The Stranger Next Door

by Joy Fielding

  You’re a stupid, stupid girl, I heard my mother say.

  I thought of the unmade bed in Josh’s bedroom. Had he and Jan had sex this morning before she’d left for the mall? Were the crumpled sheets still redolent with the scent of their lovemaking?

  “You’re an idiot!” I shouted, my words bouncing off the car windows to slap me in the face. “People as stupid as you are don’t deserve to live.”

  I looked into the rearview mirror, saw my mother’s eyes. I didn’t need the sound of her voice to know what she was thinking: How could you do this? Her eyes burned into mine, until my own eyes clouded over with so many tears she was no longer visible. Who needed my mother’s harsh pronouncements when I was doing such a good job on my own?

  “You’re a stupid, stupid girl,” I was still repeating as I pulled into my driveway and fumbled in my purse for my house keys. “You deserve whatever happens to you.” I checked the street for Lance’s white Lincoln. “Come and get me,” I cried at the quiet street, the threat of rain still hovering overhead. “Game over. I give up.”

  But a quick glance told me Lance’s car was nowhere in sight. Probably had it parked somewhere around the block, I decided, pushing the tears away from my swollen eyes with the palms of my hands, and running toward my front door, repeatedly jabbing the key into the lock until I heard the familiar click. The door fell open.

  I marched into the living room, roughly pushing the Christmas tree out of my way, then watched it teeter precariously on its stand before falling against the wall. Its ornaments dropped from its branches and burst into delicate slivers of silver and pink on the hard floor. “Should have taken this stupid thing down days ago.” Should never have put it up in the first place. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” I ripped a handful of festive bows from the tree’s drying limbs, then stomped on them. To imagine that Alison had ever really liked me. To think Josh had ever really cared. “Why would anyone want you? Why would anyone want to be your friend, your lover?”

  My mother was right. She was always right. I was nothing but a stupid, stupid girl. I deserved everything that happened to me.

  How could you do this? my mother demanded, sneaking up behind me as I entered the kitchen.

  “Go away,” I cried. “Please, go away. Leave me alone. You did your job well. I don’t need you anymore.”

  From their lofty position, my mother’s collection of ladies’ head vases sneered at my naïveté, my mother’s words continuing to assault me through their empty eyes and forced smiles. I watched in horror as my arm suddenly shot out and swept across the bottom shelf. Instantly the line of china heads went flying in all directions, like a swarm of angry bees. And then the next row, and the next. I grabbed the head that Alison had admired her first time in this room, the one that resembled my mother, with her judgmental, imperious gaze, like some snooty society matron, looking down her nose at the rest of us, Alison had said. I held the china head high into the air, then flung it with all my might across the room.

  It exploded upon contact with the wall, bursting into the air like a firecracker. I laughed as colorful shards of porcelain flew about the room, covering the floor like confetti.

  “Terry!” a voice cried out from outside the kitchen door. “Terry, what’s happening? Let me in. Please, let me in!”

  The doorknob twisted frantically from side to side. I took a second to catch my breath, then pulled open the kitchen door.

  “My God, Terry!” Alison exclaimed, a look of horror overwhelming her sweet face. “What’s going on here? What are you doing? Look at you. You’re bleeding.”

  I raised a hand to my forehead, felt blood on my fingers.

  “Terry, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

  A wail, like an ancient chant, began building in my gut, filling my mouth like water, until it poured from my lips, spilled onto the floor, and eventually flooded the room. I fell to my knees, the sound of bottomless grief bouncing off the walls, pieces of broken china piercing my clothing, attaching themselves to my skin like burrs.

  Instantly Alison was at my side, rocking me in her arms, kissing my bloodied forehead, begging me to tell her what was wrong. Almost immediately, I felt myself being sucked back into her orbit, falling under her spell. Even now, after all the lies and deceit, after everything I knew to be true, and everything I knew to be false, I wanted nothing more than to believe she was truly concerned about me, that no matter what was about to happen, she wouldn’t let any harm come my way.

  “I’m such a fool,” I whispered.

  “No. No, you’re not a fool.”

  “I am.”

  “Tell me what happened. Please, Terry. Tell me.”

  I looked into her eyes. Through the thick veil of my tears, I was almost able to convince myself of her sincerity. Might as well tell her what happened, I decided, wincing at the sight of my blood on her lips. She and her friends could have a good laugh about it later.

  “Josh is back with his wife,” I said simply, then almost laughed myself.

  “Oh, Terry, I’m so sorry.”

  This time I actually did manage a strangulated chuckle. “That’s what he said.”

  “You saw him?”

  I told her the whole pathetic story of my visit with Josh, knowing K.C. had probably already phoned her, informed her of my plans. Had she been sitting by the window, anxiously awaiting my return?

  “Bastard,” she uttered now, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  “No. It’s my fault.”

  “How is it your fault?”

  Because it always is, I thought but didn’t say. “Because I’m such a fool,” I said instead.

  “If you’re a fool, that must make me a full-out moron.”

  I laughed, as I did so often when I was with her.

  “I mean, look at me and Lance, for heaven’s sake,” Alison continued without prompting. “After everything I’ve been through with him, after all my resolutions about not letting him back into my life, what do I do the first time he shows up at my door? I invite him in. Hell, I practically drag him inside the house. It doesn’t matter that I know he’s no good for me, that I know, sooner or later, he’s going to break my heart, screw things up, the way he always does.”

  “What things?” I interrupted.

  She shrugged sadly. “Things. Like he did with you.”

  I waited, feeling the tension in her arms, wondering if she was about to open up, tell me everything. But she didn’t, and the moment passed.

  “Where is Lance?” I looked toward the back door, half-expecting him to be standing there.

  “Gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  Alison shook her head, her hair tickling the side of my face. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  “You mean he’s gone back to Chicago?”

  “Don’t know,” Alison said again. “I guess he’ll go wherever Denise tells him to.”

  “He’s with Denise?”

  “Should have seen that one coming, I guess.” She hit her forehead with her hand, as if trying to knock some sense into it. “What the hell—it was over anyway. Finally. About time,” she added for emphasis.

  I nodded, although I doubted Lance was really gone.

  “Men,” she said, as if the word were a curse. “Can’t live with ‘em—”

  “Can’t shoot ‘em,” I said, recalling the words to an old country song.

  “I’m so sorry about everything. If I could just go back to the beginning start over again . . .”

  “What would you do?”

  “I wouldn’t give Lance the time of day, that’s for sure. I’d run for the hills the minute I saw him. Before it was too late.”

  “It’s never too late,” I said, as if pleading my case.

  “Do you really believe that?”

  I shrugged. Who knew what I believed anymore? “I’ve been such a fool.”

  Alison’s eyes probed mine, as if she were reaching into my soul. “He’s the fool. How could anyone not wa
nt you?”

  I studied her face for signs of ridicule, but all I saw were fresh tears welling up in those enormous green eyes. Her lips quivered as I rubbed her tears away, the blood from my finger staining her skin, like an errant brushstroke, as I took her cheeks in my hands and drew her face gently toward mine.

  I don’t know what it was—fear, disillusion, longing—maybe a combination of all those things—that brought my lips so close to hers. I wondered only briefly what I was doing, then closed my mind to further thought as I shut my eyes, grazed her lips with my own.

  Instantly, Alison pulled back, as Josh had earlier. Out of my arms. Out of my reach. “No! That’s not what I meant. You don’t understand.”

  “My God,” I said, scrambling to my feet, my hand covering my mouth. “My God, oh my God.”

  Alison was on her feet beside me. “It’s all right, Terry. Please, it was a misunderstanding. It’s all my fault.”

  “What have I done?” I stared down at all the shattered women at my feet, at their lost earrings and broken strands of pearls, pieces of their smiles mixed with stiff strands of their hair. All the king’s horses, and all the king’s men, I thought, seeing my reflection in Alison’s horrified eyes, knowing we were all broken beyond repair, that nothing could be done to put any of us back together again. “I have to get out of here,” I cried, fleeing the carnage, racing for the front door.

  Alison was right behind me. “Terry, wait! Let me come with you.”

  “No, please. Just leave me alone. Leave me alone.” I was in my car before she could stop me, the doors locked, the engine running, the car in reverse, my foot on the gas.

  “Terry, please, come back.”

  I backed out of the driveway and onto the street, mowing over the grass of the corner lot and almost colliding with Bettye McCoy and her stupid dogs two blocks away. In response, she gave me the finger and called me a name, although it was my mother’s voice I heard.

  I drove through the streets of Delray for the better part of an hour, drawing comfort from the little seaside town that had somehow managed to retain its quaint, thriving downtown without falling prey to the towering office buildings and ugly strip malls of most of Florida’s older cities. I drove past the small, old homes of the historic marina district, past the newer oceanfront condominiums and luxury estates along the coast, then doubled back, headed for the gated communities, retirement enclaves, and country clubs that existed west of the city limits. I drove until my legs were stiff and my hands felt welded to the steering wheel. I drove until the dark black clouds spreading above my head exploded in a thunderous rage, flooding the thoroughfares with sheets of angry rain. Then I pulled the car over to the side of the road and quietly watched the rain as it pounded against my windshield, an eerie calm settling over me, like a warm blanket. My tears stopped. My head cleared. And I was no longer afraid.

  I knew exactly what I had to do.

  *

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I pulled my car into the parking lot of Mission Care and ran through the continuing downpour into the lobby, shaking the water from my hair as I headed for the stairwell. I kept my head down, not wanting anyone to see me. I was supposed to be in bed with the flu after all, not gallivanting around in the rain. Besides, my visit was personal, not professional. There was no reason for anyone to know I was there.

  I climbed the steps to the fourth floor, stopping at the landing to catch my breath before cracking open the door and peeking my head around. No one was there, so I proceeded cautiously down the corridor. I was halfway down the hall when one of the staff doctors emerged from a patient’s room, heading right for me. I thought of lowering my head, stooping to pick up an invisible penny from the floor, maybe even ducking into a nearby room, but I did none of those things. Instead I gave the young doctor a shy smile, preparing to tell him how much better I was feeling, thank him so much for asking. But the vacant smile he offered in return announced he had no idea who I was, that I was as faceless to him in my street clothes as I was in my nurse’s uniform. I could have been anyone, I realized.

  In fact, I was no one.

  Myra Wylie was lying in bed staring at the ceiling when I pushed open the door to her room and stepped inside. “Please go away,” she said without looking to see who it was.

  “Myra, it’s me, Terry.”

  “Terry?” She turned her cheek to me, smiled with her eyes.

  “How are you today?” I walked to her side, grasped the bruised hand she extended toward me.

  “They told me you were sick.”

  “I was. I’m feeling much better now.”

  “Me too. Now that you’re here.”

  “Has the doctor been in to see you yet?”

  “He was here a little while ago. He poked and prodded, lectured me about eating more if I want to keep up my strength.”

  “He’s right.”

  “I know. I just don’t seem to have much of an appetite these days.”

  “Not even for a piece of marzipan?” I produced a small candied apple from the pocket of my navy pants. “I stopped at the bakery on my way over.”

  “In this rain?”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “You’re a darling girl.”

  I opened the wrapping, broke the small piece of candy into two pieces, placed one on the tip of her tongue, enjoyed the pleasure that filled her eyes. “I saw Josh today,” I said.

  Immediately her eyes darkened, like the sky. “Josh was here?”

  “No. I drove to Coral Gables.”

  “You went to Coral Gables?”

  “To his house.” I deposited the remaining piece of marzipan on her tongue.

  “To his house? Why?”

  “I wanted to see him.”

  “Is there something wrong? Something the doctors haven’t told me?”

  “No,” I reassured her quickly, as I’d reassured her son only hours ago. “This wasn’t about you. It was about me.”

  Concern swam through the milkiness of her eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I just needed to talk to Josh.”

  Myra looked puzzled. She waited for me to continue.

  “He told me he’s back with his wife.”

  “Yes.”

  “He says you’re not very happy about it.”

  “I’m his mother. If that’s what he wants, then I’m happy.”

  “It seems it is.”

  “I’m just an old worrywart, I guess. I don’t want to see him get hurt again.”

  “He’s a big boy.”

  “Do they ever really grow up?” she asked.

  “How long have you known?”

  “I think I’ve always known they’d get back together. He never stopped loving her, even after the divorce. The minute she started making reconciliation noises, I knew it was only a matter of time.” Myra twisted her head from side to side, no longer able to find a comfortable position.

  “Here, let me fluff that up for you.”

  “Thank you, darling.” She smiled, lifted her head, allowed me to extricate one of the meager pillows from behind her head.

  “I wish you’d told me,” I said, kneading it with my fingers.

  “I wanted to. But I felt a bit foolish after the things I’d said about her. I hope you understand.”

  “It would have saved me a lot of embarrassment.”

  “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”

  “I drove all the way down there, made a complete fool of myself.” A sound, halfway between a laugh and a cry, escaped my lips. “How could you let me do that?”

  “I’m so sorry, dear. I had no idea. Please forgive me.”

  I smiled, smoothed several fine strands of hair away from her forehead. “I forgive you.”

  Then I lowered the pillow I was holding to her face and held it over her nose and mouth until she stopped breathing.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It’s such a strange sensation, killing another person.

&n
bsp; Myra Wylie was surprisingly strong for someone so frail. She fought me with a determination that was stunning in its ferocity, her long, skeletal arms flailing blindly toward me, gnarled and brittle fingers clawing helplessly toward my throat, the muscles in her neck warring with the pillow in my hands as her desperate lungs screamed silently for air. Such stubborn tenacity, the instinct to survive in the face of certain, even longed-for, death, caught me temporarily off-guard, and I almost lost my grip. Myra seized that split second’s hesitation with all the strength left in her, twisting her head wildly from side to side and kicking frantically at her sheets.

  I quickly refocused, pressing down harder on the pillow, patiently watching as her feet twitched to an almost graceful stop beneath the tightly tucked hospital corners of her narrow bed. I listened to her last desperate intake of breath and smelled the pungent odor of urine as it leaked from her body. Then I counted slowly to one hundred and waited for the unmistakable stillness of death to overwhelm her. Only then did I remove the pillow from her face, fluffing it out before returning it to behind her head, careful to arrange her hair the way she liked it. It was damp with the sweat of her exertion, and I blew gently on the matted strands at her forehead in an effort to dry them, watching as Myra’s thin eyelashes fluttered girlishly in my warm breath, as if she were flirting with me.

  Watery blue eyes stared up at me in frozen disbelief, and I closed them with my lips, my hands trembling toward the exaggerated, open oval of her mouth, contorted in a way to suggest that, even now, she was still trying to suck air into her withered, broken frame. My fingers quickly molded her lips into a more pleasing shape, as if I were an artist working with fast-drying clay. Then I stood back and observed my handiwork. She reminded me of one of those floats people buy for their pool, stretched out and waiting to be inflated. Still, I was satisfied that Myra looked peaceful, even happy, as if she’d simply slipped away from life in the middle of a pleasant dream.