I do hope I live to see the roses come back.
I close my eyes, resting in the swirling water for a long time, Amos meowing at the edge of the tub. I splash him with some water to get him to shoo. I don’t want my peace disturbed, not today.
It’s been quite a few days, maybe even weeks, since Jane was here. Yet, I’m still buzzing from the encounter. True, it was an odd, uncomfortable confrontation. I should be upset about it. There’s not much to celebrate when it comes to 312 Bristol Lane, that’s for sure. But I don’t feel upset. I feel a little bit empowered. I stood up to my neighbour. I reclaimed my fearless, courageous nature.
Most of all, I think I got through to her, because 312 Bristol Lane’s been sort of quiet these days. I haven’t seen any pushing or yelling. I haven’t heard any screaming fights. Maybe I got through to her, finally.
I’ve won at last.
It’s put me in a better mood, to tell you the truth. I even took a break from the window yesterday to watch my soap operas and to rearrange the mantel, pulling his picture to the front. He stands in the front yard, those rose bushes in the background. He’s got his jacket swung over his shoulder, a serious expression on his face. I’m pretty sure he’s trying to be tough and stoic. It doesn’t fool me. He’s soft in the picture. He was always soft.
I took a long, hot bath yesterday too. It soothes my bones. I feel alive, so alive.
It’s amazing what standing up to someone can do.
I finally emerge from the tub, pruny and more wrinkled than usual, and tuck myself into my clothes. I even stoop down to pull out the slippers I haven’t worn in ages. I shrug, slipping them on my battered feet. I could use being pampered today. Who knows, maybe it’ll even get warm enough this afternoon to wander out onto the front porch. Oh, maybe I’ll make some tea and take Amos out there to watch the birds. He would like that. Where did he go after all? He’s probably off licking his wet fur. I feel sort of bad now that I did that, but not really. He should have more manners, that cat. Couldn’t he see I was relaxing?
Falling down. Falling down. I hum the tune as I casually stroll down the stairs, ignoring the pain in my hip and legs. I’ll push through. I’m strong. I’m fearless. Who says I’m an old, washed-up—
And then it all goes black.
Chapter 30
My head is pounding. It’s the first thought that rattles my brain.
It hurts so much, I don’t even think I know where I am. And it’s black. Everything is black, black, black.
I squint into the inkiness, trying to orient myself. There’s a soft, fluffy texture against my cheek. Am I in bed? Did I go to bed?
No. Too hard to be my bed. And my legs and arms hurt way too much. I try to turn a little, but my hip screams in pain.
I slowly feel around with my right hand, trying to place myself.
I wriggle my toes, glad to see I can still do that. I feel something behind me, and now that I realise it, my head is against something hard. It’s not a pillow.
And what’s on my feet?
Slippers.
My eyes adjust to the darkness, and that’s when I realise it.
The stairs. The slippers.
The damn slippers.
I’ve fallen.
My heart races. It doesn’t do to fall at this age when you’re home alone. Terror constricts my heart. My worst fear has happened. I’m doomed. I’ve seen the commercials. I know how this ends. And those little bracelet thingamajigs always seemed like extortion – until now. Now, I wish so badly I had one. Why didn’t I buy one? All those times I worried about falling, I didn’t think ahead enough to buy one of those bracelets. How could I have been so careless?
I take a deep breath, my head still aching. Amos is sitting beside me, and I do feel bad now for soaking him. How long have I been here? How long has it been since I fell?
I think back to the bathtub, to throwing water on Amos. It was morning. I was thinking about going outside.
And now it’s dark, so dark without any lights on.
It must be night. I must’ve been here for a long, long time. My head is surging with pain. Am I bleeding? It’s too dark to tell if there’s any blood.
How much longer will I be here? How much longer until someone finds me? Panic races in my chest, my head aching and whirling as the fear rises up.
I’ll be a dried-up, disintegrated carcase by then. Amos too. When there’s no one to miss you, it’s a pretty long time until you’re discovered.
That feeling creeps in, and I try to shove it down but can’t.
Horror. Sheer horror.
I’m afraid. Not of death or dying, but of wasting away, powerless, here on the floor of my own home. How long until I starve to death or dehydrate? How long will it take?
A single tear trickles down my cheek, and I taste the saltiness.
I’ve got to get up. I have to pull myself up. I can do this.
I take a deep breath and focus on trying to sit up. I’m on my stomach, my cheek on the floor. My hip still throbs like there are a thousand knives in it. Is it broken? Are my legs broken?
It’s hard to tell. I don’t know anything anymore.
I take another breath and tell myself to count to ten. I do. And then I try to roll so that my arms are free. I need to get myself to my knees, need to prop myself so I can pull myself to my feet. That’s all I need to do. I can do it.
I tell myself to focus, the darkness still surrounding me and making me nervous. But I have no choice. It’s do or die, quite literally. I position myself so my hands are underneath my shoulders and get ready to do the most important push-up of my life. I was never good at push-ups. Fitness, brute strength, they weren’t my strong suits. Still, left with no choice, I inhale until my lungs ache and I push with all my might.
My arms, flabby and underused, give out. It’s a lot different lifting a cup of tea to your mouth versus lifting your entire upper body.
My lips touch the floor as I tumble back down, and I want to sob. My arms ache, and shifting has only hurt my hip more. I want to wallow in pity and scream at the unforgiving, merciless universe. But what good will that do?
Maybe this is how it ends, I think. And maybe it would serve me right. Maybe the universe isn’t merciless – maybe it’s completely just in its dishing out of punishment. I’ll spend days in hell, alone, starving and thirsting and crying and hurting. Maybe this is the penance I’ve been heading towards all along. Maybe I’ll pay the piper after all.
This saddens me at first, but then it angers me. There are plenty of people who have done horrible things and lived fine lives. Why do I have to pay? Why me?
Not me, I think. I don’t lose.
So I try again.
And again.
My arms get weaker each time. They ache from the strain, and I’m no closer to getting up than when I started.
Breathless and exhausted, I cry out in frustration, scaring Amos away momentarily. Eventually, he comes back, though, the only trustworthy friend in my life.
Too bad he’s going to die because of my wretched mistake.
I mix up my approach, deciding to try to roll to my side and kick my way up. I think about army crawling towards the sofa.
I turn myself around so my arms are on the stairs, thinking I can pull myself up. This goes on for what must be hours but feels like several eternities.
At some point, I drift off to asleep, exhaustion and fear mixing into a sleep-inducing potion. I know I may never wake up and although that terrifies me, it’s also a relief. Sometimes, it feels good to just let go.
However, in the morning, when I open my eyes, my head still aching, I’m so happy to see the sight before me.
Help and hope have arrived – but it doesn’t take long to realise it looks a lot different than I expected.
Chapter 31
‘Thank God,’ I proclaim through cracked lips. On my side, I look up at her towering over me. I didn’t hear her come in. Then again, my head is killing me, and I’ve been l
ying on the floor for hours, almost a day probably. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I’m soiled.
I don’t care how or when she came in. I’m just glad she’s here.
She stands over me, arms crossed. She must be in shock.
‘Help, please. I fell,’ I annunciate, relief flooding over me as I state the obvious. She’ll know what to do. She’ll help. Despite everything, she’s a good woman. I’m okay now. I’m going to be okay.
‘I see that,’ she replies, arms crossed. She shakes her head. ‘What were you thinking?’
I take a laboured breath, wondering what she’s doing. Can’t we have this discussion later?
‘I know, the slippers were stupid. I was careless. I swear, after this, I’m never going upstairs again. I don’t think I’ve broken anything. But God, I hurt. I’m hurting so badly. Thank God I didn’t take all those pain pills the doctor prescribed. I can get some after you help me up.’
My mouth practically waters at the thought of the sweet relief in pill form. It will flood my veins with numbness, something I need more than ever now. It will quiet my screaming hip, my jagged joints.
I weakly lift a hand towards her, knowing this is going to hurt but thankful my ordeal will be over soon. Amos meows, still right beside me.
She scoffs at me and makes no move to grab my hand.
‘You know I can’t help you,’ she says bitterly, smugly, the look on her face so condescending it enrages me. ‘And he can’t help you either.’
I’m in shock for a moment as she stares. ‘What are you talking about? I know we’ve had our differences, but please. You know I don’t have anyone. Please help me.’ I hate hearing my own voice begging, but I’m desperate.
Surely, she’s just toying with me. But I turn slightly so I can look up at her. She simply keeps grinning.
‘You don’t get it, do you? I can’t help you. You have to help yourself.’ There’s a chilling calmness to her voice, a nonchalance that reveals her apathy towards the situation. Her calculated iciness is effective at revealing the harsh reality: she doesn’t care what happens to me. She doesn’t feel anything at all.
‘Then why did you come over?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘Not sure, really. But listen, if you want to get out of this, figure it out. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me one way or another.’
And with that, she offers me a weak wave, turns on her heel, and leaves.
The door slams. Amos meows.
I want to cry. I want to rage. I want to kill her, in truth.
What kind of a woman does that? She’s a true monster of the most evil kind, getting pure pleasure from others’ suffering. She’s going to let me die here, let me rot away on my own floor. How can she live with herself? How can she possibly live with herself?
I shouldn’t be surprised, after all I’ve witnessed. I’m not usually so naive. Still, for the months we’ve known each other, I’ve been lulled by the false pretences of a friendship between us, thinking that despite our differences, there was something there. I’d been fooled by the afternoon teas, the conversations, and Jane’s sweet smiles. And, even when her behaviour sunk to all-time lows, even when the vilest side of her arose, I still believed somewhere deep within me that she was good. I’d believed in the possibility of salvation for her, of redemption. I’d had hope that the goodness in her, a goodness I’d detected on the first day, would usurp the evil.
But now I know I was wrong in the worst way, that there is no longer any hope for her. I know that any sense of friendship, of goodness, of possibility for her to start afresh is desecrated for good.
Rage boils and festers inside, a rage like I haven’t felt in a while. It feels good, actually, to have it churning in me, through my blood. It gives my weak, failing body something to cling to.
She won’t win. I’ll show her.
Not only will I survive this and get myself out of this mess, but I’ll also stomp over there and kill her myself.
She’s not getting away with this.
And it is because of my anger that I find a new resolve. I take a few deep breaths and count to ten. I order myself to think, to find the logical answer. I can’t get up, not in this position. But that doesn’t mean I have to do nothing.
I pull myself inch by inch into the living room, my body screaming the entire way. Hours tick by, my throat aching for water. My arms shake with effort, and every millimetre is equivalent to a mile. But I’m stubborn when I need to be, and I’m no quitter. No one, no one is getting one up on me.
I’m pretty sure a day goes by before I get myself to the sofa. Glancing at the prominently displayed picture of him on the mantel, I find an inner strength from deep within. It’s spooky, really.
And finally, by some miracle or sheer will to beat her, I’ve pulled myself up on the sofa and am resting on my back, catching my breath.
Miracle among miracles, I reach into the end table nearby and find the pain pills prescribed weeks ago from the doctor. I pop a few and drift off to sleep, knowing tomorrow isn’t going to be much easier.
But, in a strange way, I’m thankful. Because, in the end, whether she wanted to or not, she saved me after all.
Chapter 32
Playing in the forest … terrible tragedy … didn’t see the child on the tracks … too young.
The words spun around me as I stood in my black dress that was one size too small and three holes in the bottom too worn.
The snow and wind howled in a cacophony of chaos out the window as I watched, strangers and family members wandering about our home, coating every inch of it.
The snow had been so cold, and the rose had been so red against the casket.
That was all I could remember.
It was such a waste to have a casket. There was nothing left of the mangled body to put in there, after all. She’d been splattered, her blood red against the dusting of snow, a contrast not unlike the rose on the casket. It had been so pointless. Why had they even bothered?
In truth, it hadn’t sunk in yet. It was just me now. It was only me. Maybe it was because of the lack of a body, the lack of closure. She was there one minute and then gone the next. She had, like in my daydreams, truly disappeared, the train taking her to a distant land none of us would visit in this lifetime. I wondered if she was in a happy place. Despite the priest’s words about her innocence and how she was being received by God, I couldn’t be sure. Life here was too hard for me to believe in an afterlife of serenity and peace. I didn’t know what that would feel like.
People I didn’t know surrounded my parents, my mother sobbing into a handkerchief already soaked with tears. Dad stood, stoic as always, a tie around his neck for the first time. He’d taken to carrying a photograph of her in his left hand, like some token he couldn’t put down.
I stared out the window, the driveway filled with cars. I glanced towards the kitchen, the array of casseroles dotting the counter an overwhelming mess.
It was too much. It was all too much.
After the train had flown by, I’d slogged home, feeling dead and tired.
It had taken a while for them to notice I was alone. They’d asked me questions, had demanded I take them to the tracks, panic ensuing. Mom ran like she could get there in time, like she could change things. Dad grabbed my arm, squeezing it too tight the entire way.
But it was too late. I told them it was too late.
There was nothing left of her but a smattering of blood and remnants of her skin, her organs splattered about the snow. It had been going too fast. The train hadn’t even stopped. Had the train driver noticed the tiny girl in her bright red coat? Had the world noticed? Had I?
Over and over, the tale was retold. How she’d wanted to play by the tracks. How I’d begged her to come home. How the train had snuck up, no whistle, no warning. How I’d tried to grab her, but it was too late.
Over and over, I told the story. Over and over, I dulled the guilt, the pain, the sadness that tried to well up. It wasn’t my fault. I swor
e to them over and over it wasn’t my fault. I told myself it wasn’t my fault.
For the first day or two, I was racked with confusion. I’d ceaselessly replayed the scene in my exhausted mind, but all I could conjure up was the conversation we had before and the sight of the train after. The in-between was a black hole swallowing up every remnant of memory. Why couldn’t I remember?
Then again, maybe I did remember. Maybe I just didn’t want to.
‘Darling, come into the kitchen. Have a bite to eat. You’ve been through so much.’ The words of the neighbour lady startled me. I turned to look at her kind face, seeing a warmth I haven’t experienced in a long time. I was thankful for her willingness to care for me. My parents couldn’t even stand to look at me since the accident let alone make sure I was eating. I knew they associated me with her death. However, I also recognised the dark truth unspoken: they wished it had been me who had died instead of Lucy. I was the daughter who came back, the daughter no one favoured. I should have been the one to die. I wouldn’t have been missed.
They would give anything for it to have been me instead of her.
The neighbour lady set a plate in front of me, touching my shoulder with a tenderness foreign to me. Mom and Dad were tucked away, Mom in the bedroom and Dad talking to the strangers who had filled our house in the period of mourning, offering unsolicited opinions and meek attempts at comforting words.
Mom and Dad, though, walked around in a silent stupor, the pain apparently deadening their ability to speak. I hadn’t heard their voices for days. In fact, the last thing Mom said to me was, ‘How could you let this happen? How could you have let our precious baby die?’ Since those words, she’d only managed sobs.
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