The Stranger Next Door

by Joy Fielding

  I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts together, to give order to my lies. “There’s not that much to tell.”

  “Start with when you left here. Where did you go?” Alison prompted. She didn’t have to say any more. She didn’t have to mention the aborted kiss.

  I noted a small red circle metastasizing in the middle of the white paper towels, like menstrual blood, I thought, watching it grow wider and darker, reach toward the edges. “I’m so embarrassed about what happened,” I whispered as she led me to a chair. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It was all my fault,” Alison interjected immediately, sitting down beside me. “I obviously gave you the wrong impression.”

  “I’ve never done anything like that before in my life.”

  “I know. You were just upset about Josh.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, thinking this was probably true. “Anyway, I’m not sure where I went after I left here. I was pretty confused, so I just drove around for a while, tried to clear my head.”

  “And you parked around the corner because you didn’t want me to know you were back,” Alison stated quietly, traces of guilt bracketing her words.

  “I was feeling pretty shaky. I thought it was best if we didn’t see each other right away.”

  “I was so worried about you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  I looked around the room. It felt so bare, so empty, without the women watching. “Baking’s always been a kind of therapy for me,” I continued, glancing from the shelves to the oven. “So, I decided, why not bake a cake? I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Isn’t that what they say?”

  She nodded. “Seems like they’re always saying something.”

  I smiled. “You like chocolate cake, don’t you?”

  Her turn to smile. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  I patted her hand. It felt ice-cold. “It should be ready in a few minutes.”

  “Is that how you cut your hand? Baking?”

  “It was stupid,” I began, the lie wiggling around the tip of my tongue, like a worm on a fisherman’s hook. “I was reaching for something in a drawer, and I sliced it on a small paring knife.”

  Alison clutched her own hand in sympathy. “Ooh, that hurts.”

  “It’s a bit better now.” I glanced back at the oven, smiled. “Cake should be ready. Feel like a piece?”

  “Don’t you have to let it cool off for a while?”

  “No. It’s best fresh out of the oven.” I rose from my seat, walked to the stove, opened the oven door with my left hand. A gust of heat rolled toward me like an ocean wave as I bent forward and inhaled the rich chocolate perfume. I reached for my oven mitts on the counter.

  “I’ll do it,” Alison offered immediately, sliding her hands inside the waiting pink mitts, then gingerly transferring the cake to a nearby trivet. “This looks as good as it smells. Should I make some coffee?”

  “Coffee sounds wonderful.”

  “You sit. Keep that hand still. Raise it above your heart.” She rolled her eyes. “Listen to me—you’re the nurse, and I’m telling you what to do.” She shook her head, laughed with what I recognized was relief—relief that I seemed to have a reasonable explanation for everything, relief that I seemed no longer angry with her, relief that things seemed back to normal.

  Seemed, I thought, sitting back in my chair. Good word.

  I smiled as I watched Alison prepare the coffee. It was amazing how comfortable she was in my kitchen, among my things. She knew without asking that I kept the coffee in the freezer and the sugar in the cupboard to the left of the sink. “There’s whipped cream in the fridge,” I told her as she measured out the coffee and poured the water into the back of the coffeemaker.

  “You’re amazing,” she said. “You’re always prepared for everything.”

  “Sometimes it pays to be prepared.”

  “I wish I was more like that.” Alison leaned against the counter. “I’ve always acted more on impulse.”

  “That can be pretty dangerous.”

  “Tell me about it.” There was a moment’s silence. Alison glanced at the floor, then at the empty shelves, an impish grin spreading across her face. “Smashing all those heads was a pretty impulsive thing to do.”

  I laughed. “I guess it was.”

  “Maybe we’re more alike than you think.”

  “Maybe.” Our eyes locked, and for a moment, neither of us moved, as if we were daring each other to be the first to look away. Of course I was the one to blink first. “What say we have some of that cake?”

  “You stay right where you are. Keep that hand up. I’ll do everything.” Alison removed two small plates from the cupboard, along with two sets of cups and saucers, and set them on the table beside several paper napkins, the sugar, and the bowl of whipped cream. Then she returned to the counter and reached for a knife. “Remember the first day I was here, and I grabbed the wrong knife,” she said, pulling the giant butcher knife from its wooden block as my breath froze in my throat, “and you said, ‘Whoa! Overkill, don’t you think?’ Whoa!” she repeated now, staring with openmouthed wonder at the blood-encrusted blade. “What’s this? Is this blood?” Her focus shifted to the shaft of the knife. “And it looks like there’s blood on the handle too.” She stared at her palm.

  “More like blood on the brain,” I said, rising quickly from my chair and removing the knife from her hands, then dropping it into the sink and running hot water over it. “It’s not blood,” I told her.

  “What is it?”

  “Just a stubborn case of strawberry jam.”

  “Jam? On the handle?”

  “Are you going to cut me a piece of cake, or what?” I asked impatiently.

  Alison grabbed another knife and proceeded to slice into the warm cake. “Oh, no, it’s starting to crumble. You’re sure it’s not too soon to do this?”

  “The timing is perfect,” I said as she slid a large piece of cake onto a plate. “Give me one half that size.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I can always come back for more.”

  “Don’t count on it.” Alison returned to her seat and eagerly stuffed a heaping forkful of cake into her mouth.

  I watched the crumbs form a dark outline around her lips. Like a clown’s mouth, I thought, as she licked the errant crumbs into her mouth with the flick of her tongue. A snake’s tongue, I thought, watching her swallow.

  “This is absolutely the best cake you have ever made. The best.” She swallowed another forkful. “Will you teach me how to bake one day?”

  “It’s really very easy.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to make it difficult.” Alison laughed self-consciously, quickly finishing what was left on her plate. “This is so yummy delicious. Why aren’t you eating?”

  “Thought I’d wait for the coffee.”

  Alison glanced at the coffeemaker. “Looks like it’ll be a few more minutes. ‘A watched kettle never boils,’ ” she reminded me, looking away. “You told me that.”

  “Do you remember everything I say?”

  “I try to.”

  “Why?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  “Because I think you’re smart. Because I admire you.” Alison hesitated, as if there was more she wanted to say, then obviously thought better of it. “Can I have another piece? I can’t wait for the coffee.”

  “Be my guest. Try it with some whipped cream.”

  Alison cut herself another, even larger slice of cake, then spooned a large dollop of the whipped cream on top of it. “This is heaven,” she enthused, filling her mouth. “Absolute heaven. You have to taste this.” She extended her fork toward me.

  I shook my head, pointed toward the coffee.

  “You have such willpower.”

  “It won’t be long now.” I watched as she wolfed down the second piece of cake. A human Garburetor, I thought, with something approaching awe. “Ready for th
irds?”

  “Are you kidding? One more piece and it won’t be just the china heads exploding around here.” She hesitated. “Although maybe I have room for one more very tiny piece. With my coffee.” She laughed. She lowered her gaze to her lap, closed her eyes. “I’ll miss this,” she whispered, her body swaying.

  I leaned forward, wondering if she was about to fall, thinking that even a strong sedative like Percodan needs more than a few minutes to work its magic.

  Instead of falling over, Alison bolted upright in her chair, her eyes popping open, as if she’d just awakened from a bad dream. “Please don’t make me leave.”

  “What?”

  “I know you said you’ve already rented out the cottage to someone at work, but I’m really praying you’ll change your mind and give me another chance. I promise I won’t mess up this time. I’ll do everything you say. I’ll follow all your rules. I won’t screw up again. Honest.”

  She sounded so sincere that I almost found myself believing her. In spite of everything, I realized I wanted to believe her. “What about Lance?”

  “Lance? That’s over. Lance is gone.”

  “How do I know he won’t come back?”

  “Because I give you my solemn vow.”

  “You lied to me before.”

  “I know. And I’m so sorry. It was stupid. I was stupid. Stupid to think Lance would ever change, that things would be any different this time.”

  “What about the next time?”

  “There won’t be a next time. Lance knows he went too far, that he crossed the line when he came on to you.”

  “Why am I any different than anyone else?”

  She paused, looked up, then down, as if searching for just the right words. “Because he knew how important you are to me.”

  “And what makes me so important?”

  Another pause. “You just are.” Alison jumped to her feet, then grabbed for the table.

  “Alison? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I just got a little dizzy there for a minute. I guess I must have moved too fast.”

  “Are you still dizzy?”

  She shook her head slowly, as if she wasn’t sure. “I think I’m okay now. Kind of scary though.”

  “Have some coffee. Coffee’s a good antidote to dizziness.”

  “It is?”

  “I’m the nurse, remember?”

  She smiled. “Two cups of coffee coming right up.” She poured the freshly brewed coffee into each cup, then added three heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a large dollop of whipped cream to hers.

  “Cheers.” I clicked my cup against hers.

  “To us.”

  “To us,” I agreed, watching as she took a long sip.

  She made a face, lowered the cup to its saucer. “Kind of bitter.”

  I took a sip from my own cup. “Tastes fine to me.”

  “I think I made it too strong.”

  “Maybe you need more sugar,” I teased.

  Alison added a fourth spoonful, took another sip. “No. Still not quite right.” She brought her hand to her head.

  “Alison, are you okay?”

  “I don’t know. I feel a little strange.”

  “Drink some more coffee. It’ll help.”

  Alison did as she was told, throwing back the coffee as if it were a glass of tequila, then taking a long, deep breath. “Is it warm in here?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, God. I hope I’m not getting a migraine.”

  “Is this how they usually start?”

  “No. Usually I get this kind of tunnel-vision thing going, and then this horrible headache takes over.”

  “I have some more of those pills.” I got up from my chair and pretended to fish around in a drawer. “Why don’t you take a couple? Strike a preemptive blow.” I handed her two little white pills, returned the bottle of Percodan to the drawer.

  She took the pills without even bothering to examine them. “So, what do you think?” she asked, pushing her hair away from her forehead.

  I noticed she was beginning to perspire. “I think you’ll start to feel better soon.”

  “No. I mean about me staying.”

  “You can stay as long as you like.”

  Tears immediately appeared in the corners of each eye. “Really? You mean that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’re not kicking me out?”

  “How could I? This is your home.”

  Alison brought her hands to her mouth, muffled a gasp of pure joy. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. You won’t be sorry. I promise you.”

  “But no more lies.”

  “I promise I’ll never lie to you again.”

  “Good. Because lies destroy trust, and without trust . . .”

  “You’re right. Of course you’re right.” She ran her hand through her hair, rolled her neck from side to side, wet her lips with her tongue.

  “Are you all right, Alison? Would you like to lie down?”

  “No. I’ll be okay.”

  “What was K.C. doing here before?” I asked, slipping the question in casually as her eyes struggled to stay focused.

  “What?”

  “No more lies, Alison. You promised.”

  “No more lies,” she whispered.

  “What was K.C. doing here?”

  She shook her head, then raised her hands to her temples, as if to steady her head, prevent it from rolling off altogether. “His name isn’t K.C.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. It’s Charlie. Charlie something-or-other. I don’t remember. He was Erica Hollander’s fiancé.”

  “Erica’s fiancé? What was he doing here?”

  “I don’t know.” Alison’s eyes struggled to find my face. “He was talking crazy.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing that made any sense.” She laughed, but the weak sound wobbled, then died in her throat. “He says that she didn’t run off, that she never went anywhere. He has this ridiculous idea that you know where she is.”

  “Maybe it’s not such a ridiculous idea.”

  “What? What are you saying?”

  “Maybe I do know where she is.”

  “Do you?” Alison tried to stand up, stumbled, collapsed back in the chair.

  “I really think you’d be much more comfortable lying down. Why don’t we go into the living room?” I helped Alison to her feet, lifting one long, slender arm over my shoulder, and guiding her from the kitchen, her feet shuffling along the floor, like whispers from a crowd.

  “What happened to the Christmas tree?” she asked as we entered the living room.

  “It had a little accident.” I directed her to the sofa and sat down beside her, lifting her feet into my lap.

  “Are you going to give me a pedicure?” she asked with a smile that refused to settle.

  “Maybe later.”

  “I feel so strange. Maybe it’s the pills.”

  “And the cake,” I said, removing her sandals, massaging her bare feet the way I knew she liked. “And the coffee.”

  She regarded me quizzically.

  “I believe you had four spoonfuls of sugar this time. Not a good idea, Alison. They say sugar’s poison for your system.”

  “I don’t understand.” For the first time, a look of fear flashed through Alison’s beautiful green eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “You thought you had me, didn’t you, Alison? You thought all you had to do was smile and pay me a few stupid compliments, and I’d fall under your magic spell all over again. Except it didn’t work. This time I’m the one with all the magic: Terry’s magic chocolate cake; Terry’s magic sugar; Terry’s magic pills.”

  “What are you talking about? What have you done to me?”

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “What!”

  “Who are you?”

  “You know who I am. I’m Alison.”

  “Alison Simms?” I didn’t give her a chance
to answer. “I doubt that. There is no Alison Simms.” I watched her flinch, as if I’d raised my hand to strike her. “Just like there’s no K.C.”

  “But I didn’t know about K.C. I didn’t know—”

  “Just like there’s no Rita Bishop.”

  She rubbed her mouth, her neck, her hair. “Who?”

  “Your friend from Chicago. The one you were looking for at Mission Care when you just happened to stumble across my notice.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Let’s play our little game. Three words to describe Alison.”

  “Terry, please. You don’t understand.”

  “Let’s see. Oh, I know: liar, liar, liar.”

  “But I haven’t lied. Please, I haven’t lied.”

  “You’ve done nothing but lie since the moment I met you. I read your journal, Alison.”

  “You read my journal? But then you know—”

  “I know you’re coming here was no accident. I know you and Lance have been plotting for months to get rid of me.”

  “Get rid of you? No!” Alison swung her legs off my lap, tried to get up, only half-succeeded before her knees gave out and she teetered to the floor. “Oh, God. What’s happening to me?”

  “Who are you, Alison? Who are you really?”

  “Please help me.”

  “The Lord helps those who help themselves,” I said coldly, in my mother’s voice.

  “It’s all a huge misunderstanding. Please. Take me to the hospital. I promise I’ll tell you everything as soon as I feel better.”

  “Tell me now.” I pushed her back on the sofa, watching her disappear into the deep, down-filled cushions, their pretty pink and mauve flowers threatening to swallow her whole. I settled into the striped Queen Anne chair directly across from her and waited. “The truth,” I warned her. “Don’t leave anything out.”