawl outside of my skin.
Not that love is a bad thing. But those movies where everything is perfect, the woman swooning over a dozen roses like some sickeningly debilitated puppet – those are the things that make me roll my eyes and shake my head, even when there’s nothing else on. Maybe it’s just me, though. Maybe I’ve just got a deeper understanding of life and love than most, especially the not-so-rosy moments. Maybe if life were a little bit more like a made-for-television movie, things wouldn’t be such a wreck right now. Sometimes predictability makes life happy.
I digress, though. Because the point is, 312 Bristol Lane doesn’t look like one of those annoyingly sappy movies. The couple feels real to me. They feel genuine, even in the happy moments. I don’t begrudge them these moments.
Jane and Alex keep raking leaves, right through my existential crisis over sappy movies and predictable plots. I refocus, studying them, looking at their subtle cues as I rock, Amos in my lap.
Alex has got short sleeves on, the rake in his hand. Jane’s in a lightweight sweater, her hair up in a ponytail. She’s sitting on the steps, chatting away animatedly. I sort of want to open the window, to get some air and to hear what they’re talking about, but I think it would be a little obvious. Plus, I’d probably just get cold in a minute or two, and I don’t want to disturb Amos. He’s all cosy, purring gently. His feet are even moving as he dreams.
The pile of leaves is getting bigger and bigger. Alex’s back is to me, but I can tell by his posture he’s relaxed, despite the work. She’s talking away. She talks with her hands. Did I used to be a hand talker when I had the energy? When I had someone to talk to?
I can’t remember. So many things I can’t remember now, it makes me feel sad. How do those moments slip away? The little moments, the little details, are like fleeting feathers on the breeze. I so desperately try to cling to them, if for no other reason than to say I can, but in truth, I can’t. Time stomps forward, leaving our memories in the ashy dirt. We can’t hold on to everything, not all of the big things and especially not the little things. Sometimes the loss of the little things hurts worse.
Now don’t go feeling sorry for yourself, you old coot, I think to myself. No need to get all down in the dumps. It won’t change anything anyway. You’ve got plenty to be thankful for.
Still, the quietude of the house can wear on a person. Talking to Amos just isn’t the same. He’s lovely, don’t get me wrong. But he doesn’t talk back. Sometimes the silence in the house is deafening. It’s enough to make me want to scream … but who would hear it?
The pointlessness is sometimes the difficulty of ageing, especially when you’re alone. No cat can fill that void or tackle that internal dilemma.
I’ve got other forms of social interaction, of course. I go to church on Sunday mornings when I feel up to it and when it isn’t bad weather. These eyes don’t work very well in the rain or when it’s foggy, after all. Still, I step into the little church down the road now and again, sitting in the back pew where I used to sit at the stage in my life I needed God or something to soothe the internal wounds festering, bubbling and oozing. In truth, if I look hard, they’re still there. I guess that’s why I still go to Mass once in a while, when I can. The fire and brimstone speeches are extreme, but who am I to say what’s right or wrong?
They also send a little shiver down my spine, all the talk about eternal damnation and forgiveness. I fiddle with my fingers during these sermons, asking the question so many do but so few truly understand: Will I be saved? Forgiven? Will I make it to heaven, or will my shattered soul spend eternity paying for my sins?
After all this time, I still don’t know the answer. Maybe I don’t want to know the answer, in truth. I don’t know if a few Sunday Masses now and then can check off a box, can mitigate my wrongdoings. But it can’t hurt.
Plus, if nothing else, Sundays get me
out of this tomb of a house, out of the interminable chill of being alone.
After Mass, I say hello to a few of the ladies and even go downstairs for coffee once in a while. They don’t really know me, which is okay. I’d probably forget their names anyway. I’m fine with being on the edges.
I also have my trips to the grocery store, Mark’s Mart. There’s a nice boy there who not only rings up my purchases but also loads my grocery bags in the car. He’s a young fellow, too young really to be talking to an old lady like me. His smile, his kind words, they give me something to look forward to. Best of all, he knows exactly how the groceries need to be packed – chicken in its own bag, toiletries in a brown bag, Amos’s cat food in a plastic bag. I have my system, and he doesn’t mess with it. I respect that.
I’ve come to learn, though, it’s the small, ordinary interactions you miss most when you’re alone. The silence of the house at any given moment, the only sound my breathing. The fact there’s no one to tell about the hilarious crisp commercial you just saw or to call out to when an adorable squirrel is eating on the feeder. The seemingly unimportant times, the little joys of daily life are lost when you don’t have anyone to share them with.
Nevertheless, I promised myself years ago I wouldn’t let that appreciation disappear. I vowed I’d cling to the positives. That’s what he’d want, after all. That’s what I need to do.
No matter how much I swear to myself I’ll keep living, keep being thankful, it’s not easy. I’d be lying if I said it was. It’s not just the silence; it’s the lack of companionship that makes me crazy.
It’s him. It’s the fact he’s not here.
I miss him. In spite of everything, I know deep down we were soulmates. How could I not miss him?
I miss our breakfasts of pancakes on Sundays when he would talk about the shocking news stories in the paper. I miss his kisses, miss the way he would wrap an arm around me as he passed by. I miss our Saturday morning drives to nowhere in particular. I miss our movie marathons on the sofa, our apple sauce with mini marshmallows on top just for fun. I miss having someone to bake for, someone to share everything with. I miss the way he didn’t give up on me even when I was falling apart, how his shoulder was there even when I didn’t realise I wanted or needed it.
It’s true, there was a time in our marriage when things weren’t good. There was a large span of time when I didn’t appreciate what we had. There were a lot of missed moments because I was – well, who I am.
I can’t apologise for that. But I can apologise for not understanding what I had to lose. And it turns out, I had a lot to lose. The barren rooms surrounding me underscore this fact. I lost in the end, lost so much, and now I’m here, sweltering in the realisation that I didn’t win.
I couldn’t win, after all.
But before all the bad times, there were good times too. There were the moments when we first met, the moments of happiness. I know now there were beautiful times. I can see them now. I wish I’d seen them more clearly then. I wonder if he saw them for what they were, right up to the end. I wonder if he appreciated them, even when it was his time to go.
We were happy once. It’s been so long, it’s easy to forget that we were happy.
I think about that now, the good times, the quietness stirring feelings of regret. It is not the regret of him being gone that bothers me as much as the regret of lost time. Such is the plight of humanity, I guess. We don’t realise what’s important until it’s way too late, until the time has evaporated. Then, when we have time to appreciate what matters most, we’re alone, incapable of making up for those moments from our youth.
‘That’s enough,’ I announce aloud to snap myself out of my sadness. I decided years ago that attitude is a choice. I try not to let myself sulk for too long. Once you start sulking, you’re done for. What good will that do? There’s no denying that what happened plagues me, haunts me, ravages me. But I have to maintain some semblance of existence, which means I have to cling to the positives.
I have to. There’s no choice.
And right now, 312 Bristol Lane is helping me ignore – or maybe avoid – the past. Their love story is helping me see what could be, what’s left.
I return my attention to them. They’re still raking leaves, the pile sky-high now. She’s laughing, stretching out her long legs in the sunshine, leaning back with her face towards the great blue, contentedness radiating from her soft grin.
This is what Saturday mornings should be about.
I smile as I watch him, clearly feeling mischievous, kick up a pile of leaves at her. The dirty, dingy leaves fall onto her, clinging on to her clothes. One even lands in her hair. She screams, a shriek of irritation and glee simultaneously. It’s so loud, I can hear remnants of it through the window. I tap my fingers on my rocking chair, completely enthralled as she leaps to her feet and races after him, poking him, tickling him, even hitting at him as he laughs. He dashes through their front yard and a chase around the property ensues. They run like children on the first day of summer break, her laughter still heard as he begs her to stop.
After a few laps, they are both panting. He pauses, leaning on his knees, out of breath. A once-familiar warmth surges within me from witnessing their connection, a love I can sense from over here.
A beautiful love.
Then, in the front yard, right on the lawn, he pulls her in to him, smack against his chest. They kiss, a sweet kiss turning passionate. He pulls her tighter, and she rests her chin on his shoulder. They sway a little, and eventually he pulls back, twirling her as they dance in the pile of leaves.
It’s a magical moment, a moment way better than my television movies. It’s a real moment.
They stand for a while in the leaves until the moment fades. Then, he saunters to the garage for the leaf bags, and she stands, wrapping her arms around herself, smiling at nothing but the feelings left behind.
It’s my favourite moment since they’ve moved in. It’s an everyday kind of moment, but it’s the sort of moment that I’d give anything to have again.
I sit watching them swirl in joy, a pure kind of joy, as he returns with the leaf bag. They swoop down, scooping up leaves together, laughing despite the chore at hand. She playfully tosses a leaf here or there at him, and one sticks in his hair. Watching them in this simple moment, I feel like I could sit here all day, wrapped up in the splendid happiness of who they are together.
But before I can inhale peacefully at the sight, I clutch my head. A sharp pain radiates from the centre out, a piercing sensation that stabs into every nerve in my head. I squint my eyes shut, the throbbing pain ripping my brain apart, making it hard to think.
My hand massages my scalp, but it’s no use. The migraine is back and I can think of nothing else.
When the agony eventually subsides, a dull roar still echoing in my head, I open my eyes to look over at 312 Bristol Lane, hoping there’s still a moment to be seen.
But they are gone, presumably back into their cocoon of happiness, their home, and their love.
I rub my head once more, glancing back into my own living room. The house silently screams of coldness, of emptiness, and of something missing.
Chapter 4
I meticulously turn my gold band as I stare at the photograph on top of the stony, dusty fireplace. Amos is asleep on the sofa. I reach out a hand gingerly, almost afraid to touch the glass, afraid if my fingers make contact with it, the fact he’s gone will be real.
Time eases the pain and shock of his death, but it doesn’t take away the burdens of loneliness and loss. It doesn’t make it easier.
For the fourth time today, I touch the chilling glass, eyeing the black and white photograph with both sadness and a smile. In the picture, we’re looking at each other, love radiating even without colour. There’s a rose bush behind us. I can still see the vibrant reds within the murky grey. One of my delicate hands shoves back the itchy veil from my ravishing curls. He’s staring at me as if he wants to devour me, and, i
f I remember correctly, I think he did want to, judging from the words he was whispering in my ear right after the camera flashed.
It makes me blush just thinking of it.
We were so young, so naive, so in love. I was so happy then.
Time was hard on us, as it is to so many. Still, this picture has always sat on this fireplace, a symbol of that perfect day. Each time I’ve seen it over the years, it’s been like a connection to the past. It’s a relic of the love we once had – the carefree, roses-in-the-background kind of love, where starry-eyed lovers think nothing could ever tear them apart.
‘So long ago,’ I say out loud to the picture, feeling in some ways like that moment was yesterday and in some ways like it was two hundred years ago instead of sixty-seven.
My hands shaking, I squeeze the photograph as if I can clutch on to us, on to the people in the picture. My mind wraps itself around the memories, good and bad, and my chest heaves with the realisation of all that’s happened. I’m suddenly desperate to hold on to what I see, and before I can stop myself, I’m squeezing harder and harder. I squeeze until my hand vibrates from the effort. I squeeze until I hear a punchy crack, the glass snapping right in the middle, the line weaving down my body in the photograph, marring the perfect, smiling woman.
I set the cracked memento back down, my hand finding the edge of the mantel now. I stare at my handiwork, the cracks now giving it a new feeling. I don’t know why, but it suits the picture. The imperfections make it better. My finger traces the cracked glass for a moment, and I marvel in the pattern, in the new texture, and in the picture that is still very much the same but also a little bit different.
I study the faces I know so well but that somehow seem so distant from me. The glass shifts slightly, leaving part of the picture uncovered. It will fall prey to the elements, to the air of life around it. It’s not protected anymore.
The Widow Next Door Page 2
