by Joy Fielding
Alison had little in the way of clothes. A few dresses, including the blue sundress she’d worn at our first meeting. Several pairs of jeans. A white blouse. A black leather jacket. Perhaps half a dozen T-shirts were stacked in one corner of the long, built-in shelf, some lacy underwear crammed into the other. Well-worn, black-and-white sneakers sat beside a pair of obviously new, silver sling-back heels. I lifted one shoe into my hand, wondering how anyone managed to walk in those damn things. I hadn’t worn a heel that high in—well, I’d never worn a heel that high, I realized, glancing toward my stockinged feet, reaching down before I was even aware of what I was doing and slipping on first one shoe, then the other.
It was at that moment—standing there in Alison’s sexy shoes—that I heard movement in the next room and felt the vibration of footsteps as they drew near. I froze, not sure what to do. It was one thing to tell Alison that I’d been so concerned about her health I’d felt entitled to invade her privacy, but how was I going to explain being discovered in her closet, teetering precariously in her new, silver, sling-back, high-heeled shoes?
For one insane second, I actually thought of clicking those heels together and reciting, “There’s no place like home; there’s no place like home,” in hopes that, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, I would be transported miraculously back to my own living room. Or Kansas, for that matter. Anywhere but here, I thought, feeling Alison’s presence in the doorway. “I’m so sorry,” I said, waiting for her to appear. “Please forgive me.”
Except no one was there. There was only me and my overactive imagination. Not to mention my guilt for being where I didn’t belong. I stood in the closet, wobbling in those outrageous three-inch heels, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal. Some criminal I’d make, I thought, kicking off the shoes and returning them to their place beside the tired-looking sneakers.
At that point, I should have gotten the hell out of there. Alison was obviously feeling better. There was no need to be concerned. Certainly no reason for me to be standing in the middle of what was now, after all, her place. And I was on my way out—I really was—when I saw it.
Her journal.
It was lying open on the top of the white wicker dresser, as if waiting to be read, almost as if Alison had left it that way deliberately, as if she’d been expecting me to drop by. I tried not to notice it, tried to walk by it without stopping to look, without stooping to look, I should probably say, but the damn thing drew me like a magnet. Almost against my will, I found my eyes dipping through the dramatic swirls and loops of Alison’s elaborate scrawl, as if on some wild, visual roller-coaster ride.
Sunday, November 4: Well, I did it. I’m actually here.
I stopped, slammed the journal shut, then realized it had been open when I found it and quickly rifled through the pages looking for the last entry.
Thursday, October 11: Lance says I’m crazy. He says to remember what happened last time.
Friday, October 26: I’m getting nervous. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.
Sunday, October 28: Lance keeps warning me against getting too attached. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this whole plan is just too crazy.
Back to the last entry without allowing my eyes to settle, the words to sink in.
Sunday, November 4: Well, I did it. I’m actually here. I’m living in the cottage behind her house, and she’s even invited me over for dinner. She seems nice, if not exactly what I was expecting.
What did that mean?
What had she been expecting?
We’d spoken for less than a minute on the phone, scarcely enough time to form any impressions at all.
Lance says I’m crazy. He says to remember what happened last time.
Were these entries somehow related?
“I’m doing it again,” I said out loud. Letting my imagination get the better of me. The snatches I’d read in Alison’s journal could mean anything. Or nothing. The discomfort I was feeling had more to do with my own guilt for snooping through Alison’s personal belongings than it did with her innocent scribblings. I pulled away from the diary as if it were a hissing snake.
And I did nothing. Not then, not later, not even after I returned home at the end of my shift and stopped by to see how Alison was doing, and she told me that, aside from a brief walk around the block, she’d spent pretty much the whole day in bed.
I left her with the Imitrex, a list of doctors in the area, and some homemade chicken soup, deciding to be pleasant, but to keep my distance—not allow myself to get too attached, as the mysterious Lance would undoubtedly advise—and somehow I managed to convince myself that as long as Alison paid her rent on time and followed my rules, everything would be fine.
FIVE
By Friday, I had all but forgotten the diary. One of the other nurses was sick with a nasty flu, so I’d volunteered to take her shift as well as my own on both Wednesday and Thursday, and as a result, I didn’t see Alison at all. I did receive a lovely note from her, thanking me for dinner and apologizing profusely for being such a nuisance. She assured me she was feeling much better and suggested going to a movie on the weekend, if I had any free time. I didn’t respond, deciding to plead exhaustion if and when we actually connected. If I turned down enough such overtures, I reasoned, Alison would get the message, and our relationship would revert to what it should have been in the first place, landlord and tenant. I’d been too hasty in allowing Alison into my life.
“What are you thinking about, dear?” the voice beside me asked with marked concern.
“Hmm? What? Sorry,” I said, returning to the present, casting unwanted memories aside, returning my full attention to the withered old woman connected to life by a series of tubes that force-fed nutrients into her collapsing veins.
Myra Wylie’s eyes radiated quiet curiosity. “You were a million miles away.”
“Sorry. Did I hurt you?” My hands dropped from the IV I’d been adjusting.
“No, dear. You couldn’t hurt me if you tried. Stop apologizing. Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine.” I secured the blanket at her toes. “You’re doing remarkably well.”
“I meant with you. Is everything all right with you?”
“Everything’s fine,” I repeated, as if trying to reassure myself as well.
“You can talk to me, you know. If you have a problem.”
I smiled gratefully. “I appreciate that.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
“You look like you have very deep thoughts,” Myra Wylie remarked, and I laughed out loud. “Don’t laugh. Josh thinks so too.”
I felt my pulse quicken. “Your son thinks I have deep thoughts?”
“That’s what he said last time he was here.”
I felt almost ridiculously flattered, like a teenage girl who’s just found out the silly boy she has a crush on feels the same way about her. I checked my watch, noted the trembling in my fingers. “Well, it’s almost noon. He should be here any minute.”
“He thinks you’re very nice.”
Was I mistaken, or was there a playful glint in Myra’s watery eyes? “Oh, he does, does he?”
“Josh deserves someone nice,” Myra was saying, almost to herself. “He’s divorced, you know. I’ve told you about that, haven’t I?”
I nodded, eager for more details, but careful to look only mildly curious.
“She left him for her aerobics instructor. Can you imagine? Stupid woman.” Myra Wylie’s frail shoulders stiffened with righteous indignation. “Destroys the family. Breaks my son’s heart. And for what? So she can march off into the sunset with some muscle-bound bodybuilder ten years her junior, who dumps her less than six months later—what did she expect?—and of course, now she sees the error of her ways, now she wants him back. But Josh is too smart for that, thank God. He’ll never let that woman back into his life.” Myra’s voice began breaking up, like a bad radio signal, then dissolved into a worrisome combinat
ion of coughs and wheezes.
“Take deep breaths,” I cautioned, watching Myra’s breathing gradually return to normal. “That’s better. You shouldn’t let yourself get so upset. It’s not worth it. It’s all over now. They’re divorced.”
“He will never let that woman back into his life.”
“Never,” I repeated.
“He deserves someone nice.”
“Absolutely.”
“Someone like you,” Myra said. Then: “You like children, don’t you?”
“I love children.” I followed her eyes to the two silver-framed pictures of her smiling grandchildren that sat on the movable nightstand beside her bed.
“Of course they’re older now than when these pictures were taken. Jillian is fifteen, and Trevor is almost twelve.”
“I know. We’ve met,” I reminded her. “They’re lovely children.”
“They went through hell after Jan left.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t easy.” It’s never easy to lose your mother, I remember thinking. No matter how old you are, no matter what the circumstances. A mother is a mother is a mother, I thought, and almost laughed. So much for the depth of my thoughts. “I should get going. Is there anything I can do for you before your son gets here?”
“Comb my hair a little, if you don’t mind?”
“It will be my pleasure.” I ran a gentle comb across Myra’s scalp, watching the delicate strands of gray hair immediately fall back into place, as if untouched. “You were right about the bob. It’s very becoming.”
“You think so?” A smile, eager as a child’s, spread across her face.
“Now all the nurses are asking me to cut their hair. They say I missed my calling.”
“I don’t think you miss a thing.” Myra reached out to squeeze my hand.
“I’ll be back to say hello to your son,” I said with a wink.
“Terry?” she called as I was about to leave the room. I swiveled around as she brought her fingers to her lips. “Maybe a little lipstick?”
I started back toward the bed.
“No. Not me,” she said quickly. “You.”
I laughed, shaking my head as I returned to the door. I was still laughing as I stepped into the hall and saw Alison standing in front of the nurses’ station.
“Terry!” Alison rushed forward to greet me, arms extended, face flushed with pride. She was wearing her blue sundress and her hair fell in lush tendrils around her shoulders. Erica Hollander’s necklace hung around her neck, the tiny gold heart resting at her collarbone, as if it had been there all her life.
“Alison! What are you doing here?” I looked toward Margot and Caroline, both of whom were busy behind the long, curving desk of the nurses’ station, Margot on the phone, Caroline entering notes in a patient’s chart. They glanced in our direction, pretending not to be paying attention.
“I did it! I did it!” Alison was jumping up and down, like a small child.
I brought my finger to my lips in a silent signal for her to settle down and lower her voice. “Did what?”
“I got a job,” she squealed, unable to contain herself. “At the Lorelli Gallery. On Atlantic Avenue. Four days a week, some Saturdays, some evenings. Shift work,” she said, beaming. “Like you.”
“That’s great,” I heard myself say, her enthusiasm catchy despite my effort to remain detached. “What exactly will you be doing?”
“Selling mostly. Of course, I don’t know much about art, but Fern said she’d teach me everything I need to know. Fern’s my boss. Fern Lorelli. She seems very nice. Do you know her?”
I started to shake my head, but Alison had already moved on.
“I told her I didn’t know much about art, because I figured I should be honest, right? I didn’t want her to give me the job under false pretenses. I mean, she’d find out soon enough anyway, right? But she said not to worry, she’d handle the art, that I should stick mostly to the jewelry and gift items they sell, although if I do manage to sell one of the paintings, I’d get a commission. Five percent. Isn’t that great?”
“It’s great,” I agreed.
“Some of those paintings sell for thousands of dollars, so that’d be fantastic, if I sold one of them. But mostly I’ll be behind the cash register. Me and this other girl who works there. Denise Nickson, I think her name is. She’s Fern’s niece. And what else? Oh—I get twelve dollars an hour, and I start on Monday. Isn’t that great?”
“It’s great,” I said again.
“I couldn’t wait to tell you, so I came right over.”
“Congratulations.”
“Can I take you to lunch?”
“Lunch?”
“To celebrate. My treat.”
I shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Technically, I was on my lunch break right now, and my stomach had been making hungry noises for the past hour. “I can’t. Things are so busy here today. . . .”
“Dinner, then.”
“I can’t. I’m working a double shift.”
“Tomorrow night,” she persisted. “That’s even better. It’s a Saturday, so you can sleep in the next morning. You’re not busy tomorrow night, are you?”
“No,” I said, realizing that Alison wouldn’t settle for less than a definite date, even if she had to go through every day from now till Christmas. “But really, it isn’t necessary for you to take me out.”
“Of course it is,” Alison insisted. “Besides, I want to. To thank you for all you’ve done for me.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Are you kidding? You gave me the best place in the whole wide world to live, you cooked me dinner, you made me feel welcome. You even took care of me when I got sick. I owe you big time, Terry Painter.”
“You don’t owe me anything but the rent,” I said, struggling to keep my distance, feeling myself sway reluctantly back into her orbit, falling under her spell. You gave me the best place in the whole wide world to live. Who says things like that? How could you not be charmed?
Besides, what was I so worried about? What could I possibly have to fear, especially from someone like Alison? Even assuming the worst, that she was some sort of clever con artist, what could she possibly be after? I had little in the way of material goods—my small house, its tiny adjacent cottage, negligible savings, my mother’s silly collection of ladies’ head vases. So what? Small potatoes, all of it This was Florida, for heaven’s sake. Forty minutes north were the oceanside mansions of Palm Beach and Hobe Sound; forty minutes south were the palatial homes of Miami’s infamous South Beach. Florida was synonymous with money, with wealthy old men just waiting to be taken advantage of by beautiful young girls. Hell, it’s what was keeping them alive. It didn’t make sense that Alison would waste her time with me.
I realize now that there are times when our brains will simply not allow us to accept the evidence our own eyes present, that the desire for self-delusion outweighs the instinct for self-preservation, that no matter how old we are or how wise we think we’ve become, we are never really convinced of our own mortality. Besides, since when do things have to make sense?
“So, are we on?” Alison’s big, loopy grin widened with expectation.
“We’re on,” I heard myself reply.
“Great.” She spun around in a full circle, the skirt of her sundress swirling around her knees. “Anywhere in particular you’d like to go?”
I shook my head. “Surprise me.”
She rubbed the gold heart at her throat. “I love surprises.”
As if on cue, the fire alarm sounded. It turned out to be a false alarm, but in the few minutes it took to make sure everything was okay, chaos reigned. When I returned to the nurses’ station after reassuring several panicky patients that the hospital was not about to become a blazing inferno, Alison was gone.
“Everybody okay?” Margot asked.
“Mr. Austin said, fire or no fire, he wasn’t going anywhere without his teeth.” I laughed, picturing the feisty o
ld man in room 411.
“Pretty girl you were talking to earlier,” Margot remarked.
“My new tenant.”
“Really? Well, I hope you have better luck this time around.”
*
THE NEXT HOUR PASSED IN RELATIVE CALM. There were no more fire alarms, no unexpected visitors. After a brief lunch in the cafeteria, I kept busy checking pulses, delivering pain medication, helping patients to and from the bathroom, comforting them as they railed against their fate. At some point I found myself at the door to Sheena O’Connor’s room. I hesitated briefly, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The teenager lay in the middle of her bed, staring at the ceiling with eyes wide with terror. Was she seeing the man who’d raped and beaten her senseless, then left her for dead? I approached the bed, reached out, and touched her hand, but if she felt my touch at all, she gave no sign. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “You’re safe now.”
I pulled up a chair, sat down beside her, the words to an old Irish lullaby suddenly dancing inside my head. It took a few seconds for me to find the tune, and next thing I knew I was singing—softly, gently, as one sings to a newborn baby— “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra . . . too-ra-loo-ra-lie . . .”
I don’t know what made me think of that particular song. I couldn’t remember my mother ever singing it to me. Maybe it was the name O’Connor. Maybe I thought Sheena’s mother might have sung it to her, that the song might stir something deep in the girl’s subconscious, remind her of a time when she felt secure and protected, a time when no harm could befall her.
“Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra,” I sang, my voice gaining strength with each repetition of the simple sounds. “Too-ra-loo-ra-lie . . .”
Sheena remained motionless.
“Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra . . . that’s an Irish lullaby.”
“And it’s a very lovely one,” a man’s voice said from the doorway.
I recognized the voice without having to turn around. I swallowed the sounds in my throat and willed my face not to betray me as I turned toward the doorway. Josh Wylie, tall and almost carelessly handsome, with salt-and-pepper hair and his mother’s blue eyes, stood watching me. “How long have you been standing there?”