The Widow Next Door

by L. A. Detwiler

  Playing with the bland tuna casserole on my plate, I sat in silence as well, wondering if my parents would ever speak to me again.

  And, for the rest of the day, I sat at the table, stuffing my face with food, realising I was all alone now – and wondering if that was such a bad thing, silence and all.

  Chapter 33

  An ageing, ailing body doesn’t heal quickly. I think about calling an ambulance the next morning when I pop a few more pain pills and drag myself to the kitchen. I’m desperately thirsty and hungry, so I take care of those needs. My hips, legs, back and head are all stiff, but the painkillers ease the dreadful aches. I find a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter and take a swig.

  Nothing’s broken. Maybe my bones are so flimsy that there was nothing to break. Or maybe it was some kind of miracle, I don’t know. But I survived. Against all the odds, I’m still here.

  I don’t know how I feel about that, in truth. Breaking my neck on those stairs would’ve been an easy way to go. In some ways, it would have been easier to be at the end of this life of hardship, to not have to think anymore. I’m so tired, and not just from the fall. However, I’m still here, so I guess there’s no use in wishing it was over. The day will come, soon enough I’m sure, but not today. Not now. And so, I must trudge on again, as I’ve done for so long.

  I need to clean myself up, take care of some hygiene, but I’m too weary, and to be honest, I’m too terrified to face those stairs again. I’ll tend to my needs later, when I’ve cooled my nerves.

  After another swig of wine, I make my way to the window. I stare out at 312 Bristol Lane for the first time since the accident, thinking about it all. The decline, the sunshine-yellow woman who has all but disappeared. I think about her standing over me, about how she refused to help.

  I think about how I want to hate her, how I want to get revenge – and yet, how I oddly understand.

  Maybe I’m the one losing it. Of course, alcohol, painkillers and a potential concussion will probably do that to a person. Besides, even if I want revenge, I don’t think my limp and tortoise-slow speed would do me much good.

  So, instead, I sit down in my favourite spot, rocking gently so as not to jar my bones. I look out the window, the sun shining softly through the clouds. Spring. A time of renewal, of rebirth. Despite my near-death experience, I don’t really feel anything like renewal. I feel like death, in reality.

  It all looks the same, which makes sense. Of course it would look the same. Nothing has changed. Then again, it feels like everything is different. It seems almost eerie that there is no outward sign of the internal transformations and mutations that have occurred. It’s unsettling that the same picturesque building is housing what I now understand to be evil. I wonder if she’s been thinking about me. I wonder if she thinks I’m dead. Well, the joke’s on her. I’m still here. I’m still witnessing.

  And witness I do.

  Chapter 34

  Fragile. Frail. Breakable. These are not the words one would associate with her – but today, I do. She’s changed again. She’s weaker somehow. She looks like she’s the one who fell down the stairs.

  It is this feebleness, though, that terrifies me the most. I’m running out of time. I feel it in my lungs, in my chest, in the recesses of my inner being.

  I need to do something. I need to save him. I need to save us all.

  This whole thing has gone too far, and I’ve sat witness too long. So many excuses have swirled in my head, a jarring carousel tune that won’t stop. I need to stop it. I have no choice but to stop it because suddenly, with clarity, I realise how this thing ends – and I can’t let it happen.

  * * *

  She sits now in the dining room, staring out the window. For a long moment, I wonder if she’s staring at me – but then I realise her face is too blank, too forlorn to be making a statement. She’s too far gone.

  She rests, hands perched on the arms of the chair, gaze steadily fixed on – what? The sky? The birds? The grass? – for hours. I stare right back, studying, watching, waiting.

  What’s going on in that head of hers? Is tonight the night she pushes it too far?

  No. She’s too fragile today. She’s not feeling powerful today. She’s … different. Almost pathetic.

  Her body is slumped so that she’s almost folded into herself, and I see the crumpling of her body as a mirror image of the crinkled soul within.

  How does one get so lost? And why isn’t anyone trying to pull her out?

  Desperation clings in my chest. Why couldn’t I pull her out? What was I thinking? Instead of helping, I’ve pushed her. The knife. The harsh words. The questioning statements.

  I knew better. I know better. That was my chance. I could’ve set things right. I could’ve made up for it all. But now it might be too late.

  It’s all too late, but the thing is, I did know. I knew.

  And it’s the fear in me that’s been fighting back, sinking its teeth into her, into the situation, and into everything else around me.

  * * *

  I inhale sharply as my eyes fling open, my heart racing. Before I can understand what’s happening, I see her wicked grin, her almost-black eyes. Her pupils are too large, and her skin is milky grey.

  She stands over me now, silent. I sit straight up, scooching so my back is against the headboard, the sheet still pulled over my legs as I inch my bottom closer to the lumpy pillow.

  Heart pumping and breath ragged, I feel tears welling.

  I push them back down. This is no time to cry. I need to be reasonable. I need to be cunning. I need to survive.

  He needs me to survive.

  ‘Please,’ I say gently. It’s not a begging word the way I say it. It’s a calm, rational word that asks her to reconsider.

  But hovering over me, she’s too calm now, too rational as well. Her ruby-red lips don’t utter a single word or explanation, they just curl upwards into a smile, disconcerting.

  How did she get in here?

  Now that the veil of sleep is lifting and the panic of the shock has dulled enough for thoughts to come in, it’s the question of the moment. How did she get in here? And what does she want?

  I don’t have to study her long to know what she wants can’t be good.

  The darkness drowning out my room is partially broken up by the moonlight cascading through the window. The beam of light glints off the item in her right hand, the shimmer mesmerising.

  The knife. She’s got a knife.

  I take two deep breaths – I don’t have time for ten. Not now.

  I don’t move a muscle, afraid of triggering her.

  ‘What do you need?’ I ask, fighting to keep my voice soothing.

  I fight to hold back the scream gurgling in my throat. What good will it do though to scream? Who will hear me?

  She says nothing, her uncanny smile still painted on her face. I don’t even think she blinks as she creeps forward, her feet plodding on the carpet, thudding towards me. I scamper to the edge of the bed, my fingers now clutching the sheet.

  This is how it all ends. This is where I leave this world. This is where my chance to change things cracks.

  I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. I don’t squeeze my eyes shut. I need to see her, to look into the face of the woman sacrificing me. If this is how I go, I’m determined to face the end with dignity, with grace and with the knowledge that atonement is now mine.

  But right before the knife can plunge into my chest, before the hot blood can cascade down my chest in a final dance, before the sweet release can absolve me from the lifetime of horrors, my eyes flash open.

  Panting, heart pounding, I stare up at the ceiling, the sheet up to my chin.

  I sit up with a start, eyes darting across the room.

  Nothing. No one.

  Just empty blackness, no moonlight, no Jane from 312 Bristol Lane, no knife.

  Just me and the emptiness again. Always me and the emptiness.

  I take ten deep breaths and bi
te my lip, the taste of the blood comforting in the silent darkness.

  Chapter 35

  His picture sat in the frame in front of me, but I couldn’t see it. The darkness suffocated me.

  Then again, I never really could breathe those days. I’d grown used to not breathing.

  The funeral, the casseroles, the smell of flowers that burned my nose – it had all been a whirling yet familiar blur. I didn’t remember the words of comfort spoken at the service. I didn’t remember what I wore. I didn’t remember being alive. In truth, I don’t think I wanted to be alive. He was gone. He was dead. He wasn’t there.

  And it was all my fault.

  No one knew, of course. Just like before, I’d managed to fool them all. It was almost laughable how trusting people could be, how naive. I’d learned that early on in life. After all, people only see who and what they want to see.

  Tears fell and pity collected in their eyes as they studied me. Poor thing, they thought. All alone.

  They blamed him. They talked about how selfish he was, how unreasonable to leave his wife all alone. Some talked of him with pity. They talked of pain and how they didn’t know.

  But how could they have known? No one could have known.

  Except me. I knew.

  Because it was my fault. I did this. I pushed too far, once again.

  The rage, the anger – it was unstoppable.

  What was wrong with me?

  And so, there I sat, alone in the world once more, just darkness surrounding me and a house of memories that had gone cold.

  All those regrets swirled over and over and over in my head. All those horrid scenes played out. All those biting words. All those vicious accusations. All those shoves and outbursts and uncontrollable fits of rage.

  The knife in my hand, up against his throat. His words that pushed me and pushed me, that made me so angry. The deep depressions, the horrible feelings of moroseness. The empty womb, the empty life, the empty heart.

  It’s my fault, I thought, because, even then, I knew.

  I knew I would live with my actions for the rest of my life. Would live with the guilt for the rest of my life.

  And the monster inside of me roared its head, told me it wasn’t over. It wasn’t finished yet.

  There was something seriously wrong with me. But the worst part of it? I was completely and utterly alone with my seriously scarred, flawed self. I would be my only company. From the moment I pushed him too far, it was just me, my regrets and the knowledge that everything that had happened, everything that would happen, was because of me.

  And so I sat for a long time, night after night, in a darkness that plagued me, hoping it would help me find some peace. But, as I found out too late, peace never, ever comes for the weary, the weak or the marred.

  Chapter 36

  A new development greets me in the morning.

  My eyes are heavy, craving sleep, but I know I have my duty. I don’t even make tea. I scrape a few chunks of tuna into Amos’s dish before rushing to my chair, my body heavy on the seat today. I don’t even feel like rocking.

  My gaze darts around the property, taking inventory, taking note.

  Things are definitely different.

  Her suitcases are on the front porch. Two large, red suitcases, impressive in size and in the statement they are making.

  I put a hand to my mouth. What’s she doing? What is she thinking?

  In some ways, I wonder if I should turn around, should let her go. He would be better off without her. I should return to my days of watching the soap operas, drinking tea and waiting to die. Life was easier before Jane and Alexander Clarke moved in. It took me some time to see that. But things would be easier for me and for Alex, too, if Jane left. He would learn to live life without her dangerous wrath. From what I’ve observed, which has been a lot, he’s a kind man. He’s a good man. Even at her lowest, at her darkest, he’s stood by her. He’s shown her nothing but patience and love. I’ve never seen a streak of violence in him, even in retaliation. I’ve never seen anything concerning. I’ve seen nothing but love. Naive, foolish love, but love all the same.

  What’s his story? What drives him to stay? What could possibly have dented him in the past so that he can’t stand up to her?

  But I know what it is. I’ve experienced the thing holding him back first-hand – love.

  Sure, love is beautiful and breathtaking. It makes life worthwhile. That’s something I can say for certain in my lonely house, the faded wallpaper surrounding me in an empty cocoon. I know what it is to love and to be without love. I know it’s what drives life forward, what makes us feel alive. But I also know it’s what sometimes holds us back, what blinds us to reality. It brainwashes us into believing that without love, we are nothing. It shields us from the truth, from what’s best for us sometimes.

  He loves her, plain and simple. Long curls, short curls, sweet smile, or raging temper, he loves her. Whatever it is that holds them together, it’s strong, at least for him. Because even as she rages like a wild storm, he loves her. I see it in his gentle touch when she’s whaling on him, in the pain in his eyes as he’s begging her to stop.

  He’s a victim – of her, of circumstance, but mostly of love.

  I can’t judge him for what he’s put up with because I know that love is strong. It’s not always wise. It’s not always rational. Sometimes it just is, even when we don’t want it to be.

  So as I see her wander out and sit on the suitcase, staring out into the street, I think that maybe I should let her go. This could be the start of something new for both of them. I wish her well. I hope she finds herself, finds peace, finds happiness. I hope she finds a cure to the madness that must be quaking inside.

  But as I touch the window, studying the beautiful blonde, something in me cracks. Like him, I’m drawn to her. I can’t give up on her. Maybe I can change this. Maybe she just needs me to help change this. I know what it’s like to give up on yourself, to give up on the life you thought you could have. So a part of me still, against all odds, wants to believe I can change this. I want to believe that even though it isn’t the easiest path, it’s still possible. That she isn’t the lost cause I’ve come to believe. As ridiculous as it sounds, I still want to be right about the goodness I once saw in her, in them. I want her to realise she can change.

  This is no time to be a coward. This is the time to step up, to be brave, and to do the right thing, something I haven’t always done in the past.

  I gently put Amos on the floor and laboriously lift myself from the wooden seat, shuffling towards the door. It’s a drizzly morning, but I don’t bother grabbing a coat or a hat. I just open the door and greet the morning, hoping that maybe the fog will lift.

  I carefully trudge out onto the porch, and she looks up. I wave to her.

  ‘Morning. Can you come over?’ I yell across the street.

  She stares for a long moment as if in contemplation, her head tilted. Her eyes study me as if I’m an apparition, as if she wasn’t expecting to see me. Perhaps after the stairs situation she wasn’t. I shove the thought aside. I need to focus on other things now. I need to focus on helping her.

  She’s got a bandana tied in her hair and a raincoat on, a yellow raincoat. She looks so different from the stunning beauty who moved in, even though she’s still beautiful in her own right.

  She doesn’t say a word, but silently rises from the suitcase, crossing the yard with purpose and grace. I sit down on the ledge of the porch, balancing myself carefully. She comes over and stands before me.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, her voice weak and scratchy.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  There’s a defiance about her this morning. I can feel it in the way she stands before me as I sit. I can see it in her eyes blazing with something new. I don’t know what it is even though it feels familiar.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I ask gently, no judgement in my voice.

  ‘I don’t know yet. But away. I need to get away.’
<
br />   ‘Why?’ I ask. The questions are simple, but I’ve found that sometimes all someone needs is to be asked the simple questions.

  She sighs. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘So explain it.’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just – this. I know we can’t keep going like this. He’s not the man I signed on for. He’s not the man I married.’

  ‘I see,’ I say, even though I don’t, not really. Because if anyone got duped in marriage, I feel like it’s him. Still, I try to reserve judgement. Judgement isn’t what she needs now. It isn’t going to help. ‘Look, I don’t want to meddle, believe me. But I’ve learned a thing or two over the years about life, love, regrets. I’m not an expert, truly. I’m the first to admit I’ve made plenty of mistakes. But maybe that’s why I feel like I need to speak up. I need to warn you, maybe, so someday you’re not sitting here like me. Because, let me tell you, when you get to my age, you have too much time to sit and think about your regrets. Way too much time. I’m hoping I can save you some of that pain.’

  ‘You think I’m making a mistake,’ she says assuredly, a statement of fact rather than a questioning observation. She is placid, as if it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s the voice of a woman who has checked out in every single way.

  ‘I think you’re making a lot of mistakes.’

  ‘I see.’ She bites her lip and looks off into the distance.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to make you mad. But you have to believe me. I see you. I do. I see your pain and your fear. I know you’re not happy, but I also know leaving won’t make it better. You’ll just spend your life running from whatever this is. You need to confront it. You need to change. You need to find happiness in the life you have. You need to stop blaming him for everything you didn’t get. He loves you. He really loves you. And maybe he’s not perfect. Maybe this life isn’t perfect. But it could be so much worse. Truly.’