‘It’s not just kids. It’s people in general. How can they be so dumb? It’s like the whole world is full of imbeciles,’ I mutter, glancing at the woman in a pink raincoat.
It feels good to complain. I’m grumpy today.
Of course, I may be grumpy every day – I just don’t realise it. Loneliness has a way of confusing your feelings. It’s hard to feel one way or another when you’re alone with a cat, photographs and a window all day.
I wait for a long time in the room that reeks of bleach and medicine. A little boy sits in the corner on his mom’s lap, snot running down his face. He coughs. I take a tissue out of my purse to cover my mouth. I don’t need the little brat’s cold. I’m achy enough, miserable enough.
Staring out the huge windows, I tell myself to do a feelings assessment like the one the doctor told me about. When I get mad or enraged, I’m supposed to ask myself what the source of the anger is. In truth, I don’t even know what it is. If I had to pinpoint it – well, I couldn’t. I’m just angry. It happens, right? I’m too tired to assess anything right now. I just want to sit here and breathe. I think I’ve earned that.
After what feels like an eternity and exactly seven coughs from the brat in the corner, a grouchy, heavy lady calls my name. I smirk a little to myself, thinking how ridiculous it is to have such an obese woman working as a nurse. Does anyone recognise the irony? Isn’t this supposed to be a health centre? Someone should take their own advice. She leads me through the door in the waiting room, taking me to another room that smells of bleach but still feels equally as full of germs as the waiting area. She pulls me into a side room to take some basic measurements.
I roll my eyes as she makes me stand on the scales. Pretty sure stretchy pants fit over any weight gain. And pretty sure I’m not gaining much weight eating – well, I don’t even remember what I’ve eaten in the past few days.
I’m led down the hall of diseases to a little room, where she plops me on scratchy cardboard-like paper that crinkles way too much. I hate the crinkle. I try to sit as still as possible so I don’t have to hear the crinkle.
I sit in the room, alone, some elevator music that predates even my glory days blaring. I look at the walls, the hideous yellow walls. They must’ve been inspired by vomit when they painted in here. Honestly, I love yellow. But this yellow – no. It’s a foul yellow, reminiscent of that weird story about the insane lady and the woman crawling out of it. What was that story? It must have been a lifetime ago I read it. I did like it, though, the melancholic tendencies of the lady telling the story. How she got back at John. I get goose bumps just thinking about it.
I sort of wish a lady would crawl out of the paper now. At least it would give me something to do other than analyse how cold it is, how crinkly the paper is and how ugly the room is.
The doctor finally strolls in, whistling like he’s having a good old time. It’s a new doctor, one I haven’t seen. Or, at least, one I don’t remember.
I hate him already. Whistling, here? No. Just no.
But he whistles on, some ridiculous tune. No matter he’s an hour late for my appointment. No matter I’m freezing, miserable and achy sitting on this damn table. No matter the wall is hideous yellow. It doesn’t bother him. Why would it? He just whistles jovially. He was probably making love to that fat cow of a nurse in the other room instead of coming in to see me.
I just want my arthritis medicine so I can leave. Maybe it’ll help me not feel so grumpy. Maybe these aching bones will feel better. Maybe he can up my dose, give me some of those good painkillers I had once.
I smile. I need to play this up, play smart. Manipulation used to be my middle name. I think I might be rusty, though.
‘So, how are you?’ he asks. He sits on the stool across from me, staring up at me. His bald head is sweaty. I hate the sight of those droplets on it. Can’t he feel them on his head? Why doesn’t he wipe them? Is it so hard?
‘My bones are aching. It’s difficult to get around. I think I need higher dosages on my meds.’
He chuckles, like aching bones are hilarious. Men. Doctor men. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Or to grab the bin of medical waste, dig out a dirty needle, and stab him in the groin with it. I told you I’m feeling grouchy.
‘Well, dear, I don’t know about that. Let’s see your chart.’
Code for: he has no clue who I am or what the hell I’m on.
‘Sure thing, doctor.’ I offer him a sweet smile and coyly tilt my head like a sad, ill child. I fold my hands as if in prayer and swing my feet. I let him pretend he’s better than me, smarter than me. I let him feel in control. That’s the key to these kinds of men. Let them think they’re in charge.
‘Well, looks like we could up your dosage a little bit. But if you have any side effects—’
‘I’ll come right back in so you can sort it all out,’ I reply like the frail old woman he wants me to be.
‘And as for painkillers, I’ll prescribe you a few low doses, but nothing too extreme, okay? I don’t want you getting hooked.’
‘No, wouldn’t do to get hooked.’ I wink at him now, grinning.
‘Now, looking at your chart, you’re also taking lurasidone, right?’
I nod. ‘Yes, doctor, of course. Never skip a day,’ I reply, smiling like an imbecile who swallows the pills like a good little girl. Like I’m under the influence of the drugs they’ve tried shoving down my throat for decades – and for decades, I’ve played along.
It isn’t hard. Who is there to tell on me? Who is there to check on me?
It’s kind of funny actually, to dupe him. I mean, he’s supposed to be the doctor – yet he has no clue. He has no clue that I’m able to keep it under control, that I can act like I’m on those idiotic pills when I’m not.
I’m not as sick as they want me to be. I’m fine actually. I know what’s best for me, and I know those meds aren’t it. But I can play along. I’ve learned in my life that sometimes you must simply play the game to get what you want or need.
He goes through routine checks and diagnoses me as healthy and fit. After feeling about his pocket for a while looking for the prescription pad but unsuccessful in locating it, he tells me he’ll leave the prescription at the checkout.
When he leaves, I cackle a little to myself. The blank prescription pad’s in my hand. He’ll never suspect me – delicate, smiling me. He’ll think he misplaced it. He’ll think when he was having sex with that cow or getting a blow job from the receptionist that he dropped it. He’ll unpack a new one, forget about it and I’ll take this one home.
I don’t use them. I never do. It’s more about the thrill of pulling it off. I’m not some frail old woman. I’m still crafty. I’m still capable. It’s when you lose your craftiness, your manipulation, that you lose control.
Not today, though. Definitely not today. Today, I’m winning this whole damn thing, I think as I tuck my wrinkled skin back into my clothes, the prescription pad in my waistband as I leave.
Another addition to my collection – and some arthritis meds to boot. Perfect. I really did need those. Of course, I didn’t have to come here, not if I didn’t want to. I’ve got a few stacks of these at home. Just a few forgeries, and the pills could’ve been mine. What was the point of the trip then?
I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to prove to myself I can still win. Because at home, who is there to win against? I needed to prove I can outwile, can outsmart.
And I did it. No one suspects an old lady to be capable of much, just like no one suspects the innocent-looking lady next door to do what she does.
People are so easily hoodwinked into believing what they want to believe. People are so easy to fool, to deceive. But not me. I’m on the winning side. I’m always on the winning side, no matter who tries to stop me.
Chapter 26
His heavy snoring prevented me from falling asleep. I slunk out of bed and crept to the seat by the window, staring out into the darkness of the middle of the night. A crescent
moon cast its beams onto the house next door in an eerie yet poetic way, but I couldn’t help feeling something completely different than serenity.
I felt vehemence, a familiar emotion surging even though I’d tried so hard to suppress it.
As if subconsciously sensing all was not well, even while he was asleep, he rolled over in bed, readjusting. The snoring started up again, and I bit my lip to hold back the quivering. I glanced at his body, breathing so loudly to announce the fact he was still alive. I thought about how easy it would be to end it all, to put a stop to the snoring, and to be free from the contract I’d signed up for.
What was wrong with me? It had been a question swirling in my psyche for years and years. In the two years since we’d gotten married, I’d thought I could suppress the unsettling thoughts, the fits of anger, the unresolved sense of something being off. When I’d said ‘I do’ to a life with him, I thought I could be different. I thought all those things that had haunted me in my youth could stay in the past.
But more and more, I’d come to realise the person lurking within me was rising up. She wouldn’t be suppressed forever.
I had everything I could’ve hoped for. I had a nice enough house, a man who loved me, and a life many women would kill for.
Yet, for me, it was a life I would kill to escape from. I hated the feeling of being trapped, of being at his mercy. I hated the reliance on him. Most of all, I hated his weakness, his inability to be a man. I hated the fear that if he wanted to, he could ruin me. He could make a choice and destroy what I had. With one decision, he could shatter my reputation, my pride, and my strength. I hated that he had that power.
I had a life so many would want, but it wasn’t the life I wanted, I’d come to realise. Sure, a huge part of it was that we hadn’t been able to conceive, and I knew without a doubt it was his fault. I couldn’t help but blame him for it, no matter how irrational that seemed. It was his fault, plain and simple. He’d taken the one thing I’d thought I could find purpose in away from me. Despite the house and the simple life, I found it was lacking in so many ways. And even if I knew somewhere deep down it wasn’t true, I couldn’t shake the feeling it was his fault.
It was all his fault.
In the past months, I’d found myself growing edgy with a toxic energy I didn’t know what to do with. Everything about him suddenly irked me. And not in the frustrated housewife who giggles about socks strewn about kind of way.
I was irked in a way I’d felt once before in my life, a powerful urge to put a stop to it all ringing in my bones. I was itching to act, to rise above, to show my power. I was dying for a chance to end the endless cycle I’d been trapped in.
I craved a chance to make a statement.
I clutched my head, a splitting pain piercing through me. I needed to stop. I couldn’t do this. Rocking back and forth gently in rhythm with his snores, I told myself it was no good.
She had asked for it in so many ways. The retribution I’d delivered to her wasn’t entirely uncalled for. But this was different. This would be a new level.
He didn’t deserve it. I knew it. I recognised it. He was nothing but good.
Still, that didn’t stop me from wanting to be nothing but evil. I recognised the feelings for what they were, a devilish urge I couldn’t stop. Or perhaps I didn’t want to stop it.
I knew, though, this would be a new line I couldn’t cross.
Still, staring at the moon beaming down, the stars dotting the sky in a magnificent way, I knew without a doubt that I couldn’t just sit by. I couldn’t just be the perfect housewife. Things were headed down a dark path, and I couldn’t stop them.
I didn’t want to stop them.
I wanted him to suffer if for no other reason than for the fact I could make it happen. I liked the feeling of that, my fingers tingling with possibility. There was certainly a line, but I could tiptoe right up to it, make him pay for all of his weaknesses. I could make him understand that it’s a tough world and only the hearty survive.
Feeling a calm sense of resolve, I snuck back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. I rolled over, looking at the man beside me, thinking about how the love I’d once thought I felt for him had blazed into another emotion, one with just as much fervour but of a different kind.
Chapter 27
She knocks at my door, and I spring up. My bones aren’t aching today, the extra milligrams or whatever the doctor prescribed doing the trick.
The prescription pad was burning against my skin, begging me to use it. I thought about what kind of numbing drugs I could get, ones that could take away every ache. But I didn’t. It wasn’t that I was scared. I guess I just like the pain sometimes. It’s an atonement for – well, for everything. The pain reminds me that I’m still alive and still breathing. It reminds me I’m not quite done. I’ve never really taken the easy way out – at least no one can accuse me of that.
More knocking, snapping me back to the present. I seem to be drifting away a lot lately. I need to be careful. It doesn’t do one any good to visit the past so frequently. I need to stay focused.
The pounding on the door echoes rapid-fire through the hallway, the feeling of desperation kicking in. I pause, standing in limbo. I need to get to the front door, but I look back, the shut door in the kitchen almost calling me today. I’ve managed to ignore the door for the most part for the past few months. It’s blended into the background, my psyche pushing every fleeting thought of it aside. Today, though, it seems to scream out, and it makes me uncomfortable that the door is making itself known today. Why today? I study the shiny brass knob that hasn’t been touched in so long. It’s like it’s beckoning me to come over, to look at it. I shake my head, the knocking louder on the front door.
It wouldn’t do to go to that other door. I need to go to the front door, the one I can open without fear.
But, as I saunter down the hallway, a sensation takes over me.
Terror.
It’s almost numbing, the unfamiliar feeling creeping inside and grasping me. What am I afraid of?
I don’t like the feeling. It makes me feel weak.
I shake off the icy anxiety, shoving it down. Still, as I trudge to the door, I realise an unsettling fact: she scares me a little bit. Actually, she terrifies me. I tell myself to be brave. I’m stronger. I’m wiser. I’m more wily than even she is.
I put my hand on the front doorknob, entranced by … what? What is it about her that’s so mesmerising? It’s almost like she’s the shut door in the kitchen, a brass doorknob I want so desperately to reach out and grasp but can’t.
I think I’ve known for a while she’s something mysterious, maybe since the first day. The petite frame that seemed to drip with sweetness and joviality. The endearing smile, the sinuous voice. Like a siren, she lured me in, just like she did him.
But now I see beyond the surface. I see the cracking, peeling skin. I see that behind the siren is a beast, luring those around her to their ultimate demise – a demise worse than death.
Still, I can’t say no. I can’t stop being drawn to her. I can’t, even against all rational thought, believe she’s a lost cause.
Before I turn the knob, Jane has opened the door, invited herself in. It feels – intrusive.
I don’t say a word, letting my frigid gaze do the talking for me.
‘Hi,’ she says, bubbly. It’s a far cry from the woman I witnessed just the other day or in the past weeks. Her entire being, her full aura, has changed again. It’s like her personality is this fluid being, drifting back and forth in a cacophony of utter confusion. There’s a constant pushing and pulling, an unsteadiness that only intensifies the dichotomy in her character. She’s an enigma, and even though I’m determined to sort her out, I don’t know if I ever will.
My gaze rests on the item in her hand. A bottle of wine.
‘I thought I’d liven today up a bit – what do you think? I mean, I got my cleaning done last night, stayed up into the wee hours, because I have a pl
an. What do you say you and me forget about all this blah weather and the grey, rainy day? How about we just have some fun? What do you say? Could you use some fun?’
By her wild hand motions, I’m guessing the cracking open of this bottle won’t be her first indulgence of the day. And what, is it even noon yet?
‘I don’t drink anymore,’ I reply, but even as I say the words, the liquid tempts me. I can almost taste it, and though it’s been years – has it really been years? – the craving resurfaces.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. One glass won’t hurt you.’ It’s almost a demand, not a friendly invitation.
The temptation builds, my hands sweating a little. I should say no. But my body aches. My head hurts. And she’s so … happy. I don’t want to taint that, no matter how false the surface-level joy is.
‘Just a half a glass,’ I agree as she emits a little dance and squeal, heading to the kitchen. She riffles through my cupboard, searching beyond the familiar ceramic mugs for wine glasses.
‘They’re on the top shelf,’ I say, thinking about how much dust must be on them, thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve had an occasion for wine glasses.
Even when I hadn’t sworn off the vice, I just drank from the bottle. It was easier that way. There was no drinking for appearance when I was drinking alone – it was imbibing purely for the numbness, and there were plenty of days, lonely nights, that those bottles numbed me to the perfect level.
I think maybe that’s what she needs now, too. She needs to feel the sweet, cradling feeling of nothingness. I can’t blame her completely.
‘I’ll just hop on a chair,’ she says, skipping over and dragging the heavy oak chair like it’s a feather. She jumps on it daintily, stretching for the glasses in the back of the cupboard as I take a seat.
The Widow Next Door Page 15