A Woman Alone

by Nina Laurin

I liked living in it. I liked cooking in the too-small kitchen. I’d weeded the overgrown garden, mowed the grass, and put up boxes of flowers. Scott started to complain almost immediately. Small things got on his nerves. He’d bump into walls and trip over floorboards. The bathroom, he said, was too small to put in a bigger tub, the kitchen needed a remodel, and the wall between the living room and the adjacent bedroom could stand to be torn down to get some light and air into this place. The floors had to be sanded and the tiles replaced. We have the money, he’d say. Why not just hire a company and have it all done within a couple of weeks?

  I’d say something about the noise, the dust, how annoying it would be to have all that banging in the background while I tried to work. But the truth was that I could have gone to a café or outside into the yard or taken a break from work altogether, two weeks wasn’t that long. But I was reluctant. I didn’t want the house to change. I was afraid, against all logic—Scott’s logic, in any event—that I would love it less.

  But then the other problem became evident, harder and harder to ignore every day. And that one had nothing to do with the house, with the supposed decrepitude of its fixtures or the outdated bathroom cabinets. It was a problem with me. With us. I put off the doctor’s appointment as long as I could but knew I couldn’t put it off much longer.

  That’s the real reason I caved on the renovations. I was conceding something to distract from my failures elsewhere. Giving my husband what he wanted—one of the things he wanted, anyway. Maybe I hoped it would change something in me too. New surroundings, a new start.

  Maybe that’s when everything went wrong. We angered the house, and it turned against us. Instead of my home, it became the place of my torment.

  * * *

  My mission for today: get to know the neighbors.

  To be honest, it’s also the last thing I want to do. Especially when it comes to the house behind ours. That forbidding structure alone is enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. And now I have to knock on the front door and find a way to ask, Excuse me, are you the creep who took pictures of my toddler’s room last night?

  I suppose it’s not a bad thing to know the people you live next door to, even though when it comes to Rosemary Road, I’m clearly the minority in thinking that. Scott was right. There’s an app but when I sign up, I notice that I’m the only one on the street to use it. Feeling awkward, I sign out and then delete the app from my phone.

  Next, I search for our contract. It must be on my device somewhere but I can’t find it. I remember clearly that Scott printed a copy because we made a joke about it. So I head to his office.

  It’s pristine in there. He hardly ever uses it anymore, since he’s stuck at work so late every day. He hasn’t had time to put up the pictures that used to be on the walls at the old place, or he simply hasn’t bothered. Our old attempts to decorate look kind of sad in this new environment, replete with details chosen with a keen eye for style but lacking that something that makes a house a home—soul, perhaps. Why hang up that little seascape we bought on vacation that one time, or that framed photo collage of us I made for him a few years ago, when there’s already artwork on the walls?

  His laptop sits in the middle of the desk, a shiny, unscuffed MacBook Pro. When I run my fingertip along the lid, it comes away gray with dust.

  Next, I try the drawers of his desk, which have locks but open without resistance. In the bottom one, I find the little seascape and, wrapped in an old terrycloth towel, the framed photos. It reassures me deep down that he hasn’t gotten rid of it all.

  I unwrap the frame and hold it up. We look so happy in those photos. The oldest one dates back to college where we first met. Even though we’re only in our very early twenties, the low resolution and bad light makes us look worse than we do now. Unfortunate makeup and clothing choices don’t help—my eyebrows are way too skinny, and, in contrast, Scott still has some puppy fat around the chin.

  I remember making the collage but as I look at our carefree faces I can’t remember the exact date it was taken. Maybe there’s a date or a time stamp on the back. I turn over the frame and something small clatters to the floor.

  I set the frame down and pick up the small object. It’s a key. Which is odd, because nothing in this house needs anything like an old-fashioned key—everything responds to our personal chips or fingerprints. It’s a smaller key, like something from a suitcase lock. There’s a tag attached but it’s no help: It’s just a red-and-white plastic tab with nothing written on it. I inspect it and then put it back in the bottom of the drawer, the picture frame on top. I slide the drawer closed, realizing I had forgotten why I had come here in the first place. Right. The contract. The neighbors.

  For the time being, we have two. One of the houses next door is as yet unoccupied—it looks brand-new, like they just finished building it. The grass on the front lawn hasn’t even fully grown in yet. I can see through the curtainless windows during the day. I assume they have dimmers like ours do but there’s no one there to use them so I can glimpse the big, empty rooms waiting to receive their inhabitants.

  In the other house lives a couple with no children, as far as I can tell. I’ve only seen them once or twice since we moved in, as they planted flowers in a flowerbed out front. Otherwise I just see their cars as they leave in the morning, his big gray SUV, which exits the garage at seven, and her blue sedan that comes and goes occasionally. Which must mean she’s a housewife. Like me, I remind myself reluctantly.

  And of course, there’s the house behind ours. I hadn’t given it much thought, to be honest. Not until I saw that camera lens in the window anyway. I’d never seen a person or a car leave it but I assumed it was inhabited because, unlike the vacant house, the windows were always dark, and the decorative lights that lit up the façade went on every evening.

  Now I find myself at a loss. Do I just go and introduce myself, bearing a basket of muffins, like something out of an ’80s movie? Do people still do that? Do people my age still do that? Will they think I’m a weirdo?

  Finally, I decide to forgo the muffins and instead buy two bottles of midrange chardonnay. No one ever turns down free wine, right? At this time of day, our friendly neighborhood grocery store is almost empty, and there’s no wait to pay. There’s never a wait because there are no cash registers to speak of. At the entrance and exit, our chip is scanned, and the amount for every item we take out the door with us automatically charged. Those from out of the neighborhood have to make do with three self-checkout stations that I’ve never seen anyone use. Living in the future has its benefits.

  Not that we have to do our shopping here, or at the luxurious shopping mall that takes up the less desirable terrain by the highway. And at first, I resisted, hesitant at the idea that something—someone—is always keeping track. What did we look at but put back on the shelf? What did we load our cart with? Recording our habits and preferences, adding up the data, sorting it into complex algorithms. Judging your less than healthy habits, the ramen noodles, the potato chips, and soda.

  In exchange, you never drop in to get a new bottle of organic sriracha only to find yourself facing an empty shelf or wondering if the prepackaged chicken thighs are about to go bad. Everything is stocked in just the precise quantity, always fresh, never gathering dust on the shelf for God knows how long. And if something we want or need is missing, all we have to do is request it from our Saya, and the next time we go shopping, it’ll be there.

  As I exit with my wine bottles, I wonder how many other bottles of wine and booze we’ve logged in the last month. I can’t remember but I’m sure the computer didn’t miss a single one. Lately, I don’t even bother to review the monthly bill.

  Perhaps I should start.

  I decide to begin with the house next door because the blue sedan is sitting in the driveway. She’s home. I make my way up the neatly paved path to the door. There’s a doorbell, although I don’t see why it’s necessary. The second I set foot on the paved path, the house’s
inhabitant gets an alert, and the video feed on her tablet shows me from three different angles, in high definition. At least that’s how it works in our house.

  But I perform the motions even though they’ve become obsolete. Still, she takes a while to come to the door, and for a moment there, I wonder if she won’t come at all. Just as I contemplate leaving, feeling like a fool with one of the bottles of wine sweating in my hands, the door opens.

  “Can I help you?”

  She doesn’t look unfriendly—only surprised. What could I possibly need from her after all? To borrow a cup of sugar for a recipe?

  “Hi,” I say. “I live next door. We just moved in a short while ago.”

  “I know,” she says, a little flatly.

  “You do?”

  I’m unprepared for this conversation. She must see the surprise on my face because she gives an awkward chuckle.

  “So sorry. We were alerted that another family was moving in,” she says cryptically. Alerted, huh. “And that you were pre-vetted. It was one of our conditions.”

  “I just thought I’d introduce myself,” I say. “Maybe they don’t do that around here—”

  “Oh, on the contrary. I’m Dorothea.”

  “And I’m—”

  “Cecelia Holmes,” she says, nodding. “I know. Why don’t you come in?”

  Minutes later, we’re sitting in Dorothea’s living room, drinking the wine out of those giant glasses. Observing her house, I can only marvel at SmartBlock’s dedication. It has nothing in common with our own. The style is completely different, all its own. While ours favors clean, contemporary lines and a cool palette of colors, this one perfectly reproduces the look of a distinguished century-old Victorian. It reminds me a little of our old house, before we butchered it, and our life with it. Reminds me enough to give me a pang. There are even stained-glass inserts in the windows. The light is warm. There’s wainscoting and art nouveau moldings on the walls and ceiling and an antique-looking chandelier.

  I wonder if each house is like that, a unique creation. And if yes, it means someone designed it, put it all together, chose the materials and the furniture, the shades of the paint on the walls. Who? Not us, the testers. We only filled out a most rudimentary questionnaire. Yet somehow, they seemed to know our favorite styles and colors, grays, blues, and olive greens, right down to the matte finish of the appliances.

  Dorothea chatters away, seemingly oblivious of my sharp gaze on her. Or maybe she is aware. We talk about our husbands’ jobs, our own jobs—she’s not a housewife, it turns out, but a freelance journalist, currently between gigs. Yet something about her feels off to me. Just like this house posing as a turn-of-the-century mansion, a beautiful replica, down to the smallest details, but a replica nonetheless. Like she’s telling me a story. And when it’s my turn, she nods along with a little too much ease, like I’m telling her things she already knows. Even when I talk about my career designing ebooks, she expresses polite interest but hardly any surprise.

  “Your daughter is adorable, by the way,” she says. This makes me refocus. When has she ever seen Taryn?

  “I see you guys going out for a walk every once in a while,” she adds, apparently seeing my frown. “It’s such a perfect place for children. You really couldn’t do better.”

  Finally, something we agree on. “All these safety features have been a godsend,” I say.

  “And all the neighbors are pre-vetted,” she adds, and takes a generous sip of wine.

  “By IntelTech.”

  “And by the board. Wait.” Her eyes glint as she leans forward. “You didn’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Before they move in someone new, IntelTech submits the candidates to the board of residents. What? It’s not that strange. They do it in fancy condo buildings—”

  “We’re not a condo building. Is that even legal?”

  “Not only is it legal, it’s great. You’ll see the benefits soon enough. If you decide to stay. Then you’ll be on the board too, and you’ll always have a say about who moves in down the street from you and your young children. Better than nothing.”

  So that’s how she knows my name. And my husband’s, and probably Taryn’s.

  What else does she know?

  But another thought occurs to me, eclipsing this troubling one. “Definitely,” I say. “Do you, by any chance, happen to know who lived in our house before us?”

  I drop it into the conversation casually. Or I think I do. Because she stiffens, her spine straight and gaze alert. A moment later, an uncertain smile floats to her lips. “What do you mean?”

  “Someone lived in our house before, right? Other testers. I guess they didn’t choose to stay. Do you know why?”

  “Cecelia,” she says, “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “But you’re on that…committee.”

  “Board.”

  “Right. Board. So didn’t you guys vet them too?”

  “Cecelia, if I’m not mistaken, you’re the first ones to live in that house. If there was someone else, I had no idea.”

  “There was someone. I think they mentioned it in passing. At IntelTech,” I lie. “Someone named Lydia?”

  Dorothea blinks. It’s hard to make the act of blinking aggressive but somehow she pulls it off. “I don’t know who would tell you such a thing. Even if there had been, it would be confidential information.”

  But the confidentiality is one-way, I think. I get up and make a quick exit—she’s not exactly begging me to stay.

  Outside, the sunlight is blinding, and the perfection of the clean lines of sidewalks and lawns is a sharp contrast to the jumbled chaos of my thoughts. I now realize I must have had too much wine. And a second bottle is still in my bag, tugging on my shoulder.

  Right. There’s still the house behind ours. Can I take on another Dorothea? Maybe it’s the chardonnay talking but I’m filled with determination. I’m going to march right up to that house and ask whoever it is why she was taking pictures of my daughter’s bedroom window. Yes. And I won’t leave until she answers. That’s what I’m going to do.

  I storm down the sidewalk, around the bend, and up to the front door. The house looms, a giant rectangle of dark stone and darker one-way glass, practically sucking up the sunlight. This one isn’t shy about it: I can see the surveillance cameras, which means the house’s inhabitant wanted them to be seen. I march up the short ramp to the porch of flat, square granite, also shiny and black, and when I look up, there are the cameras, not one but two of them above the door. There’s also no doorbell I can see. I know she knows I’m here.

  “Hello?” I call out. My voice is cowed and insignificant all of a sudden, pitiful even to myself. As if the house absorbs not just light but sound as well.

  “Hello,” I repeat, trying to be more assertive. I look up, defiant, straight into the cameras. “I’m your neighbor. I have a gift.”

  But I feel stupid, standing there with my bottle of wine. Suddenly, in the middle of the searing-hot day, I feel a chill. The house casts a deep, icy shadow.

  “I’d like to speak with you,” I say, louder. “Please open the door.”

  There’s no answer. Yet somehow, I know that I’m not talking to an empty house. I don’t know how to describe it. Just a feeling. Intuition.

  “This is important,” I say. My fists are clenching. I feel intense anger at this house, at the cameras, at the indifferent stranger within. “Open the door.”

  It occurs to me that I’m acting crazy. That for all I know, I’m scaring her to death, and she’s about to call the police. “I saw something from the window last night,” I add, trying to keep my tone normal, if not friendly. “I just wanted to speak with you. It’ll only take a minute. Please.”

  The sound startles me because it seems to come out of nowhere. I didn’t hear a crackle of speakers humming to life, nothing, just, all of a sudden, a voice. A deep, raspy, male voice.

  “Go away.”

  “Sir,”
I stammer. “Wait. I just wanted to—”

  “I said go away. And don’t come back.”

  I start to say something else but stop myself. What if he does call the police? He could accuse me of harassment. Which could get us in trouble with IntelTech. Scott will be pissed if that happens.

  Reluctant, I start to back away, nearly tripping on my low heel and stumbling off the porch. Then I finally turn around and walk slowly back down the arrow-straight path.

  Only once I’m at the sidewalk do I chance to turn around. And maybe it’s my imagination or the wine and the heat. But in the shiny, pitch-black glass panel of the front door, for just a fraction of a second, I think I see a hideously distorted human face.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “So how did it go today?”

  It’s nearing nine, Taryn has long ago been put to bed, and we’re on the living room couch. The couch is easily twelve feet long, and we’re on the opposite sides of it. Something is playing on Netflix, some show we’ve been half watching.

  “How did what go?”

  “The welcome wagon.”

  Oh. “Well, the one next door is a Stepford wife, and the other is Boo Radley,” I say. “Totally normal people and not creepy at all.”

  Scott gives a soft chuckle. “You do know Boo Radley wasn’t the bad guy, right?”

  “I’m surprised you remember what book he’s from.”

  “You seem tense. I take it, it didn’t go well?”

  “Oh, it went fine. As well as can be expected. Right up until I asked her who used to live in the house before us. Then she couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”

  Scott frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a simple enough question. Who used to live here before us? You’d think—”

  “No one,” he says. “We’re the first.”

  “You seem awfully sure.”

  “That’s what they said, didn’t they? Why would they lie about it?”

  “And apparently, there’s some sort of committee. No, board. That vetted us before we moved in. No one mentioned that.”