‘Ow, you hurt me,’ she whined, flailing on the ground and pointing up at me.
The organ continued playing, but the words for my solo eluded me. I didn’t sing. I watched in horror as the teacher rushed over, helping Lucy from the ground and asking if she was okay. My parents, too, rushed from their pews.
Couldn’t they see she wasn’t really hurt? That I hadn’t done anything? That she’d started it?
The other kids laughed and pointed at the ruckus, ignoring the song. ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ went unsung, the preacher looking angry. The whole church stared at me. I was in the centre of the altar, feeling so alone, my face burning with embarrassment and frustration.
And eventually, that embarrassment and frustration boiled over into something else entirely: rage.
My parents helped Lucy up, her crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks. Mom hurried over, grabbing me by the wrist and yanking me down from the altar in front of everyone.
‘You’ve done it now,’ she hissed through clenched teeth.
And instead of them congratulating me, they dragged me from the church as everyone watched, kids on the altar laughing and pointing as the preacher tried to regain composure and order.
Outside the church, the sun was shining, the clouds billowy and soft. Mom’s hold on my wrist hurt, but I didn’t dare cry out. I was too stunned, too shattered to complain anyway. My stomach burned and my head pounded. How did this happen? How could this happen?
It was her. It was always her. I seethed inside as she held Dad’s hand. He comforted her, telling her it was all okay.
They rushed us to the car and Dad tucked Lucy safely in the back. I was shaking now, out of frustration and fear of what would come. Dad didn’t like to be humiliated.
Before I could open the door, he took one arm and slammed me up against the back of the car. Mom crawled inside, ignoring the scene unfolding.
‘You bitch. How dare you embarrass us. Look what you’ve done. You’re ruining this family. You ruin everything,’ he said, his face inches from mine.
Tears welled, stinging my eyes.
‘Daddy, it wasn’t me. She did it. She started it. She shoved me.’ My voice was shaky as I pleaded with him. I needed him to understand, just this once. I wanted him to side with me and to understand that it was all Lucy. It was always Lucy.
There was no sense of understanding that day, however. There was no pride or acknowledgement of what today was supposed to be about. Instead, he shoved against me, his arm pressing against my chest, making it hard to breathe. I felt the metal of the car, hot from the sun, against my back.
‘You’re the older one. You should know better. Don’t you dare blame Lucy. She’s an angel. You’re nothing. You’re the problem. We’d have been better off without you. Now get in the car.’ He pressed against me one last time, his rage jolting through the pressure he placed on me.
As he stepped back, I slumped to the ground, but he grabbed me by the hair, yanking me up and tossing me in the car. I crumpled on the seat, in shock even though I really shouldn’t have expected anything different. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt Mom or Dad’s unhinged wrath.
The whole way home, I shook with terror, with anger, with a sense that all was not right. I stared out the window, watching the familiar landscapes whir by as the car sped onward, back to the home that had always housed so many dark truths for me, even at seven.
What had happened to me? Why had everything changed? Why was I never good enough?
The questions swirled over and over in my head, looping through clips of memories and of other times I’d felt this bubbling anger inside. I thought about how Lucy was always the one to get new clothes while mine fell apart into tattered rags. I thought about the beaming smiles when she came home with a good report from her teacher and the ignorance or wave of a hand when I did the same. I thought about all the signs I’d tried too hard to ignore but couldn’t any longer.
I was nothing. She was everything.
Although I was the eldest, there was never a doubt: she was first; I was second.
Sitting beside Lucy, a scalding fury stirred in me. I thought about how I could get payback. I considered lopping the head off her favourite doll or drowning it in the river next time we were outside. I imagined putting bugs in her shoes or cutting her hair when she was sleeping. I thought about what it would feel like to pin her against the car like Dad had done to me, to keep pressing, overpowering her, showing her just how strong I was. It became clear to me as we turned onto the familiar street that I wanted, no needed, revenge.
She needed to pay.
When we got home and everyone got out of the car, Dad still seething mad, I trudged to my room, tears falling from my eyes.
Lucy strutted into my room, her satiny dress still perfectly crisp.
‘Sorry about your solo,’ she murmured, mocking me and mimicking me with the whiny voice that made me want to choke her.
I stared at her, my chest heaving with rage. I crossed the floor of the room and she backed up, perhaps seeing something in me she hadn’t noticed before.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured, shaking a little now, but I didn’t stop.
I kept creeping towards her as she inched backwards into the corner.
‘I’ll scream for my mom,’ she said, and the way she said ‘my’, like she was claiming her as her own, did something to me. It made something snap.
Maybe because I’d known it was the truth.
I put my arm against her tiny chest, shoving her hard against the wall in the bedroom, pushing and pushing, thinking about how hard I could push. Her breathing was ragged and she was crying now. I stared into her face, watching the fear in her eyes and feeling relief that she hadn’t won, that I could still win.
Finally, after a long moment, my arms grew weak, shaking from the exertion and the sheer adrenaline. It was only when the strength left my body that I realised I needed to stop. I let up, releasing her. She ran out of the room, panting, and I slumped to the floor, feeling horrible in so many ways as the emotions surrounding my violent victory faded.
What had happened? What had I done?
I sobbed myself to sleep that night. I cried for the lost solo, for my lost parents and for my lost temper.
Most of all, I cried because I realised the anger burning inside wasn’t okay.
And because I wasn’t sure if I would be able stop it again.
Chapter 7
She comes over several times a week now.
At first, I felt terrible about it, maybe even a little uneasy. I should’ve never gone on and on about not having kids. She probably just feels obligated or pities me. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. I’ve always found it to be a detestable emotion, reserved for the weakest of the weak.
I have to admit, though, she never makes me feel like it’s an imposition. Her smile is always gentle, soothing, when she comes through the door. We have tea together and chat. A few times, she’s even stayed to watch the soap operas with me. I feel a connection to her, despite our age difference.
I know she’s got her own life, and I know I should tell her she doesn’t have to keep coming over. But I can’t. Because, suddenly, I’m not so isolated. Suddenly, getting out of bed in the morning isn’t so difficult. Suddenly, I feel like a little piece of me is back.
So what do an old lady and a young, perky blonde talk about, you ask?
Everything. We talk about everything.
The weather and the grocery store – that’s where it started. But as we spend time together, getting to know each other, we’ve come to realise we have so much to talk about.
We talk about how we both want to visit Paris someday. We talk about the actors on our soap operas and predict what’s coming next. We talk about Amos and how she wants a cat too. We talk about muffin recipes and cleaning tips and books we’ve both read.
It’s quite lovely having a friend after all this time. It’s exhilarating to have companionship, to have someone to sha
re things with. I didn’t realise how much I’ve missed it.
Today, we’re making a pie.
Mostly, she’s making a pie – rhubarb, of course, because what other kind of pie is even worth it? I’m standing nearby, my shaky hands and aching legs of little use other than handing her ingredients. I have to pass the flour bag with two hands – two hands. It’s disgraceful.
I don’t have time for self-pity, though, because Jane animatedly chats and chats and chats.
‘So, darling, what are you thinking of the neighbourhood now that you’ve been here a bit?’ I ask as she works on the crust.
She smiles. ‘It’s a nice area. At first, I was taken back by the seclusion of it, you know? With us being the only people on the lane, it felt a little eerie. But now that we know each other, it doesn’t feel so lonely, huh?’
I smile and nod. ‘Agreed. It was quite uncanny before you moved in. It just felt unnatural, you know? This lovely lane with no children playing on the sidewalk, no cute little families out and about. I’d adapted, of course, gotten used to it over the months the house sat empty. But I was so glad when you moved in. You brought life back to Bristol Lane,’ I admit, readjusting my glasses as I stare at her.
She nods. ‘Thanks. We try, I guess. I like how quiet it is, but I agree it can be a little too quiet sometimes. A little dull during the day, if I’m being honest. Sometimes, I don’t know, I wonder if this is really it, you know?’
I sigh. I know. I know all too well she’s not talking about our empty street or the lack of noise. I know she’s talking about everything – her, them, life in general.
‘It’s okay. I know all about it. Being a housewife isn’t a walk in the park, and sometimes men are just daft when it comes to understanding our feelings. Sometimes people in general are quite daft. It’s a tough world.’
‘I know. I guess I’m just edgy, too. I just … We’ve been married a while now. I thought by now, things would be different. It’s not really going according to plan.’ She pauses from rolling out the pie dough and fiddles with the ring on her hand as I watch. There’s dough stuck on her wedding band.
‘How do you mean?’ I ask as I walk over to the kitchen chair, my breathing intensifying despite the short distance to the chair. It’s one of those days when everything tires me.
She continues rolling out the dough.
‘I guess family is what I mean. I thought by now maybe we’d have a family.’
‘Oh? You really want kids, huh?’ It’s a wasted question because just looking at her as she talks, I know the answer. Of course she wants kids. She wants them as badly as she wants to breathe. It’s all over her face.
She pauses, hands on the rolling pin. For a moment, my blood goes cold because I have a flashback to the icy gaze I’ve seen – no, the icy gaze I thought I’d seen – her emit. I see her face go dark, her eyes narrow in on me. I see a rage frothing beneath that wickedly convincing smile.
Fear simmers to the surface, just beneath my sense of composure.
Just as I’m ready to convince myself I’m not crazy, that she’s definitely got a sharp edge to her, the calm, soothing Jane returns. What’s wrong with me? Am I going mad?
I rock in my chair a little, readjusting. I don’t take my eyes off her.
She turns to me, her smile a little too wide. ‘I do. It just feels right, you know? I mean, I didn’t have the best family growing up. Mom was a control freak, to put it mildly, and, well, things were … let’s just say really complicated. Not the best, in truth. I just always dreamed of having my own, doing it right – or as right as one can. I wanted a chance to sort of … redeem my childhood through my own child. I know that makes no sense. I just want to prove I can do it right. But it’s been over a year now and doctors are saying it might not happen.’
She’s got a faraway look now, her hands still frozen on the rolling pin.
Is it just me or are her hands shaking slightly, the tremors palpable from here despite her attempt to steady them?
She reaches up and smooths a blonde strand, swiping it away from her eye, some white, powdery flour clinging to the strands like snow.
I sigh. I want to convince her it’s going to be okay. I should convince her it’s going to be okay. But I don’t know. I’m not one to help in this department.
‘I’m sure it’ll work out like it should, you know?’ I offer weakly, not really sure what else to say. My gaze falls to my feet, focusing on the small imperfection in the flooring that’s been there for decades. I study the crevice, my eyes dancing along the line as I take deep breaths.
‘Yeah,’ she replies absent-mindedly.
‘Well, I’m going to take that back,’ I say, refocusing on her. I need to be honest. ‘I hope it works out. But if it doesn’t, know it’s okay not to be okay with it. I had a hard time with it all, to tell you the truth. I think even though I have come to terms with it, some days are still harder than others. I still struggle with aspects of it, I guess.’
Her hands leave the rolling pin then. She wraps herself up in them, as if she’s cradling herself, flour now on her shirt. The specks of flour and dough dotting her top bother me. I feel a need to cross the kitchen and bat at the spots, but I don’t.
She eyes me, leaning on the counter. ‘You couldn’t conceive?’
Now it’s my turn to wrap myself in my arms in defence. How do I broach this subject? And why, after all this time, is it still so hard?
I slump backwards in the chair, taking a ragged breath and exhaling audibly before continuing. ‘It’s complicated. But we never had children, and for a long time, I tried to fool myself into thinking it wasn’t an issue. But it was. And it built into bigger issues. It took me a long time to realise not having kids … well, it set my life on a different path, and not a good one like all those motivational speakers would like you to believe. It’s hard. So I understand the stress you’re under.’ I pick at a sharp edge on my fingernail and bite my lip. After all this time, the words are still unbearable to utter. The admission of how badly I wanted it and how much it hurt when it didn’t come true – it’s a bitter pill, one I haven’t ever been able to swallow, even now as an old lady. And I’ve swallowed a lot of pills over the years. This one – it’s different.
She nods slightly, turns and finishes up the crust and the filling in silence, no words passing between us. I guess we’re both lost in thoughts – in sadness, in dreams and in the past.
Finally, after she’s whipped the pie together, she pops it into the oven, wiping her hands on her apron. She turns to me, solemn. ‘Thank you. It’s refreshing to have someone understand. Everyone else is just trying to be all positive.’
‘Your husband, too?’ I ask as she moves the pie tools to the sink and starts the kettle for tea.
She exhales, rolling her eyes. ‘Especially my husband. Telling me to just believe, to pray. Like that’s going to magically make this problem disappear. Sometimes he’s just so naive, you know? When I first met him, I thought he was this charming, charismatic and intellectual man. Now, I don’t know.’ Her voice oozes with contempt, with edginess.
I get it, I do. It’s a stressful time in life when you want something so badly but can’t get it. It’s hard to avoid taking it out on those around you. I think you search for reasons, for someone to be culpable because otherwise, it drives you a little crazy.
‘I hope you don’t blame him for this,’ I blurt out, wishing I could take it back. Why did I say that?
‘Really? You too?’ She glares at me, shaking her head. Her voice is punctuated with iciness. ‘He’s been on my last nerve about how he thinks I blame him. I don’t. I’m not a bad person. We all have our struggles. I hate how he’s making this about him. What about me? How about what I’m feeling? Why does he get to play the victim?’ She lines up our cups on the table, handles pointing perfectly to the right at ninety degrees, but it’s a struggle. Her hands are visibly shaking now, the reckless pulsating of her fingers wildly contrasting with the steadines
s of her stance. After persistence and sheer determination, she manages to get the cups in the exact positions she wants them in. It’s like this is the most important task she’s ever completed; perhaps focusing her mind on this is helping her to escape from the imprisoning anger she feels.
Silence ensues again, this time riddled with tension and words unspoken. I trace a mark on the table with my finger, willing the right words to come to mind. They don’t. I don’t know what to say. In truth, I don’t think there is anything I can say to make it better, which is a hard realisation to accept.
The kettle screams and she perfunctorily removes it, pouring the water into the cups and placing a single teabag in each one. She’s quiet as she works, which is unlike her.
I feel horrible that I can’t do anything to ease this. I also feel bad for her husband. Such a tenuous subject to have to tiptoe around while dealing with his own feelings over it. The whole situation is a madness few can understand.
He must understand, though, how stressful this is on some level. Certainly, this sweet woman is just having a bad moment. It will pass. They’ll find a way through. She’ll find a way.
‘So, did you watch the soap operas yesterday?’ she asks, changing the subject. There is a new chipper tone to her voice, as if we’ve completely switched gears. Maybe that’s just what she needs.
I play along. ‘I did.’
‘What did you think of Jessica’s choice?’
I mentally try to flash back to yesterday. Did I fall asleep during them? Sometimes, they’re so repetitive and boring, I just zone out. Usually, I can zone back in twenty minutes later – or twenty days later – and it’s the same thing. But Jessica isn’t ringing a bell.
‘Terrible, terrible story,’ I say, not having any clue but not wanting to admit my incompetence. I don’t want her thinking I have memory issues. Then again, maybe I don’t want to believe I have memory issues.
‘I thought the same thing,’ she replies, raising a cup of tea to her lips, blowing on it to cool it as I warm my hands on the cup she passed to me.
The Widow Next Door Page 5
