The Widow Next Door

by L. A. Detwiler

  Where is that couple who kissed on the front porch? Where is that woman who chatted animatedly with him and danced in the leaves and loved him? Where is the woman I thought I knew, that he thought he knew? What’s happened to her? And what will he do?

  ‘Hang in there,’ I whisper to the window, a pointless gesture, I know. But it makes me feel better. I want to send him love, send him hope. I want to tell him that even from here, I know he doesn’t deserve this.

  Part of me wants him to leave. She can’t appreciate him. She won’t appreciate him if he sticks around. She needs help, major help. It’s utterly, depressingly clear now. He can’t give it to her. He just can’t. He’s too close to her to be objective, to know what she needs.

  But dutifully, he finishes packing the box up, putting his clothes inside. He trudges up the steps, the box in his arms, and stops on the porch, a long beat passing. I think he’s going to turn around and leave after all. He turns, looking at the street, looking at the car, and looking at the sky. Then, like he has so many other times, he just walks right in, shutting the door behind him.

  After a moment, he wanders into the dining room, the box still in his arms. He drops it on the table before sitting down, his head resting on his arms on the table.

  He sits like that for so long, I think he’s fallen asleep. And in many ways, he has.

  I’m about to peel my eyes away, to head off to busy my mind, when Jane saunters into the room, a strut in her step, a mischievous grin on her face. She walks like a woman with soaring pride, and my heart aches with the thought of what she’s about to do.

  She simply stands over him though, staring down at him, before looking up, out the window. My body constricts, my nerves ragged, as those wild eyes look towards me.

  I shake my head in disbelief. Can she see me? Does she know I’m here? Is she looking at me, specifically?

  The familiar questions lurch back, and I shudder. Before I can stand, though, or reassure myself I’m just imagining things, she’s gone, turned around with a quick spin and trudged into the blackness of the house I can’t see.

  He remains at the table, a lone figure in a dark, dark place.

  Chapter 17

  The days pass in an ambling string of moments, most of them spent mercifully in hours of sleep or in tense hours at the window. Some would say I’m obsessed, but what choice do I have? Sometimes, sitting at the window, I find my hands shaking as I study them, waiting to see what will unfold next.

  It’s not a joyful watching I’m a part of anymore. No, it’s darker, more anxiety-ridden. It’s a fear-filled watching I now partake in. Still, it is all I have. It’s not like I have opportunity breaking down my door, places to be and things to see. Perhaps this is what hurts the most. I never realised that the emptiness of not having a family would carry over, would be most noticeable at this stage of life. I guess it’s one of the unspoken fears of the childless. Who will be there when you need them most? There are no young bodies to painstakingly take on the weight of my reality. There are no grandbabies to hold, no chubby cheeks of grandchildren to brighten this solitary existence. There are no family dinners to ease the loneliness on holidays or birthdays, no photographs to take. There’s just me and Amos and this window. The careful watching of the unwinding marriage across the street, of the dilapidated, sinister home that once was so joyful.

  I’m biding my time, in reality. I am waiting for the next plane out of here, to whatever is on the other side. I just hope it’s a little louder, a little more vibrant, wherever I’m going. When did life become so darn quiet?

  * * *

  It’s a week or so after the whole front lawn incident – time passes in such odd strings. I really never know what day it is. I think it’s Saturday, though. It feels like Saturday. It was always my favourite day, the quiet fun of it. And his car’s still in the driveway. He would be late for work if it wasn’t Saturday.

  He hasn’t left her. It’s something I’ve marvelled at all week. It’s stirred a sense of respect in me, if not uncertainty. I don’t understand how he can stay – yet I do. I get the loyalty, the idea that marriage, well, it’s a commitment. Through good times and bad, that’s what the vows say. He takes them seriously. Studying him as I have, I see that. He is a man who keeps his promises, even when she doesn’t. Every day, at 5.01 p.m., he returns to what’s becoming a house of horrors. It feels like a dark cloud rests above 312 Bristol Lane, mocking him and adding to the melancholy. Regardless, he comes home every night, loyal and dependable, too much so for his own good.

  I sip my tea, rocking a bit as flurries gently cascade down. As if I’ve summoned him, he emerges from the front door. He’s growing a beard now. I don’t know if I like him with a beard. Maybe he doesn’t, either. Who can tell?

  He saunters out, alone. Always alone. She barely comes out anymore. It’s not healthy. Okay, I know, I’m a hypocrite. But there’s a difference. I’m cooped up by circumstance and age. She’s cooped up by choice. That’s not right.

  He trudges through the snow to the car, pulls out and is gone. The tyre tracks in the driveway look eerie, a reminder that something’s missing.

  I rock back and forth, thinking a lot about the past, about years ago, about years before him.

  I think back to one of my childhood memories; perhaps the snowflakes outside have reminded me of the snowflakes of that day. It feels like a different lifetime, like so many of the moments do these days.

  * * *

  For once, she wasn’t nagging me. Maybe that’s why it was such a good moment.

  ‘You coming, Mother?’ I asked, turning around as my sister ran up ahead. I was huffing and puffing, pulling my sled behind.

  My sister was wearing a bright red coat. I always thought she looked stunning in the coat. In my own drab brown coat, I felt like I paled in comparison. My mother was beautiful, truly beautiful. She could’ve been a model or a superstar if she’d have put her mind to it. She and my sister looked like they were cut from the same cloth, truly. I didn’t look like I was even made of the same thread.

  Mom could have done so many things with those looks, everyone told her. Instead, though, she’d set her mind on my father, had us two girls, and had given up on any dreams of being someone else. I felt kind of sorry for her for that, but I understood.

  Life didn’t always work out, I grasped, even at ten.

  ‘Right behind you,’ she announced, her voice elegant, her red lips emitting the words with a grace I didn’t know, didn’t think I’d ever know. Even trudging up a snow-covered hill, she looked sophisticated.

  I clunked along, following behind my always-perfect sister, who was, of course, the first to the top.

  She was always first.

  Still, I shook off the cold thoughts as I shook off the cold, wet snow gathering on my shoulders. I readjusted my hat as I lined up beside my sister, Mom lining up beside me. The three of us stood for a moment, taking in the sight of the snow-laden hill. It was the best sled-riding spot, and it was all ours.

  I looked at the perfectly covered hill, the snow untouched. For a long moment, I said nothing, thinking about how sad it was to ruin this unblemished spot. What gave us the right to mar it with our childish antics? Why did we feel the need to fly down the hill and disrupt this beauty?

  But no one else was thinking about this apparently. Because before I could turn back, my sister was flying down the hill, screaming and laughing. My mother followed suit, the two of them racing to the bottom.

  I stood back, looking at my feet in the piles of snow, my toes wiggling as I tried to see if I could still feel them.

  From the bottom of the hill, they were giggling and laughing, waving at me to hurry up. They were always looking at me from afar. I was always in the distance, separated from them, their cacophony of laughs, of beauty and of joy.

  ‘Now or never,’ I whispered to myself, knowing I had to try. I couldn’t stay behind. I had to try to emulate their joy. The exquisiteness of the scene was already ruin
ed. So I sat down and sailed down the hill.

  And as I flew towards them, the sadness of spoiling the scene, the thoughts of being apart faded as I heard laughter swell. My own laughter, something I hadn’t heard for a while.

  I’m back, I thought. I’m still here. That smiling, bubbly girl is still in here. I just need to reach out to her from time to time.

  At the bottom, I skidded to a stop. I looked up, ready to finally be a part of the laughing, crying mess of females. For a moment, we could just be three females in the same family, out on a freezing cold day, warmed by our shared love and joy. For once, my melancholic tendencies wouldn’t get in the way.

  I turned to my mom and my sister, ready to share in the craziness of my slide, for them to comment on how great it had been. But, as I looked at them, I realised they hadn’t noticed me. They were still laughing with each other, talking now about some new clothing store and how they needed better mittens.

  I sat for a long time, waiting for them to acknowledge me. Tears stung in my eyes. It had been for nothing. That joyous ride, that brave step – no one had even noticed.

  I fiddled with some snow on the front of my sled when my mother finally turned.

  ‘Oh, are you finished? Did you go already?’ she asked. I was an afterthought even now.

  I looked up at her, into the eyes of the woman who shared my DNA but who wanted to share nothing else with me.

  ‘Lucy, you want to go again?’ she asked my sister, turning to her in the bright red coat.

  ‘Race you, Mom,’ she bellowed, and the two stood quickly, giggling and chasing as I sat, alone, at the bottom of the hill, staring at the now blemished hillside, the beauty gone completely.

  I glanced up at them, the picture-perfect family, the girl I could never be. I knew for sure in that moment I would always be the girl my mother would never, ever truly love.

  And once more, life was complicated and grotesquely lonely.

  I wondered if it would be like that forever, literally forever.

  * * *

  Apparently I’ve been in my memory for a long, long time because, before I know it, the mailbox is clinking with the presence of letters. I walk fast – well, as fast as I can these days – hoping I can catch Mr Anderson, the postman who started last year. He’s young, two small children at home. He walks purposefully, the stride of a man with two young children, so he’s gone by the time I open the door. It’s a shame. He’s good-looking and nice too. I could’ve used a minute to say hello.

  I open the metal box on my house, pulling out junk mail, advertisements and a gas bill that will probably be way too high.

  I almost shut the door, the cold air chilling me even though I have a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I stop, though, at the sight of Alex’s car pulling into the driveway. On the top is a snow-covered evergreen, the ends of it hanging over the front of the car in a way that’s both charming and ridiculous. I smile.

  A Christmas tree. Of course. It’s almost Christmas.

  Again, the dates and days sort of blend together. I’d almost forgotten.

  The sweet man is probably hoping it will cheer Jane. I’m hoping for that too.

  He gets out of the car and eyes the task at hand. I wish I was younger. I wish I could help him.

  He looks over at me, and I smile. We usually don’t have any sort of contact, his work schedule hectic and my body frail. We tend to keep our distance, not really by mandate or choice, but just out of circumstance. He stays over there, I over here.

  I shut the door and wander back inside, heading straight over to my chair. I’m excited to watch this all unfold. They could use something to reconnect them, and Christmas is the perfect holiday for that, isn’t it? Perhaps the holiday will be what bridges the growing gap between them. This could be the gesture they needed to fix things. I’m also selfishly happy because it’ll be a small part of the holiday I can enjoy from here. It’s the first Christmas tree on Bristol Lane in … Gosh, I have no idea. A long time. Maybe too long.

  He struggles with that tree for a while before finally, wrapped in a blanket herself, Jane emerges.

  The first thing I notice is that she’s different again. This time, it’s not a subtle difference or a change in her stance. It’s her hair. It’s gone. Those beautiful blonde locks have been chopped in what seems like a haphazard way. It’s one of those new cuts that reminds me of a rogue weed eater on the loose. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still strikingly beautiful, her features accentuated by the cut. But I miss her long hair. It’s like she’s trying to make the outside change with the inside – and there’s a lot less hair to go with how there’s a lot less of her, too.

  She stomps outside, staring at the car. I wait for the smile, for a hug and kiss I haven’t seen in so long. Instead, she shakes her head, says something to him in the angry stance and then turns on her heel. He hangs his head.

  Can he do anything right? Doesn’t she see that he is so good to her?

  I feel so bad for him. My heart aches for him. Why is she being like this? Has she lost her mind? She’d have to have lost her mind to not see what he’s doing for her.

  I watch him slowly struggle with the tree, all by himself. I wish I had someone to go help him. But it’s just me and Amos. We wouldn’t be much help.

  After a long while, he loosens the tree from its restraints, plopping it onto the ground and dragging it behind him into the house. Pine needles fall out, leaving a green path through the snow. Somehow, it’s beautiful.

  Eventually, I see him wrangling the uncooperative tree in front of the window, putting it into the correct place. I’m a little sad it’s going there. It’s going to take away some of my viewing ability. But, on the other hand, it’ll be nice to have a tree to bring some holiday spirit. I don’t have the energy to go in the attic and dig out all of the holiday decorations, and besides, I was never big on the holiday, anyway.

  I’ve got one box of candles that go in the window. They are from the days when he was still around. He said they’d add some elegance to our simple home. Back then, I just found them to be a hassle, not worth the time. He bought them, though, and dealt with them. I broke one. There are two left, two that I’ve guarded with everything I have. No matter how tired I am, I always get them out now at Christmastime – when I remember it’s Christmastime, that is.

  This year, they’re here across the street to remind me. I’ll need to muscle up the energy to dig the candles out. Christmas is returning to our little lane thanks to them. How lovely it will be to have a decorated tree in view. I get a little misty-eyed, thinking of the lights and ornaments and how pretty the star will be on top – or maybe they’ll put an angel? I do hope for an angel. Growing up, in the days before, we had an angel for the top of our tree. I get nostalgic thinking of those early years, the good times.

  Things are different now, though. It’s someone else’s turn to celebrate, to make memories. I’m happy to get to witness them. I’ll watch them decorate the evergreen and gather around it. I’ll watch them stack presents and open them on Christmas. This will be lovely. This will help Jane see what she has.

  She wanders into view now, her arms crossed over her chest, the blanket still cocooning her. An exchange occurs. She’s yelling again. And this time she points her finger along with the yelling, her arm outstretched from underneath the plaid blanket.

  Eventually, she shakes her head and extends an arm to hold the top of the tree. He disappears. He must be securing it.

  She peers out the window now, looking at me. I think about waving, but that would be too much. I rock silently, just staring, watching as the tree jiggles under her grasp.

  We lock eyes, and there’s a slight smile on her face, but it’s one that’s unsettling somehow. I don’t understand it, but it sends a shiver right through me.

  The tree still jiggles as she continues to stare. Finally, after a long moment, she mouths something at me. She has to be looking right at me.

  I squint, studying her li
ps, wondering what she could possibly be saying.

  I make out the words, confusion swirling in me.

  ‘Is this what you want?’ she mouths, three times, perhaps in case I didn’t figure it out.

  Is this what you want? What does she mean? I don’t understand. Is she taunting me? Why is she saying that to me?

  She turns away now, her attention back on the tree, and it’s like I’ve imagined it. But I know I haven’t.

  What is she talking about? It’s such an odd thing to say. I feel like I could heave, the bubbling in my stomach mixed with a dropping sensation frightening me.

  After a while, the tree is finally in place. He stands back up, reaching for her hand. She obliges. That must be a good sign.

  I shove aside the odd statement. I must’ve misunderstood her. Certainly, she didn’t mean anything by it. I shake it off, staring at them, studying the scene instead of analysing the words I thought I saw.

  He pulls her in, and she lets him. For a moment, they’re back to normal, standing beside their barren tree, just a normal couple waiting for the holidays.

  I smile.

  It’s okay you don’t have children, I want to tell her. You can still make life beautiful. You have each other. That can be enough, really. If you take the time to appreciate it. And it’s okay things haven’t been perfect. It’s not too late, not yet. You can turn this all around.

  I take a deep breath, hoping against all odds she’ll listen to my silent, whispered words, that somehow the universe will help her hear them. I hope she’ll heed my warning, take my advice. It’s truly the only redemption of ageing – the hope that your wisdom, your mistakes, your regrets, can help someone else, that it all has a purpose.

  Because if regrets can’t at least change someone else’s fate, then what’s the point of it all anyway?

  It’s a hard thought to muscle through, the idea that maybe everything happened in vain, that all that suffering was just for suffering’s sake, and that nothing I do can change anything.