The Widow Next Door

by L. A. Detwiler

  ‘What, it could be yours?’ she asks. It sounds harsh, but I know she doesn’t necessarily mean it that way. I get it. I’m not offended.

  ‘In a way, yes. But I also mean it could be worse if you leave and realise someday that this is actually what you needed all along. Look, life is hard. I know you’ve been through a lot. I can see in your eyes that you carry a lot of pain. When you first moved in, I thought you were all sunshine and smiles, but I know now that was a cover. I know life’s not perfect for you, but I also know you control so much of it. Think about him. Think about what you have before it’s too late.’

  ‘I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling trapped. I won’t let him trap me. He’s not keeping me here. Did you know he thinks I need help, like professional help? He wanted me to go to the hospital. It’s not happening. I’m not going to be some medical experiment. I’m not going to let him shove me away so he can go off and screw every woman I know he’s looking at. I won’t let him make a fool out of me. No one makes a fool out of me.’

  Tears well in her eyes.

  I reach for her hand, but she pulls away. She’s gone, so far gone.

  It feels hopeless.

  But I try one more time. This is so important. ‘I know what it feels like to be trapped, an endless cycle of hell playing over and over. I know what it’s like to be afraid. But, honey, he loves you. I don’t think he wants to lock you away or trap you. I think he wants you to be happy. I don’t know how you get there. Maybe you need help. Maybe you don’t. Maybe you just need a new perspective. Maybe you need to figure it out for yourself. Maybe you need to learn to control your anger. I don’t have all the answers. I do, however, have an idea of what this path you’re following could turn out like. Safe isn’t always the enemy. Sometimes safe and simple is what we need. Please think about it.’

  She wipes a single tear from her eye, sighing.

  ‘Okay. I will,’ she says.

  She nods, puts her hands in her pockets, and heads back across the street. I turn to watch her lug the suitcases inside. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  I know she needs help, more help than a few words from an old lady like me can offer. Still, it’s a start. Maybe this will change things. Maybe together they can fix this. Maybe all hope isn’t lost.

  I sit for a long time, the misty fog settling on Bristol Lane, shielding my view of the house. I don’t need to see in today, though. I just need to cross my fingers that an awakening is happening, that things are going to change and that it isn’t too late.

  It’s never too late for hope, I think, as I head back inside, feeling warm for the first time in a long time.

  Chapter 37

  Even in death, she was still winning. She was still the favourite.

  I sat in my room, alone, my parents doing whatever it was they did. The funeral had been over for weeks, the casseroles devoured. I thought the pain would dull, that life would go on. They still had me, after all. Life had to go on.

  But I was wrong. Life didn’t go on, not without her. It never would.

  I ambled inside now, slinging my backpack to the floor, and glanced around the kitchen, the dead flowers from the funeral still sitting in the centre of the table, a monument to their favourite daughter, a reminder of what had been lost.

  ‘I’m home,’ I called warily, not a sound to be heard.

  No one responded. I shuffled into the living room, where Mom slept on the couch, her position most days since the accident. If she wasn’t there, she was tucked away in her bedroom. Dad had instructed me to leave her alone. He wasn’t there now, probably at McGulliver’s Inn down the street. He’d been spending more and more time there.

  And I’d been spending more and more time alone.

  They couldn’t look at me.

  They blamed me.

  On the day after the funeral, when the shock had dulled and the immediacy of the situation had resolved itself, it became clear they could never forgive me.

  ‘What the hell were you doing? Why didn’t you save her?’ Dad bellowed out of nowhere as we sat, silent, in the living room the next night, the darkness enveloping us except for the single lamp.

  ‘I couldn’t. It was too fast,’ I muttered, dread gripping my heart.

  ‘You lying bitch,’ he said, stomping towards me as I cowered on the chair.

  My cheek stung as his hand made contact with it, his large, calloused hand a powerful surge against my face. Tears welled in my eyes, not from the physical pain, but from the fact that even now, she was winning.

  Even now, without her to steal the spotlight, I was nothing.

  I couldn’t win. I’d never win.

  I walked past Mom, who was snoring lightly on the couch. I tiptoed to my room, not wanting to have to deal with her. I shut my door, tucked into my safe zone in the world – at least until Dad got home.

  I sat on my bed, pulling my knees to my chest, rocking gently.

  Why wasn’t I good enough? Would I ever be good enough?

  Rocking back and forth, I made myself promise not to cry. I wouldn’t break down. I wouldn’t let her win. I would grow strong from this. I would rise up. And someday, when I left this place, I’d leave her memory behind for good.

  I wouldn’t let anyone get the best of me. I wouldn’t let anyone win.

  I would be the winner, someday. I just had to be strong enough to outlast this suffering and then I could be victorious after all.

  Chapter 38

  She leaves on a Tuesday, late morning. I watch the taxi whip into the driveway, observe her stuffing her suitcases into the back. She stands for a moment, longingly studying 312 Bristol Lane before she climbs into the taxi and leaves the house behind.

  And just like that, she’s gone. Her sunshine-yellow promises, her ugly episodes, her atrocious threats.

  I take a deep breath, but I don’t feel relief.

  I don’t feel like things are going to get better. No, I know things aren’t going to get better.

  That night, I dream of knives. Rooms full of knives, blood dripping. I dream of drowning in blood, my lungs heaving for oxygen as I’m slipping down, down, further into the blood.

  When I awake that night and come to, I realise I’m holding something.

  A knife.

  I’ve been sleeping with it under my pillow the past few nights. I’ve felt this need to be able to protect myself, stirring from somewhere deep within. Maybe it’s all the horrible memories flooding back. Maybe it’s the fact that I still don’t know what she’s going to do, that she’s unpredictable. Or maybe I just like the feel of it close like I had once before.

  Sitting up in bed, I look down to see a trickle of blood from a gash in my palm where I must’ve held the knife too tight.

  I don’t drop it. I don’t go to get a bandage. I just squeeze it a little harder, the sharp burn in my hand bringing relief.

  * * *

  One day. She’s been gone one day.

  It’s Wednesday now, but his car’s still in the driveway. He didn’t go to work today. I wonder if he’s mourning her or celebrating. I can’t be certain.

  Without her at home, I find the window a lot duller. There’s not much to see. He doesn’t scamper about like she did. Plus, without her there, I don’t feel the burden of needing to constantly watch. In a sick way, I miss it.

  Maybe I’m the twisted one.

  I busy myself making some soup – chicken, my favourite. I take a hot bath. I turn on the soap operas. But nothing interests me. I find my mind leaping, wandering. This can’t really be how it all ends, can it? How pointless would that be? What could the purpose of all this possibly be?

  It’s anticlimactic. In a good way, of course. But still, it’s anticlimactic.

  Even the soap operas do a better job.

  Mostly out of boredom, I wander to the door around one in the afternoon. The sun is shining. I crack open the door, thinking about sitting outside on the porch. Maybe I’ll put Amos in his harness. He does hate the trapped feeling, but the
sunshine is so good for him, I know. We all need to be trapped now and then for our own good, right?

  I’m fiddling with the mailbox when I feel something brush my leg. I look down to see a ball of fur rushing onto the porch.

  ‘Amos!’ I shout, tossing the mail down and opening the door wider, beckoning the cat back in. But he’s too interested in the little bird that’s hopping on the lawn. ‘Amos, come back,’ I yell, stumbling onto the front porch now, panicked.

  Amos keeps scampering, chasing the bird across the road.

  He’s fast, too fast. I’ll never make it over there. And I can’t lose Amos. Not now. Not ever.

  Tears well as I beg my old legs to cooperate. I manoeuvre the steps, trying to keep an eye on my beloved cat as I do. It’s not easy. I’m so afraid of falling again. At least this time, it’ll be outside and maybe someone will find me.

  I look up to see the door to 312 Bristol Lane open. Alex’s keys are in his hand, but he looks up and catches my eye. He sees me on the steps and, as if by a miracle, Amos pauses in the lawn right before getting to 312 Bristol Lane.

  I hurry down the steps, afraid of falling but more afraid of losing my beloved friend. The cat, momentarily frozen by the sight of the bird, sits still. Within seconds, I snatch Amos in my arms. He meows and claws as I clutch him tightly.

  ‘Stupid cat. I don’t know what I’d have done if you’d have gotten away.’

  I start heading towards my porch, but I turn to see that Alex is still standing at his car, staring at me. He nods, and I stop in my tracks, studying him for a long moment. I’ve seen him so many times, but for some reason, today, I see him differently. I realise something I haven’t taken time to note. He’s so … handsome. He looks so handsome. So sweet.

  I’ve looked at this face over and over from my seat at the window. I’ve watched him go to his car every morning. I’ve watched him with Jane, through the window, on the front porch. But now, I realise none of that did him justice.

  My heart palpitates as those icy blue eyes study me. He smiles, not just from his mouth, but with his eyes.

  Peace floods me all over again. But then, he climbs into the car, cautiously.

  Where is he going?

  I scamper up the stairs, Amos slung over my shoulder. I pause before the door, watching the car peel out.

  Is he headed into town? Maybe he’s going to the bus station to see if he can find her. Maybe he still hasn’t given up.

  I bet that’s it. He’s the kind of man to do that, the kind who cares so much he’d chase her down. He thinks maybe he can find her. I bet he thinks he can still fix things.

  I consider running after the car, stopping him. I want to tell him he’s crazy, that he should let her go. I think about spilling my soul to him, about how you can’t help someone that far gone, about how he needs to get himself out. I want to tell him he’s breaking and not realising it, that even here in the spring sunshine I can see a dejectedness, a melancholy that’s unhealthy in him. She’s wearing him down, grinding him down, yet he’s too blind to see it.

  All of these words and phrases dance on my tongue. I want to apologise for not helping him sooner. I want to confess that I want to help him. I want to say I’m sorry for sitting by and watching him break. I want to beg him to get out, to find himself help, to abandon her. She’s a lost cause at this point. I know that – why doesn’t he? Why can’t he see that? Why is he too good of a man, of a husband, to just write her off?

  But thinking about those icy blue eyes, I know with finality nothing will work. I can’t get through to him. You can’t help someone who won’t help themselves. You can’t help the completely lost. You can’t change what’s already been set into motion.

  ‘I wish you the best of luck,’ I murmur into the emptiness, his car long gone, Amos still struggling in my arms. I stand tall, willing myself to feel a strength and confidence I don’t feel right now.

  I think about how there’s something between us. A camaraderie in the misery. A connection in the fear. A knowledge of what we share, perhaps. A mutual understanding of what she is and how it will be. A pity – for her, for us, for the world.

  I stare at 312 Bristol Lane for a long, long time after setting Amos inside my own house.

  I stand long after the car has pulled out of the driveway, long after the house sits empty.

  I stand long after I have my chance to do something about it all.

  Finally, I go inside. Amos is curled up on the couch after his afternoon adventure.

  I sit beside him, staring at the picture on the mantel, and I cry.

  I cry because I know all too well what it’s like to lose someone and to want desperately to find them again. I know all too well what it’s like to grasp at straws, to grasp at what-ifs and to grasp at time that can’t be reclaimed.

  Snot bubbling from my nose so thick that I can’t breathe, I gulp in air, rising from my seat and crossing the living room with a purpose I haven’t felt in ages.

  My fingers graze the cracked glass, a layer of dust grimy to the touch. I stare at the rose bushes, the picture of us, the painted-on smiles behind the jagged pieces.

  London Bridge is falling down.

  I wipe a streak clean on the glass, and then cross over it, an ‘X’ marking the spot.

  Falling down.

  With two hands, I clutch the photograph in my hands, stepping back from the mantel, tears blurring my vision until we’re just fuzzy black-and-white blobs behind a fragile protective screen.

  Falling down.

  I stare at the floor when it’s done, the shards dancing around my feet in a dazzling display of complexity.

  I crouch down, sitting among the crumbling pieces, my finger tracing the patterns on the hardwood floor for a long time.

  When I’ve mastered the pattern, I stand, heading to the rocking chair. I rock. Back and forth. Back and forth. London Bridge is falling down. Creak. Creak. Creak. Creak.

  I don’t know how long I rock for, the tears drying to my face. But by the time the sun comes up in the east, the car is pulling back into the driveway and my calves scream in pain from the rocking motion.

  He slams the door and trots up the stairs hurriedly, as if he doesn’t want anyone to see him.

  I see him. I want to scream that I see him as he heads into the lonely house silenced by the lack of her.

  But I don’t think it matters if I see him.

  Life isn’t always about seeing.

  Then again, sometimes it is.

  Chapter 39

  Sometimes I wish I’d been the one to disappear.

  I don’t want to be here. I can’t be here.

  It’s the mantra I’d chanted over and over, at too many stages in life. The words were a razor-thin shard of glass against my wrist, close enough to create a burning pain but not close enough to sear through my purple, pulsing veins.

  I picked at a green ball of fuzz on the edge of my tattered quilt, my fingers deftly pulling at the stubborn sign of wear. My back against the headboard of my bed, I thought about sitting there all day like I had so many times before, lost in the little piece of both heaven and hell I wallowed in so frequently.

  She deserved it. She started it.

  After all that time, after all those years, I’d come to that conclusion.

  It wasn’t my fault because she deserved it. She started it.

  They pushed me to it. All of them pushed me to it.

  Still, despite the years that had passed, I couldn’t let it go. They wouldn’t let me. I danced in a limbo-like state of the past, of the present and of a future of unending days of forced penance.

  My chest burned as I spun the fuzz I’d plucked from the blanket over and over between my fingers. I stared blankly at the wall as I did, wondering if I could sit in my desolate room until I disappeared, wondering how long until they’d notice.

  Weeks? Months? Years? Would they even notice at all?

  Who was I kidding, though?

  Six years. That’s ho
w long I’d really been gone. Six years they’d continued mourning her, or more accurately worshipping her. Her death only heightened their love for her, their reverence. It only detracted from their feelings for me.

  Her death hadn’t lifted me up to a new status in the family. Instead, I was even more overshadowed by her silhouette, by her ashen shell, by her spectre that haunted the house via memories, photographs and what-ifs.

  She was dead, but she still commanded more respect than I did. It hurt to be second fiddle to a skeleton.

  I rocked back and forth on my bed like I’d done for so many days, so many nights. I’d grown accustomed to being alone, had even perhaps grown to accept it.

  But my days of being a prisoner in that house were coming to an end. I was getting older, and opportunities would present themselves soon. I just had to hang in there. I just had to survive. And then I’d get my chance to be free, to rise up, to be noticed. I would command respect. I would command to be noticed.

  No one would ever again ignore me. No one would get the better of me. No one would keep me down.

  My chest burned with what, I didn’t know.

  Someday, I told myself, someday I’d find someone to cling to, someone to notice me.

  Someday, I’d find someone who didn’t see me as second best. And when I found that someone, I’d clutch them so tightly, so fiercely, that they wouldn’t have a chance to let go of me. They wouldn’t have a chance to smash me into ruins on the floor, scattered pieces centred around a sanctuary for someone else.

  Someday, it would be my turn to be at the top.

  Chapter 40

  Six days.

  Six days and thirteen hours, but who is counting?

  Me. I’m counting.

  I’m drifting off at the window, creak creak, rock rock. The sound of screeching brakes startles me as the yellow taxi door flings open. She tugs on her red suitcases, shoving them in the driveway. The taxi leaves, and she stands, in the same outfit she left in.

  She readjusts her scarf for a moment as she stares at the house.