But I can’t help it.
I lean on my hand, my head propped up on the kitchen table. She leans on the counter, her wrists delicately bent as she stands, staring at me, waiting for the kettle to come to a boil.
‘I don’t know that I’ve ever asked what your husband does,’ I say, trying to make conversation.
‘He works a desk job. Pretty much just a yes-man, you know. Running errands, all that.’ She says it in an unimpressed tone.
‘Well, that sounds like good work.’
She shrugs. ‘He’s no CEO or anything.’
‘Does he need to be? I mean, being a CEO comes with a lot of responsibility. And requires a lot of time.’
‘Yeah, I suppose. But it also comes with a lot of power. I always thought if I had worked somewhere, I’d want to be at the top. To know what that power feels like. It must be something, knowing you’re in charge, knowing people respect you.’
There’s a twinkle in her eye, and I realise, if given the chance, she’d be a real go-getter. She’d be ambitious to the point of self-destruction, perhaps.
‘Did you ever think about working?’ I ask, genuinely curious.
She shrugs. ‘I have. But, well, I don’t always do well with people.’
I blink, surprised by her response. ‘Really?’
‘Really. I’m a different person out there.’ I assume she’s referring to the world, society. ‘Always have been. Here, I rein it in a little bit.’
I see a sadness on her face, a nuance I have yet to detect. ‘Well, sometimes out there is overrated, huh? But I don’t know, sometimes being inside isn’t all perfect either. Life is hard.’
‘Truth in that statement,’ she admits, and the kettle begins to boil.
She reaches for it, her face stern. Perhaps I’ve said too much. Maybe I should’ve chosen better words but it’s done now. She pours in the hot water, then carefully executes the dance of teabags and spoons as she so often has.
She turns and is walking towards the table, slowly.
I don’t know whether she wasn’t focused or if her hand was just unsteady. Regardless, before she makes it to the table, catastrophe strikes. The cup in her left hand shatters to the floor, hot water splashing and bits of the mug scattering everywhere.
‘Oh dear,’ I say, springing up to assess the situation, my bones screaming at me as I do, to help her. The popping sensation in my hip tells me it was a mistake, but there’s no time to deal with that now.
She freezes for a moment, staring at the broken mug and the spilled tea.
‘Shit,’ she screams, and her face contorts.
‘Are you hurt?’ I study her hands, her legs, to see if there’s blood. It looks like a bit of glass has sliced her ankle, blood trickling down and mixing with the tea and the mug fragments. ‘Let me help,’ I say, rushing over but not sure where to start.
Tears are now flowing down her face and her body shudders.
‘There, there. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine,’ I say because, in reality, it is. Nothing a bandage, some peroxide and a mop can’t handle.
She sinks to the ground, finding a dry patch of floor to rest on. She pulls her knees to her chest and rocks, the tears falling wildly now, her sobs racking her body. I step around the puddle towards her, careful not to slip, but she holds up an arm, telling me to keep my distance. I’m not sure what’s going on, truthfully. It’s obvious to me, though, that the mug’s not the most important thing that’s broken today.
I back against the counter, staring at the tea, the blood, the shattered fragments on the floor. It strikes me how the pattern is so intricate, how it looks almost like an abstract painting. It’s a beautiful mess, just like Jane. A beautiful mess indeed.
She continues to rock and sob as I head to the cleaning closet, her incoherent chanting sounding like a religious rite of the most sinister variety. Calmly, I find a mop and bucket. No use comforting her – you can’t comfort those who don’t want comfort, who won’t listen to reason.
I mop up around her, tired from the labour but energised by the excitement.
A little blood never did scare me.
Chapter 10
‘Mommy, please, please, please, please, please—’ a voice shrieks beside the candy bars as I wait in line. The whiny mewl belongs to a little boy, about five, who is hanging off his mother’s pants. I lean on my cart, winded from my walk up and down the aisles. The voice grates on my nerves, like nails on a chalkboard. I always thought the annoyances of humanity were much worse than any inanimate sound could be.
When I left the house this morning, I was bright and cheerful. I needed to get out of the stagnant house. I needed to stop feeling entombed by the walls. Despite the exhaustion in my weary bones, I told myself it’s so good to be out and about around civilization, even for a moment.
Now, the hustle and bustle of Mark’s Mart reminds me why sometimes staying put is better. It reminds me why, like Jane suggested, out there isn’t so great.
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman says to me, and I shake my head.
‘It’s fine. It’s a tough age, I imagine.’
‘You have no idea.’
I take a deep breath. Words like these used to break me, but now they just cut like a dull knife. They remind me I’ve missed that window – not like I could’ve forgotten. Life is what it is at this point. No use worrying about it.
Except I know that’s a lie. How can I not think about what I’m missing when I’m in that dusty house, day in and day out? How can I not mourn for what wasn’t and what will never be? So many moments, memories were destroyed before they even had the chance to happen. I’ve missed out on so much, in truth, no matter what lies I tell myself.
When it’s finally my turn at the checkout, I unload my cans of cat food for Amos, some tea and some other odds and ends to get me through. I don’t eat much anymore, mostly because I’m not hungry but also because cooking for myself seems like a wasted effort.
I miss those dinners, those simple meals for two. It’s one of the things I never really realised was so important – having someone across the table with you, sharing a meal. It’s something I really miss.
The checkout assistant is a woman I don’t recognise. She doesn’t smile or ask how I am. I hate feeling like an old, cantankerous woman, but still where’s the socialisation? Where’s the care and concern? It seems like not that long ago, you’d be greeted with warmth in a situation like this. It felt like everyone in this town knew everyone and, more than that, wanted to know everyone. Not that I was ever one of those block party, bonfires-on-the-corner kind of women. I mostly kept to myself, even in my younger days. I was an outskirt sitter. But even from the outskirts, I knew the town was welcoming. Friendly. Warm. Now, the world feels a little cold. I don’t like it. I miss the cordiality. I miss the good old days, even if they weren’t so good in retrospect.
I guess that’s the hell of getting old – always longing for what was and what can never be. Always living in two worlds: this world and the one you conjure up based on memories.
It’s the fact that you’re always wanting, in truth – whether it’s companionship, health, freedom or any of the other multitude of things that you lose when you age.
I hand over the cash once the woman blurts out my total, not even bothering to look up from the machine in front of her. She doesn’t even see me, and I’m standing right in front of her. She grabs the cash from me with a quick motion, shaking her head as she opens the drawer and huffily counts out change. Too bad. I’m a firm believer in using cold, hard cash. I don’t believe in those newfangled cards and machines. Cash is familiar. It’s the one familiar I still can cling to.
After instructing the bagging boy to put Amos’s cat food in a separate paper bag – how dare he think he can just shove it in with all my stuff to flatten it – I look around for my trusted friend, the one who always chats with me, always helps me to my car.
‘Where’s the young man, the one with the blond hair and the earri
ng?’ I ask. It’s a shame I don’t know his name.
The assistant finally looks up, staring at me like the wretched witch she is. She almost sniggers at my comment, holding back an eye roll. ‘You might want to be more specific.’
‘The one who is always here on Thursday afternoons, who helps me to my car. You know, the earring, the deep voice?’
Her lips smack together and she looks heavenwards as if she’ll see the answer written on the ceiling. What a dumb woman. I won’t go through her checkout from now on just out of principle.
‘Doesn’t ring a bell. Josh, here, is the only bagger we have on Thursdays.’ She gestures towards the lanky, dark-haired boy who almost put Amos’s food in with mine. I study him, knowing I wouldn’t trust him to put a single bag in my car. He looks shady, suspicious.
‘No, the other one always helps me to my car. There’s another boy who bags groceries,’ I retort, but the woman shakes her head.
‘Well, you must’ve imagined him then, lady.’
I grip the handle on the cart firmly as I glare at the witch of a woman. How dare she insinuate I don’t know what I’m talking about. Of course there’s another boy who works here. Of course there is. He always helps me to my car … doesn’t he?
I clench the cart even tighter, afraid I might bust the plastic piece with the mart’s name on it. I know I’m not crazy. That boy – oh, I do wish I knew his name – always has a conversation with me too about— I don’t really know right now. Something. We talk, yes we definitely talk about something. But he helps me with a smile, and I toot my horn when I pull out, and he waves. I’m sure he does, doesn’t he?
My hands tremble from the effort as I slowly trudge forward, away from the horrible woman on checkout lane three and the lanky, creepy teen the woman tried to convince me is the only bagger. I feel a headache coming on. Stupid woman. She probably is just clueless. But why does she have me so upset?
Am I going crazy? Is she right? What’s happening to me?
I tell myself to get a grip, that it’s okay. It doesn’t even matter. I don’t need help anyway. I’m fine by myself.
I load the groceries in my car, the quiet task aggravating me. Each bag feels like a lead weight. I heave them into the car, my arms aching afterward. I get the task done, though. That’s what matters. It’s fine, all fine. I can still handle things myself. I sometimes look forward to these outings, the sheer idea of seeing people and being around them making me happy, making me not so lonely. But out here, I realise that maybe life at home isn’t so bad. There, I don’t have to put on appearances. I don’t have to fake smile and tell the mother of an annoying brat it’s all okay. I don’t have to paint on a socially acceptable persona. I can shred that persona and just be myself, lost in the world I control.
I like that feeling of control, a feeling I don’t sense here.
Plus, things have changed. I’m not really alone anymore. Jane has changed everything a bit. I’m not so disconnected. There really is no need to come out into the world anymore except for the necessities. I don’t need to find companionship because there’s a sense of camaraderie and excitement gained from just glancing through the window. It’s my lifeline. My lifeblood.
And so I climb into my car, letting the cart roll where it will. I start the car and head home, back to the lane where I’ve lived for so long to settle in, to watch more unfold.
Suddenly, there’s life on Bristol Lane again, and it feels so good. Even if I’m only a spectator.
* * *
With my arms tired from the taxing chore of loading the groceries in my car, I can barely make it through the process of carrying the bags into the house. I want to just flop into bed once I’ve made it to the kitchen, Amos meowing at my feet. I don’t, though. I have to muster up some energy to get the groceries unpacked.
I systematically unpack the bags, stowing each familiar item in its designated spot in the fridge or pantry. I’ve got the unpacking process practically memorised, making it a mindless task. The only new addition to my grocery bags this week is a different kind of tea. I thought maybe it would be nice to give Jane a choice when she comes back over.
When I’ve finally finished the task, my bones aching, I stumble to the rocking chair. I’m too tired to even bother with tea. It’s early evening now, the sun sinking lower and lower. How long was I gone? The trips to the store seem to take longer and longer these days. And they also claim more of my energy every week. What will I do if I can’t muster up the strength for these trips anymore? How will I manage? I try not to think about it all. These are thoughts that scare me if I think too long. These are the times when the fact I have no one, no children or grandchildren to check on me, become starkly apparent.
I lean back in the chair, willing myself to stay calm. I’m fine. I still manage just fine. I’ve never been one to let anything or anyone get the best of me. I’m not about to start in old age. I’ve still got tenacity in me. I’ll see this whole thing through, I will.
Looking across the street, I don’t see Jane. That’s a shame. I could use a good studying session today after the store trip sucked the life right out of me. I wish I could see her today, doing something, anything. What a bummer that they’re in another part of the house now.
With nothing but grass and the shell of the house to look at, I rock gently, back and forth, lulling myself into a peaceful state of nothingness. My mind blank, I continue to rock back and forth. I feel Amos jump on my lap, and I stroke his soft fur gently, still rocking.
And then, I drift away, into that most peaceful place where real life can’t get to me.
* * *
My heart pounds as I startle awake, grabbing the armrest of the chair. The gut-wrenching bark of a dog echoes off the house, a sound that’s always sent terror right through me.
Eyes peeled open, I look out my window into the yard. Night has fallen, my rest apparently lasting longer than I thought it would. It’s pitch black outside, the moonlight the only thing illuminating the horrifying sight before me.
The dog is a goliath of an animal, its mangy fur not detracting from its terrifyingly muscular build. It’s the biggest dog I’ve ever seen, and its muzzle is covered in a frothing foam that screams illness. I clutch at my chest, the terror bubbling to an uncontrollable level. I can’t speak, can’t scream, can’t move. Ice trickles through my veins, my skin freezing cold. Amos, back hunched, stands below my chair, hissing and growling in ways I’ve never heard from him.
I know reasonably the dog can’t get to me, but it doesn’t matter. The sight takes me back, throws me into a place of panic and of weakness. I don’t like it one bit.
The horrifying mutt skulks through the yard, circling as if in wait of prey. It turns its head, and when it looks through my window, teeth bared, I’m convinced it wants to do me harm.
Tears well, and I bite my lip so hard to keep myself from screaming out. I clutch my left hand in my right, squeezing it so hard I think I might break it. My thumb rubs back and forth over the familiar scar, and I can feel a surge of pain so strong, I think there must be blood spurting from my hand. I think for a moment I’m going to look down and see the open wound, the red liquid gushing down onto the floor.
I tear my gaze from the vile creature to examine my hand, slowly peeling my right hand away, my breath laborious and my eyes stinging.
But there is no blood, no gushing wound. Of course there isn’t, you silly woman. Why would there be? I’m truly going mad. I am.
I look at the scar that I haven’t stopped to consider for quite some time. It’s faded with age, blended into the wrinkly texture of a hand with skin that has seen the work of ageing. But the thin line is still there, and more than that, the memories are, too.
I find the courage to peel my eyes away from my hand and to peer back out into the darkness, terrified for a split second that the dog will have its frothing muzzle to the window, its jagged teeth snapping at the glass in an aggressive display of its power.
But wh
en my eyes peruse the yard, they find nothing, not a single sign of the loose beast. It’s gone, faded right into the night with the nightmarish memories from my past.
Where did it go? Will it be back? I can’t help but wonder, worry, that I’ll see it again.
Moments pass, and my heart rate slows to a normal pace. My head clears, and I take a few breaths. Amos is curled up, soundly asleep on the floor in the kitchen. That was fast, silly cat. Apparently the barking dog didn’t make a huge impression on him.
I stare into the inky blackness for a while, the moon still shining in the sky. I think for a long while about the old memories, the old fears. I think about the sight of this mangy mutt that has brought it all back.
Some fears, some terrors last much longer than they should.
Then again, maybe that isn’t always a bad thing.
I peel myself from my chair, dragging myself to bed. It’s a long walk up the stairs, my body still exhausted from the exertion at the store. I climb into bed in my clothes, too achy to think about changing.
I tuck myself under the covers, lying on my back as I often do. Before falling asleep again, my right hand finds my left, and I trace the scar once more, just to assure myself it’s real.
I trace it gently back and forth, back and forth, until sleep claims me once more.
Chapter 11
So often in life, we mistakenly think that change is going to ease in, announce its presence and let us get accustomed to it.
I haven’t mastered life, even at my age, but I’ve come to learn this: change is never easy, and it almost never gives a warning. One day, you’re floating along, thinking all is well, and then the next, like a slap in the face, it’s all irrevocably changed. You’re left sitting in the dust, wondering how you missed it coming.
It’s like that for 312 Bristol Lane.
For weeks, things appear great again. The July couple carries through, and I am almost envious of their affection. They’re so smiley, so happy. She’s like the sunshine-yellow dress – the perfect wife. They have a perfect home and they’re the perfect couple. She visits me several times, and we sip tea on the front porch, the ‘door day’ and the ‘broken mug day’ seeming like they were just dreams. All is well, or at least I think so.
The Widow Next Door Page 7
