Still, I knew soon Dad was going to come out shrieking about all the water we were wasting. The fun wouldn’t last. It never did.
I walked along the fence, a white fence with flaking paint. My nail scratched at one of the long, peeling strips, fascinated. I wondered how long of a strip I could get off. I picked at it with my fingernail as my sister, still laughing, dashed back and forth, back and forth.
I looked to the street, trying to avoid what I knew was coming – yelling father, crying sister, fun ruined.
It was pathetic-looking really, the mangy excuse for a dog. Its fur was dirty and matted. It shivered and shook, its tiny body violently quaking. It shook so much it could barely put one foot in front of the other on the empty street. It was pitiful.
Without thinking, I dashed out onto the road. The curly-haired dog stared at me, still shaking. I approached it gingerly.
‘Hey,’ I said, scooching down to the dog, noticing it didn’t have a collar. I thought maybe I could save it. Suddenly, I felt lifted somehow. At nine, I’d found my summer’s purpose. I was going to save the tiny dog.
It was good to feel needed.
In the middle of the street, the sound of my sister and the sprinkler still going on like an endless song on the radio, I reached my hand out, wanting to pet the dog, craving the instant connection with another being. I could already picture it, our days on the porch, our nights cuddled up in bed. But before I could seal the deal and stroke the cowering dog, a shooting, ripping pain shredded my hand. Its teeth sunk in. It was like a pain I’d never felt, a sawing, slashing pain. It burned.
It burned so much, I thought I was dying. I thought it was certainly what the end felt like.
The dog still attached, I shook my hand and kicked out of pain. My sister’s shrieks of laughter were replaced with my screams of horror and agony. She rushed over, the dog having now let go of my hand. Blood dripped, and I studied the creature, still crouched down on the road, in shock.
I heard the screen door fling open; Dad’s boots stomped on the faulty, rickety porch.
‘What the hell?’ he bellowed, and suddenly it wasn’t my hurting hand that terrified me so much.
‘Get out of here,’ I screamed at the dog, who scampered off in the opposite distance. I wanted it gone, needed all evidence of it to disappear before he got to me.
I clutched my hand to my chest, warm, sticky blood slapping against my skin as I watched the creature scuttle off. Tears welled in my eyes, but I wiped them away, getting blood on my face.
Dad dashed over. ‘What were you thinking? You can’t just pet a goddamn random dog,’ he gruffly announced, grabbing my shoulder to take a closer look at the damage to my hand.
My sister stood nearby in her swimsuit, her hair still soaking wet. The sprinkler was still running, I noted. He was going to be mad.
‘I told her not to pet the doggy, Daddy. She didn’t listen,’ my sister sweetly offered, that sickeningly sugary smile I’d come to hate flashing up at my dad. Two years youngers. The baby of the family. The treasure of the family.
‘You did not,’ I argued.
My sister cried as my hand continued to pulse. Her tears were huge, cascading from her gorgeous blue eyes.
My dad pulled her in closer, in comfort.
‘Daddy, it’s so scary. Why did she do this? I’m scared now. I don’t ever want to go outside again,’ she whimpered through tears.
Her tears were fake; I could tell. She knew even then how to be an actress, how to manipulate, even at her age.
I grasped my hand to my chest, the blood still warm. I felt woozy now, standing on the street and watching everything flicker in and out.
‘Look what you’ve done,’ he announced, his words chillingly calm and quiet. He glared at me, his gaze stabbing into me as his chest heaved in anger. ‘You moron. Look what you’ve done. Your sister’s traumatised. Is that what you wanted? To scare her? To torture her? You’re supposed to be the older sister, the smart one. But you’re nothing but a worthless dumbass. Do you know how much we’re going to have to pay for this? Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused? Get the hell in the truck.’
I shivered, both from the pain and from the terror of Dad’s words.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered through tears. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Get the hell in the truck, now,’ he roared, his arm still wrapped around my sister as he led her into the house. I watched for a long moment as they walked around the water of the sprinkler. I glanced at the blood dripping onto the pavement, at the peeling white fence, at my mangled hand.
There was no one to put an arm around my shoulders, no one to dry my tears.
As my dad led my sister into the house to get his keys, she turned back to me, gave me that smug seven-year-old smile. She grinned so wide, the grin that said she always got the attention, always got what she wanted.
I inhaled wildly, the pain nothing against the feeling bubbling in my chest. I didn’t know what it was, but I recognised it as an angry, churning sensation I’d felt before. And then, like an epiphany, the word came to me, blood smeared on my shirt as I stomped towards the truck: hate.
I hated her with everything that I was. And I knew that she had to be taught a lesson.
I just needed to wait for the right moment.
Chapter 24
A visitor. They have a visitor today, and I think this might change everything.
It started as a typical Saturday – I think it’s Saturday because he didn’t go to work today. The tyres were fixed days ago, and he’s been going to work the last few days. So I think he would’ve gone to work if it was a weekday.
I’d pawed myself out of bed earlier, fluffing my hair after taking stock of it in the mirror, inwardly cursing the wiry mess I’m now stuck with. I’ve got that typical old-lady style, curly and not flattering. Of course, who is there to impress? The silliest things take hold of my mind these days, I swear.
I’d hobbled down the creaking steps, careful to avoid the third and fifth as is my custom. They’ve always squeaked, and I do hate that noise. It makes me think of the grating of a knife on a sharpening block. Always has.
I’d wandered down, greeting Amos, who is still a little wary of me. That cat really does hold a grudge, the damn rascal. I decided I’d show him. I gave him only half a can. You can’t bite the hand that feeds you and all that.
Finally, after there was a tea in my hand and the blanket was wrapped snugly around my body, I’d settled into the chair, getting ready for the scene across the street. I’d wondered what it would be today.
Lately, there’s no use wondering though. It’s pretty much the same. Either the house is desolate, her tucked away doing who knows what out of sight, or there’s a screaming meltdown between the two. I don’t like the second scenario. I don’t. But I can’t tear myself away just the same.
In fact, I’ve been sitting at the window more and more lately. I haven’t even made it out of this living room in days, maybe weeks. I haven’t turned on the television or read any books. I had to drag myself to the market last week for supplies. I’ve even missed my favourite soap opera because I can’t stand the thought of missing something real. I can’t stand the thought of not witnessing something I need to see. And, in truth, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen. I’m afraid for him. I have this burning feeling in my chest that something, something terrible, is going to happen.
And that’s when it happened. A new car, one I’ve never seen, screeched to a halt in their driveway.
In fact, thinking of it now, I don’t recall them ever having any visitors. Strange for a couple their age. Then again, I don’t think they’re quite in the state to host a Ludo night or whatever game they’re playing these days. I don’t think any company of sane mind would stick around very long.
So when the car door opens, I’m stretching my neck so much that it hurts. The curiosity almost kills me as I wait to see who gets out.
An older lady with a greyi
ng hairstyle matching mine emerges from the driver’s seat, her feet carefully finding their place on the driveway. She’s wearing a blue hat and a long blue coat. She looks like the Queen of England or something, prim and proper in her attire.
Who is it? Is it Jane’s mom? Alex’s mom? A great-aunt? What is she doing here now?
I can’t imagine Jane would’ve invited whoever this is over, not with everything happening. And why would Alex? Maybe it’s an intervention.
Whatever it is, I shiver at the thought of what could go down.
The door slams, and at that, the front door opens. He materialises from the house, holding the door slightly ajar. He cranes his neck as if he, too, is curious.
‘Mom?’ I hear him ask, as if he doesn’t recognise her.
So it’s his mom.
‘What are you doing here?’ he continues, rushing down to greet her, letting the door slam shut behind him.
Her voice is dainty and mellow. I can’t hear her. It doesn’t echo like his deep, bellowing voice does. How disappointing.
I see her hug him in a gesture of what looks like maternal love and concern. Her hands gripping his shoulders, she pulls back, a serious tone and look on her face. I lean closer to the window as if seeing better will help me hear better.
I do wish that old woman would speak up. Doesn’t she understand there are people here to think about, people who need the pieces of the puzzle?
Damn her quiet mouse-like voice.
She murmurs on and on, and I get the sense he’s being lectured. He hangs his head like a sad schoolboy being punished.
She lifts his chin, looking at his face. Even from here, I can see the black eye.
He shakes his head. ‘No, no, it’s not like that,’ he says clearly, almost yelling at her. He shrugs off her touch, clasping her wrists like he’s done to Jane so many times. It’s gentler though. There’s a loving touch here.
I watch the look pass between them, a look of concern meeting assurance. I wonder what she must be feeling. Clearly, she’s on to them. She knows more than she should, probably more than me.
I should be happy he has someone to care for him, but I’m not. A wave of jealousy creeps up. Who does she think she is, meandering in now? I’ve been here from the beginning, witnessing it all. I’ve watched the demise, been witness to the horrors. And what, she waltzes in now, the hero of the hour? She thinks she can just walk in and understand?
Or maybe I’m mad because I know she does understand more than I do. She knows the inside scoop, stuff I can’t piece together from here.
I hate that. I hate her for that. An oddly possessive feeling stirs within.
So when Jane emerges, wrapped in that blanket, her face pinching into a look of disgust, I’m actually on her side. I’m not mad at her for once, despite the barking, discordant voice that follows. I actually feel okay when she clomps down the steps, getting in the Queen Elizabeth lookalike’s face and shouting, threatening her.
For a moment, Alex’s mom stands firm, even in the face of chaos that has rained down upon her from her daughter-in-law. Hands on her hips, I see her stand tall, as if she’s not afraid. But I know she should be. I’ve seen what Jane is capable of. She shouldn’t be so sure she can stand up to her. Sure enough, Jane’s rage is only incited more by her mother-in-law’s refusal to back down. She takes a step forward, a familiar fury in her eyes. Finally, his mom must realise what I already know: she’s in danger. This woman is unchained, uncontrollable, and not someone to mess with. I see the moment this realisation strikes her. The Queen shrinks back to a mere peasant, her stance crumpling in on itself, her arms removed from her hips. She takes a step backward like a cowering dog frightened by a swift kick from its master.
A long moment of hesitation occurs as the two women study each other. Eventually, Alex puts a hand on his mom’s shoulder, and an exchange ensues. Jane isn’t pleased, but she doesn’t move a muscle, perhaps afraid to be perceived as giving in. After a few moments, his mom slowly turns, giving a few pointed glares at her daughter-in-law. She opens the car door, reluctant to give in but perhaps feeling like she has no choice. The tension cuts through the scene, the three of them dancing a reckless dance in which someone or perhaps even all of them are at risk of being destroyed.
I smirk a little when the fallen Queen sinks into her car, Jane charging towards her. His mom slams her door, but this doesn’t stop Jane in the least. She pounds her fists on the window as Alex pulls her back. The car speeds away from them, and for a moment I think maybe the older woman is going to run over Jane. My heart stops, fearful that this scene will play out very differently than anyone could have imagined.
She doesn’t though. Instead, she speeds down the street, pausing a hundred or so metres down the road. I wonder if she’s going to turn back. I wonder what it must feel like to be her, to be so ineffective at protecting your own child. For a moment, I actually feel … something. I don’t know what. I think about what it must be like to stand by and watch the demise of your son. I wonder how it must hurt to realise the black eye he is sporting isn’t from some gallant effort at a bar or from some rebellious sting with the law.
I wonder what it’s like to know the woman your son loves isn’t good, stable, or sane, but also knowing you have no ability to stop it all.
I wonder what it must be like to feed into the lies, to tell yourself he can handle it when you know he can’t.
Above all, I wonder what she’d have said if she could’ve rolled down that window one more time, could’ve said something to impact upon him. But she didn’t, the woman standing between the two of them so out of control that no moment could pass.
For a moment, despite the jealousy and possessive feelings, I think I might feel sorry for the fallen Queen. I realise that like me sitting here in my quiet house, she is also powerless, which is never a good thing to be.
Never.
There is a sense of the dust settling once the car is out of view, and for a few moments, I think everything will be fine. The danger has passed. But I should know better than that. Danger is always close by these days, lurking in every facet of this lane. No one is safe.
It’s as if she’s striking a match or flicking a light switch, because within seconds, she turns and flails him. The solitary moment of calmness is usurped by the anger within her and her hunger for violence I’ve come to understand all too well.
Still, I can’t help but think about how happy I am that his mom is gone. I’m not ashamed to admit that I am glad she left. Mind your own business. Like it or not, it’s all on me. I’ve got to see this thing through, and I don’t want any distractions. I don’t want anyone else coming in and claiming victory, figuring it all out.
I’m possessive of 312 Bristol Lane, even if they’re not the kind of people one would be proud to own. They’re mine. I’ll carry the burden myself.
Chapter 25
I don’t know why I still keep my appointment. It’s probably just a product of boredom, in truth. What good can a doctor do at this point? It’s like buying an engine for a car you don’t have or going to the salon when you don’t have any hair.
Still, I go religiously. Perhaps I’m less okay with death than I tell myself. Maybe, somewhere deep down, I feel like I have unfinished business. Or maybe I’m scared to face the harsh realities that probably await me in the next life. I don’t think I’m as sure of my afterlife status as I would like to think. A forgiving God sounds nice … but I don’t know if I trust in that completely. Some things just can’t be forgiven, you know?
Or my frantic clinging to life could be Jane and Alex’s fault. Maybe they make me feel – needed. It’s an odd feeling to have, all things considered. Nonetheless, I’ve learned you have to acknowledge your feelings and honour your emotions. Or maybe that’s just what a therapist once told me. I don’t know anymore. When you get to a certain age, it’s almost impossible to tell what is your own original thought and what you’ve heard from someone else. But I guess it doesn’t m
atter, anyway.
My trustworthy station wagon creeps between two lines in the desolate car park. No one makes an appointment at this time of day. No one but me and the other elderly patients whose only excitement is a doctor’s appointment. It’s pretty sad, really.
I waddle through the car park, the drizzle falling on my hair, but I don’t mind. It’s not like the doctor’s much to look at and, even if he were, it’s not like I’m much of a canvas to take in, either.
Not that I’d want that anyway. Doctors were never my type. Give a man a degree and a coat, and he thinks he’s God. I always hated that kind of attitude in men, even if at one point I envied it. Some men get power and it goes to their heads. Some men get power and they think a woman shouldn’t challenge them for it. I’ve always found doctors to be dreadfully unbreakable.
When I gloriously reach the waiting room, I’m a little out of breath but no worse for wear. I march to the counter and tell the receptionist – who is quite the bimbo, looking at me and asking why I’m there – that my appointment is at seven.
‘No, it’s at eight,’ she says, smiling through her perfect white teeth at me like this is an appropriate time to smile.
‘Look again,’ I reply. I know how to deal with people like this, people who think they know better than me. True, I forget things sometimes. But I’m not a damn fool. I won’t have this woman insinuating I’m the idiot. The scrubs she wears have brightly coloured sunglasses all over them. Sunglasses. Who wears something that hideous? She must be an idiot.
‘Well, the doctor has other patients to see, you know,’ she sasses back.
‘Well, maybe he should get a receptionist worth a dollar, then. Honestly,’ I reply, anger boiling. I tell myself to calm down, though. What’s the hurry? I have nowhere to be. And it won’t do to make her mad. Although it could be fun. But it’s not about time or how much I have. It’s about being accused of being wrong. It’s about no one taking me seriously.
‘Kids these days,’ the woman across from me says once I’ve sunk down into the padded chairs. I try not to touch the sides. If I’m going down sometime soon, I’d rather it not be from some flesh-eating bacteria that’s probably residing on the armchair. I’ve seen the type who come into this office.
The Widow Next Door Page 14