Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © L.A. Detwiler 2018

Cover design © Alison Groom 2018

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock

L.A. Detwiler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © November 2018; ISBN: 9780008324636

Version: 2020-02-27

To my husband, Chad.

‘There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.’

– Edgar Allan Poe

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Looking back, there were warning signs. Flickers of who she was hiding, what they were hiding. I just didn’t want to see. Maybe I didn’t want the fantasy world I’d created to disappear. Maybe I wanted to keep believing their love story was perfect, would be my comfortable company for my final years. Maybe I hoped it would remind me of my own early love story, of that swooning feeling, of those first-kiss moments. Maybe I just missed him, and I was soothing that pain by watching them.

Whatever it was, I know this – things are changing now.

They’re changing.

They’re breaking.

I think it started as tiny cracks, almost unnoticeable signals of them coming undone. The angry gesture on the front porch over some argument I couldn’t hear, smoothed by a kiss on the cheek and what looked like an apology. Abandoned dinner one night in the kitchen, a screaming match ensuing as she stormed out … followed by a sweet, tender embrace at breakfast the next morning.

I thought they were running their course, fighting like couples do. I thought maybe the honeymoon years were just wearing off because we all know they do wear off.

I thought they were okay. Maybe they thought that too.

But as the weeks go on, I realise something I hadn’t before.

Something’s not right. Something’s not right at all. In fact, something’s so grotesquely wrong and hideously tainted, I don’t know if there will be any turning back.

Things haven’t been right for a while now, I’m starting to realise. Behind that bubbly smile, that sunshine yellow, she’s not perfect. Not even close.

Why with all bright stories is there a monster, unseen, that festers beneath the boiling surface?

As the weather gets colder, the frost settling in, it’s clear that maybe I didn’t really know my neighbour from 312 Bristol Lane at all.

Chapter 1

They moved in to 312 Bristol Lane on a Thursday, a blazing July sun gleaming off the white picket fence as if everything was about to change. I stared on as Amos sat purring on my lap, cuddled against the afghan covering my legs. I stroked his angora-like fur, watching box after box spew into the house. Their smiles were palpable across the yard, my view unobstructed by blinds, draperies or annoying trees. I could see it all, every smile, every box, every hope going into that two-storey. Aside from the newcomers, the always deserted road remained that way, and I was glad. For the first time in a long time, I was thankful I lived on a dead-end street, the only people on the cul-de-sac me and 312 Bristol Lane. It gave me a chance to watch without obstruction or distraction. I smiled, Amos’s purrs calming me.

I was glad to have neighbours again. The months that 312 Bristol Lane sat empty were truly boring. It had been a while since there was life next door, the real estate sign sitting in the front lawn for longer than it ever had over the years. Maybe the house was just waiting for the right people to buy it, or maybe the market was on a downward spiral. Whatever was happening, I missed having activity on the lane, having someone to watch and to learn about.

I could tell from that first day that this new couple would be exciting to study, unlike the last neighbours who had left in quite a hurry. It had been a while since I had someone next door who truly interested me. There have been several couples over the many years I’ve lived here, but even on that first day, I knew there was something different about these two people. They felt different than all the couples who had lived there before.

From the first day I saw them, the couple was, quite simply, mesmerising. I think it was just the way they interacted with each other. It was electric, and I liked them right away. I found it comforting to watch the young couple, so obviously in love. You had to be in love to be skipping under the stifling heat, carrying box after box until your arms felt like they would fall off. I’ve been through only a few moves in my lifetime, but it’s enough to know moving isn’t particularly fun. Still, the lively young couple jaunted up the steps, leaning to help each other out. The woman, a perky blonde, seemed especially excited, dancing around the front lawn, eyeing up their new dream home, calling the man who was clearly her husband over to peer at a discovered flower or a charming feature.

I pulled the afghan tighter around my legs, feeling simultaneously happy for the couple and a little envious. I would give anything to be her, wearing a sundress on a day like that. Instead, my old body shivered despite the heat. Getting old meant the loss of so much, and warmth was no exception.

The blonde-haired woman stooped down to stow a box on the front step, and the black-haired man followed suit. He wore a simple grey shirt and some pants, nothing fancy. I couldn’t fault him for that. It was move-in day, after all. Fashion could take a back seat on a day like that.

The blonde wrapped her arms around her man, his arms currently empty. The two embraced on the front step of their brand-new home, a sparkling new life ahead of them. They kissed, and I felt my cheeks moving into a smile at the sight. It was beautiful to see young love again, to remember that feeling, to recall the burning desire I’d once felt in my own youth when I’d been a perky blonde who wore short sleeves instead of afghans on a July day.

In some ways, I could feel the warmth flooding my veins, could feel my own husband’s kiss on my lips, like it had just happened. In other ways, sitting in the stiff rocking chair, staring out the window, it felt like a lifetime ago. My aching hands stroking Amos’s soft fur, I leaned my head back, rocking gently, taking in the sight as the young couple smooched.

I got up a few times that day, stirring Amos from his sleep, to get a cup of tea, to use the bathroom, to wander to the sofa to watch my soap operas on the television at noon. For most of the day, though, I sat, rocking aimlessly, blissfully watching the ins and outs of the new couple.

Their smiles enlivened me. Their joyous skipping, despite their clear exhaustion, energised me. I sat for a long time just wondering how their story would unfold, feeling lucky to be privy to their interactions. I would get to uncover their lives from right here. I would get to be a witness to their love.

The thought thrilled me. After so much loneliness, I had something to look forward to. My heart swelled.

This was what love looked like, love in its truest, purest form, love ready to take on life.

Staring out that window on that summer day, though, I hoped the couple could make it last, could hang on to the kiss on the front steps.

Despite my silent prayers, I knew without a doubt that, before long, the joy would fade and the couple’s dream home would become a slaughterhouse not much unlike my own.

A woman has a way of knowing these things.

Chapter 2

My bones are creaking, a pain working its way from the inside out. It’s such a chore sometimes to even get moving, to walk across the kitchen, to stoop down to feed Amos. Some days, it’s a hardship to even prod myself out of bed, the comforter enveloping me in a way that says ‘stay’.

Sometimes, I think about staying in bed all day, my scratchy, aged blanket wrapped around me like a cocoon, protecting me from the vile world. There are worse things than to perish tucked in a warm bed, worn-out blanket or not.

Nevertheless, I deny myself the luxury of oblivion the bed offers. Instead, I wander over to Amos’s food station, the sweet cat already meowing, awaiting his morsels of food. I carefully open the can, scraping some of the gloppy tuna-like concoction onto his plate before making my own tea. It’s silly, I know, serving a cat before myself. But Amos is my best friend, my everything. It makes me feel good to have someone to pamper, to care for. It feels good to be needed.

After getting my cup of tea, only filled halfway, of course – I’ve learned the perils of a full cup the hard way – I trudge over to my spot, the familiar wood of the rocking chair welcoming me back into position. I rock for a moment, gently appraising the day, as is my custom. The sun is just coming up, glinting off the newly fallen leaves of reds, golds and oranges. It’s my favourite scene out my window, the cool breeze of the autumn air gently lifting the edges of the decayed leaves. Even in here, with the dusty smell of an ageing house, I can close my eyes and smell the earthy scent of autumn, feel the brisk air on my face, and see his perfect smile.

He always loved this time of year. In our younger days, he would drag me pumpkin picking at the Johnsons’ farm, hay bales lined up to lead the way. I’d roll my eyes and tell him it was pointless. Deep down, though, I loved those afternoons, wandering on the farm, choosing the right pumpkin we’d carve up that night accompanied by hot apple cider. I wish, even now, I could tell him I loved those days.

I should’ve told him how much I loved those days.

I sigh, my eyes temporarily averted by the sight of the neighbour – Alexander Clarke. He’s off to work, bright and early, before the day has really begun. He straightens his tie, a hand running through his hair, before jumping into his automobile and heading down the road.

It’s been three months since he and Jane moved in, three months of joyful furniture buying and evenings on their porch and walks. Three months of front-porch kisses and squealing laughter in the front yard. Three months of sheer happiness, of love in its truest, purest form.

At first, I’d worried they’d think it odd, an old woman and her cat peering out at them. I hesitated some mornings, wondering if I was being creepy, staring into the lives, into the business of others so regularly.

But I couldn’t peel myself away.

It became something to look forward to, studying them, watching them, trying to piece together their story from what I can see. It’s quite a fun game, really, and I get to learn more than one would think. From driveway goodbyes to outdoor chores, I can judge a lot about them, can put together so many titbits into a clear puzzle of my design. What’s more, they haven’t put up a blind in the window of their dining room or even draperies. The large bay window sits unobstructed by anything, its sparkling clear glass giving me a full view of their heavy wooden table. I get to be privy to their mealtimes, to their interactions, to their morning coffee.

I know. It seems ridiculous. But I can’t, I just can’t, take myself away from them. There’s something haunting about young love, about getting to see it all unfold. And for an old lady like me, alone and bored, these stories, these interactions, they keep me going. They make that creaky exit out of bed a little more bearable. They give me something intriguing to wrap myself up in.

I’ve come to learn that it’s okay, anyway. They’re so engrossed with each other, in their lives, they don’t notice a frail old woman peering out her window at them. Mornings when he leaves for work, afternoons when she busies herself with household work or other tasks, or evenings when they’re together, they’ve always got something to keep themselves go, go, going. The life of the young is exhaustingly busy.

Not that they’re stuck-up or selfish. No, they’re neighbourly enough. Well, at least the woman is. She came over about three days after they moved in, knocked on my door around eleven in the morning.

Let’s be clear: I liked Jane from the day she moved in. The way she carried herself, the way she ambled around even when she was clearly exhausted from moving – I saw something there. And once she came over for the first time, I really liked her, a deep-seated, internal liking of her.

Still, brewing beneath the surface, I felt something else, too. Maybe it was just paranoia roiling from my lonely days, or maybe I’ve just spent too much time in my own head. But something in me flopped when she came over, something unsettling finding its way to the surface. Not enough to make me change my mind about her – but enough to damage the perfect view of her just a little bit, just enough to make me slightly uncomfortable.

Nonetheless, there was something about her from day one that made that nervous anxiety easy to ignore, even if I shouldn’t have.

* * *

It was quite the task to hobble to the door before she scurried away, thinking me asleep. I rushed into the hallway, reminding myself to be careful, that it wouldn’t do to fall and hurt myself. How sad are the days when a broken hip becomes one’s biggest fear?

I made it in time, the girl standing in a bright yellow sundress holding a pie. Yellow is her colour. It makes her blonde hair look even blonder. It fits her complexion nicely. It fits with her neon personality. Maybe I’m partial, though. I’ve always been fond of yellow since I was a little girl. It’s a happy colour.

‘Hi, nice to meet you! I’m the new neighbour: Jane Clarke. I just thought since you’re our only neighbour, I’d stop and say hi.’

I smiled, her energy contagious. She was bubbling and talking a mile a minute, the youth and naivety about life softening her in ways I was no longer soft. Looking into her clear blue eyes, I saw such hope and such dreams.

I missed those days.

‘That’s so nice, dear. Yes, it’s great to talk to you. How is your move going?’

‘Wonderful, thanks for asking. I just love this street. So quiet and peaceful. No traffic, no noise with the dead end and all. And how lucky, we have such a big lot, huh! And all of the peace, the privacy. I just love it here. I knew from the second I saw this house we had to have it. My husband Alex wasn’t so sure about it, but once I saw it, the deal was sealed.’

‘Yes. Bristol Lane is a quiet street. Kind of lonely sometimes, but overall, I like the peace. And your house is gorgeous.’

‘Oh, silly me. I’m sure you’re probably busy. But here’s a pie I made for you. I hope you like rhubarb. My husband says no one likes rhubarb pie, but I beg to differ.’

My hands literally clapped together. ‘Oh my, that’s my favourite. These old hands are too tired to bake many pies these days. Thank you. This is so lovely. Will you come in for tea?’ I shakily took the pie from her, revelling in the perfect golden crust. It had been so long since I’d had a rhubarb pie. I could hardly believe my good fortune. I didn’t even think anyone made rhubarb pie these days. It was like a blast from the past calling me home, and I didn’t hesitate to take up the offer.

I knew the girl was special from the first day she moved in. There was no denying it.

Of course, she’s not a girl. She’s a woman. Still, at my age, everyone under seventy seems like a girl. Age is all about perspective, and mine’s become quite a distant perspective these days.

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly. My husband’s at work today, and I have some cleaning to get done. But definitely soon, okay?’

‘Yes, dear. That would be great. Stop back anytime. Congratulations,’ I said, and Jane was gone, her lean legs carrying her down my porch steps and across the yard to her house, the skip in her step matching her bubbly personality.

I smiled, feeling I now had the best neighbours in the world, even if she did rush off pretty quickly. It was so thoughtful of her to bring by a pie, to spend time with an old woman like me, even if it was just a few minutes. I wished for a moment she would’ve stayed longer, but I didn’t want to cause trouble, not on our first meeting. So I let it go, thinking about how great it would be to have someone to talk to, wondering why I’d gotten goose bumps at the sight of her walking away.

* * *

As often happens, life for the young gets overrun by daily routines and to-do lists and the pressing matters of youth. She hasn’t been back since that first day. The rhubarb pie is long gone, and it saddens me a little bit. I had high hopes for us back then. I’d imagined all of the conversations, the lunches, the teas we’d share. I’d imagined what it would be like after all these years to have, dare I hope, a friend of sorts. But dreams don’t always go as planned, do they? And sometimes our biggest hopes are shattered by reality.

In truth, 312 Bristol Lane hasn’t quite turned out like I’d imagined at all. There has been little interaction for the past few months except for a few small encounters – and arguably, even they were a bit off-kilter.

On Sunday, I was making my glorious trek in my good old station wagon to Mark’s Mart for a few supplies. Jane had been cleaning the windows outside the house, and she gazed at the street from the top of her ladder. I smiled and tooted the horn. She didn’t wave, staring as if in another world.

I suppose she’d just been busy. That had to be it.

Regardless, there have been no visits, no more pies. I tell myself I can’t be annoyed, though. Life at that age is blissfully full. There will be plenty of time for tea drinking and porch sitting with elderly ladies and other generally dull tasks. Right now, she’s got other priorities.

I do worry. There’ve been subtle changes, small happenings, that have caused that nervous anxiety to resurge. Mostly, the anxiety is for them, the couple at 312 Bristol Lane.

Fewer goodbye kisses on the porch step, less hand holding at breakfast. I’m sure I’m overanalysing. It’s not enough to worry just yet. It’s a subtle change – but a change nonetheless.

Then again, maybe it’s all me. Maybe I’m imagining it. Perhaps these are just the musings of an overly bored woman. It’s no secret that I’ve got way too much time on my hands. Perhaps I need to find a hobby – but what? Knitting always did seem quite monotonous. Besides, these bones are too achy, too rickety, to be of any real use. And who would I knit for? Amos? I doubt the white Persian would want anything to do with a scratchy, crooked sweater I’d put together.

Besides, it’s much more fun watching. I’ve become quite a good observer in my late age.

It’s not all bad, either. Jane at 312 Bristol Lane still seems happy. She still smiles, skips around the house in a chipper fashion, saunters to the mailbox in her gorgeous sundresses, kicks back her feet as she leans on the front porch step.

To most, she probably looks the same. To her husband, she probably looks the same.

To me, though, I can see it, the shifting, the small clues that not all is well. Like a detective in waiting, I sit, pondering over the signs, wondering how they all fit together in the bigger picture that is her.

The only question is: what can I do about it? What can this old lady in her rocking chair who can barely walk the twenty feet to the bathroom in time do about it?

For now, all I can do is keep watching, keep waiting, and keep hoping she’ll come over. In truth, it would be good to feel a little needed.

Chapter 3

It’s Saturday, and they’re raking leaves together. It looks warm out, the picture-perfect day you see on cards or those made-for-television movies that make me seriously want to crawl outside of my skin.

Not that love is a bad thing. But those movies where everything is perfect, the woman swooning over a dozen roses like some sickeningly debilitated puppet – those are the things that make me roll my eyes and shake my head, even when there’s nothing else on. Maybe it’s just me, though. Maybe I’ve just got a deeper understanding of life and love than most, especially the not-so-rosy moments. Maybe if life were a little bit more like a made-for-television movie, things wouldn’t be such a wreck right now. Sometimes predictability makes life happy.

I digress, though. Because the point is, 312 Bristol Lane doesn’t look like one of those annoyingly sappy movies. The couple feels real to me. They feel genuine, even in the happy moments. I don’t begrudge them these moments.

Jane and Alex keep raking leaves, right through my existential crisis over sappy movies and predictable plots. I refocus, studying them, looking at their subtle cues as I rock, Amos in my lap.

Alex has got short sleeves on, the rake in his hand. Jane’s in a lightweight sweater, her hair up in a ponytail. She’s sitting on the steps, chatting away animatedly. I sort of want to open the window, to get some air and to hear what they’re talking about, but I think it would be a little obvious. Plus, I’d probably just get cold in a minute or two, and I don’t want to disturb Amos. He’s all cosy, purring gently. His feet are even moving as he dreams.

The pile of leaves is getting bigger and bigger. Alex’s back is to me, but I can tell by his posture he’s relaxed, despite the work. She’s talking away. She talks with her hands. Did I used to be a hand talker when I had the energy? When I had someone to talk to?

I can’t remember. So many things I can’t remember now, it makes me feel sad. How do those moments slip away? The little moments, the little details, are like fleeting feathers on the breeze. I so desperately try to cling to them, if for no other reason than to say I can, but in truth, I can’t. Time stomps forward, leaving our memories in the ashy dirt. We can’t hold on to everything, not all of the big things and especially not the little things. Sometimes the loss of the little things hurts worse.

Now don’t go feeling sorry for yourself, you old coot, I think to myself. No need to get all down in the dumps. It won’t change anything anyway. You’ve got plenty to be thankful for.

Still, the quietude of the house can wear on a person. Talking to Amos just isn’t the same. He’s lovely, don’t get me wrong. But he doesn’t talk back. Sometimes the silence in the house is deafening. It’s enough to make me want to scream … but who would hear it?

The pointlessness is sometimes the difficulty of ageing, especially when you’re alone. No cat can fill that void or tackle that internal dilemma.

I’ve got other forms of social interaction, of course. I go to church on Sunday mornings when I feel up to it and when it isn’t bad weather. These eyes don’t work very well in the rain or when it’s foggy, after all. Still, I step into the little church down the road now and again, sitting in the back pew where I used to sit at the stage in my life I needed God or something to soothe the internal wounds festering, bubbling and oozing. In truth, if I look hard, they’re still there. I guess that’s why I still go to Mass once in a while, when I can. The fire and brimstone speeches are extreme, but who am I to say what’s right or wrong?

They also send a little shiver down my spine, all the talk about eternal damnation and forgiveness. I fiddle with my fingers during these sermons, asking the question so many do but so few truly understand: Will I be saved? Forgiven? Will I make it to heaven, or will my shattered soul spend eternity paying for my sins?

After all this time, I still don’t know the answer. Maybe I don’t want to know the answer, in truth. I don’t know if a few Sunday Masses now and then can check off a box, can mitigate my wrongdoings. But it can’t hurt.

Plus, if nothing else, Sundays get me out of this tomb of a house, out of the interminable chill of being alone.

After Mass, I say hello to a few of the ladies and even go downstairs for coffee once in a while. They don’t really know me, which is okay. I’d probably forget their names anyway. I’m fine with being on the edges.

I also have my trips to the grocery store, Mark’s Mart. There’s a nice boy there who not only rings up my purchases but also loads my grocery bags in the car. He’s a young fellow, too young really to be talking to an old lady like me. His smile, his kind words, they give me something to look forward to. Best of all, he knows exactly how the groceries need to be packed – chicken in its own bag, toiletries in a brown bag, Amos’s cat food in a plastic bag. I have my system, and he doesn’t mess with it. I respect that.

I’ve come to learn, though, it’s the small, ordinary interactions you miss most when you’re alone. The silence of the house at any given moment, the only sound my breathing. The fact there’s no one to tell about the hilarious crisp commercial you just saw or to call out to when an adorable squirrel is eating on the feeder. The seemingly unimportant times, the little joys of daily life are lost when you don’t have anyone to share them with.

Nevertheless, I promised myself years ago I wouldn’t let that appreciation disappear. I vowed I’d cling to the positives. That’s what he’d want, after all. That’s what I need to do.

No matter how much I swear to myself I’ll keep living, keep being thankful, it’s not easy. I’d be lying if I said it was. It’s not just the silence; it’s the lack of companionship that makes me crazy.

It’s him. It’s the fact he’s not here.

I miss him. In spite of everything, I know deep down we were soulmates. How could I not miss him?

I miss our breakfasts of pancakes on Sundays when he would talk about the shocking news stories in the paper. I miss his kisses, miss the way he would wrap an arm around me as he passed by. I miss our Saturday morning drives to nowhere in particular. I miss our movie marathons on the sofa, our apple sauce with mini marshmallows on top just for fun. I miss having someone to bake for, someone to share everything with. I miss the way he didn’t give up on me even when I was falling apart, how his shoulder was there even when I didn’t realise I wanted or needed it.

It’s true, there was a time in our marriage when things weren’t good. There was a large span of time when I didn’t appreciate what we had. There were a lot of missed moments because I was – well, who I am.

I can’t apologise for that. But I can apologise for not understanding what I had to lose. And it turns out, I had a lot to lose. The barren rooms surrounding me underscore this fact. I lost in the end, lost so much, and now I’m here, sweltering in the realisation that I didn’t win.

I couldn’t win, after all.

But before all the bad times, there were good times too. There were the moments when we first met, the moments of happiness. I know now there were beautiful times. I can see them now. I wish I’d seen them more clearly then. I wonder if he saw them for what they were, right up to the end. I wonder if he appreciated them, even when it was his time to go.

We were happy once. It’s been so long, it’s easy to forget that we were happy.

I think about that now, the good times, the quietness stirring feelings of regret. It is not the regret of him being gone that bothers me as much as the regret of lost time. Such is the plight of humanity, I guess. We don’t realise what’s important until it’s way too late, until the time has evaporated. Then, when we have time to appreciate what matters most, we’re alone, incapable of making up for those moments from our youth.

‘That’s enough,’ I announce aloud to snap myself out of my sadness. I decided years ago that attitude is a choice. I try not to let myself sulk for too long. Once you start sulking, you’re done for. What good will that do? There’s no denying that what happened plagues me, haunts me, ravages me. But I have to maintain some semblance of existence, which means I have to cling to the positives.

I have to. There’s no choice.

And right now, 312 Bristol Lane is helping me ignore – or maybe avoid – the past. Their love story is helping me see what could be, what’s left.

I return my attention to them. They’re still raking leaves, the pile sky-high now. She’s laughing, stretching out her long legs in the sunshine, leaning back with her face towards the great blue, contentedness radiating from her soft grin.

This is what Saturday mornings should be about.

I smile as I watch him, clearly feeling mischievous, kick up a pile of leaves at her. The dirty, dingy leaves fall onto her, clinging on to her clothes. One even lands in her hair. She screams, a shriek of irritation and glee simultaneously. It’s so loud, I can hear remnants of it through the window. I tap my fingers on my rocking chair, completely enthralled as she leaps to her feet and races after him, poking him, tickling him, even hitting at him as he laughs. He dashes through their front yard and a chase around the property ensues. They run like children on the first day of summer break, her laughter still heard as he begs her to stop.

After a few laps, they are both panting. He pauses, leaning on his knees, out of breath. A once-familiar warmth surges within me from witnessing their connection, a love I can sense from over here.

A beautiful love.

Then, in the front yard, right on the lawn, he pulls her in to him, smack against his chest. They kiss, a sweet kiss turning passionate. He pulls her tighter, and she rests her chin on his shoulder. They sway a little, and eventually he pulls back, twirling her as they dance in the pile of leaves.

It’s a magical moment, a moment way better than my television movies. It’s a real moment.

They stand for a while in the leaves until the moment fades. Then, he saunters to the garage for the leaf bags, and she stands, wrapping her arms around herself, smiling at nothing but the feelings left behind.

It’s my favourite moment since they’ve moved in. It’s an everyday kind of moment, but it’s the sort of moment that I’d give anything to have again.

I sit watching them swirl in joy, a pure kind of joy, as he returns with the leaf bag. They swoop down, scooping up leaves together, laughing despite the chore at hand. She playfully tosses a leaf here or there at him, and one sticks in his hair. Watching them in this simple moment, I feel like I could sit here all day, wrapped up in the splendid happiness of who they are together.

But before I can inhale peacefully at the sight, I clutch my head. A sharp pain radiates from the centre out, a piercing sensation that stabs into every nerve in my head. I squint my eyes shut, the throbbing pain ripping my brain apart, making it hard to think.

My hand massages my scalp, but it’s no use. The migraine is back and I can think of nothing else.

When the agony eventually subsides, a dull roar still echoing in my head, I open my eyes to look over at 312 Bristol Lane, hoping there’s still a moment to be seen.

But they are gone, presumably back into their cocoon of happiness, their home, and their love.

I rub my head once more, glancing back into my own living room. The house silently screams of coldness, of emptiness, and of something missing.

Chapter 4

I meticulously turn my gold band as I stare at the photograph on top of the stony, dusty fireplace. Amos is asleep on the sofa. I reach out a hand gingerly, almost afraid to touch the glass, afraid if my fingers make contact with it, the fact he’s gone will be real.

Time eases the pain and shock of his death, but it doesn’t take away the burdens of loneliness and loss. It doesn’t make it easier.

For the fourth time today, I touch the chilling glass, eyeing the black and white photograph with both sadness and a smile. In the picture, we’re looking at each other, love radiating even without colour. There’s a rose bush behind us. I can still see the vibrant reds within the murky grey. One of my delicate hands shoves back the itchy veil from my ravishing curls. He’s staring at me as if he wants to devour me, and, if I remember correctly, I think he did want to, judging from the words he was whispering in my ear right after the camera flashed.

It makes me blush just thinking of it.

We were so young, so naive, so in love. I was so happy then.

Time was hard on us, as it is to so many. Still, this picture has always sat on this fireplace, a symbol of that perfect day. Each time I’ve seen it over the years, it’s been like a connection to the past. It’s a relic of the love we once had – the carefree, roses-in-the-background kind of love, where starry-eyed lovers think nothing could ever tear them apart.

‘So long ago,’ I say out loud to the picture, feeling in some ways like that moment was yesterday and in some ways like it was two hundred years ago instead of sixty-seven.

My hands shaking, I squeeze the photograph as if I can clutch on to us, on to the people in the picture. My mind wraps itself around the memories, good and bad, and my chest heaves with the realisation of all that’s happened. I’m suddenly desperate to hold on to what I see, and before I can stop myself, I’m squeezing harder and harder. I squeeze until my hand vibrates from the effort. I squeeze until I hear a punchy crack, the glass snapping right in the middle, the line weaving down my body in the photograph, marring the perfect, smiling woman.

I set the cracked memento back down, my hand finding the edge of the mantel now. I stare at my handiwork, the cracks now giving it a new feeling. I don’t know why, but it suits the picture. The imperfections make it better. My finger traces the cracked glass for a moment, and I marvel in the pattern, in the new texture, and in the picture that is still very much the same but also a little bit different.

I study the faces I know so well but that somehow seem so distant from me. The glass shifts slightly, leaving part of the picture uncovered. It will fall prey to the elements, to the air of life around it. It’s not protected anymore.

Gazing at the photo, I am bombarded with thoughts and ideas, a dull roar making me tired. I listen to the words, trying to home in on the ones to pay attention to, wondering how I got here. Wondering if I could’ve ever imagined how it would all turn out.

I couldn’t have. I would have never known how things would rotate and swirl, spinning into a cacophony of chaos as we drudged through the years. I didn’t understand it, even then, how actions have consequences. Or maybe I just didn’t want to understand it.

I certainly had experiences. Looking at the eyes of the woman in the photograph, I see what so many didn’t.

I see what he didn’t.

I see the secrets of a haunted past, of consequences not yet uncovered, of the havoc my actions would reap covered up with a charming smile.

Life flies by. That’s the cliché all old people say to the young, but it’s so damn true. One minute, you’re standing by the rose bushes on your wedding day, wondering what beautiful things life will greet you with. The next, your frail, shaking hand is touching the glass of the past, staring into eyes and skin you don’t even recognise anymore, wondering how it all came to pass.

I wipe the single tear that streams down my cheek, and I exhale.

‘I miss you,’ I say into the crisp October air, wishing like in the movies, a voice could whisper back. But it doesn’t. I’m alone, all alone, as usual. There will be no anniversary card from him today. There will be no red roses, no sweet embrace to remind me I’m not alone in this crazy world. Instead, there will be me, Amos and an endless day of nothingness, which has become our tradition.

It doesn’t do to dwell on the past. I know that. I know I have to keep going. Sighing, I lay the photo flat on the mantel, the cracked glass now face down. I tear myself away. I step on the creaking floorboard in the living room as I make my way to my only sanctuary – the rocking chair. I plunk my body down, suddenly regretting the dress slacks and blouse I put on. I don’t know what I was thinking this morning when I painstakingly got dressed. It’s Wednesday. I have nowhere to be today. It’s not grocery shopping day or doctor’s appointment day. It’s just a stay-at-home Wednesday, even if it is my wedding anniversary. I guess it just seemed respectful to put some effort in. In some crazy part of my mind, I suppose I thought maybe he could see me from wherever he is. It’s nuts, I know. But putting on those soft pink slacks and matching blouse made me feel like I was appreciating what today was. It just didn’t feel right sitting in my robe.

Nonetheless, as the pants cut into my flesh uncomfortably, I wish I’d stayed in my nightclothes. If you’re going to stay home alone, you may as well be comfortable.

That’s what conclusion I’ve come to, anyway, even though my mother liked to tell me in my youth that beauty was pain. Sometimes now I think beauty might be overrated … then again, maybe it’s just a result of my unhappiness when I see the pallid skin in the mirror, the fried, grey hair. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking that beauty no longer counts, the corpse-like figure who peers back at me far from a thing of beauty.

Out of my peripheral vision, the heavy door to my right, in the centre of the back wall, calls me. Most days, I don’t look at it, the barricade efficiently doing its job. The brass doorknob hasn’t had fingerprints on it for so long, I don’t even know if it would turn.

In some ways, I’d like to think it wouldn’t. I’d like to think it’s rusted shut, shielding me from what’s just beyond the threshold.

A tear comes to my eye as I try to ignore it, try not to look at the door that hasn’t been opened in so long, that won’t be opened.

Even without looking at it, though, I can see it as if I’m staring at it. I can feel the smooth wood, the stain on it almost tacky. I can feel the imperfections and details, their pattern memorised by my creaky old fingers, which still remember every knot, every rough spot on that door, every detail. I glance down at my fingers as they do a dance on the rocking chair, recalling the shape of the doorknob and its chilling feel on my fingertips.

I take a deep breath, the pain in my chest swelling as I try to push the thought aside.

I’ve become a master at ignoring it. I walk past that door every day. I see it every day. Yet, a piece of me doesn’t see it, doesn’t notice it. It’s been blacked out.

Why today? Why now? Why does it have to come creeping in, to make me feel even worse?

I shudder, saying out loud, ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it. That’s enough.’ I hold my head, take a deep breath and open my eyes.

There. All’s better now.

I rock slowly, my head against the wooden headrest. Amos meows, jumping in the window this time to look out with me. He stares at a robin perched on the picket fence as I study the two-storey across the street. The bird looks so out of place against the rotting leaves. A bird like that belongs in the perfect white snow, a crimson marvel in a sea of plainness.

It flaps and drifts upward and away, landing on the spouting of 312 Bristol Lane.

I smile as I look at the perfect bricks, the adorable little window at the top, the shining windows in the front. It’s such a lovely house, made even lovelier by the fact there’s a couple there now, a couple I get to study.

I rock in my chair for a while, staring at the house, wondering where they are. The car is gone, and the house is so empty. I realise I’m so lost without them. It’s odd being on Bristol Lane all alone yet again. I really don’t know how I used to survive when they weren’t over there. What did I do with myself? It feels like a lifetime ago.

My mind drifts back, and I think about how not so long ago, the house was always empty, the creaky sign in the front yard begging someone to move in. It felt like ages and ages that 312 Bristol Lane was abandoned, desolate, and lonely. Just like me.

I furrow my brow, massaging my forehead with my thumb and forefinger. Before Bristol Lane, before the empty months, someone lived there. I know they did. I remember there was a couple there for a while, a short while. I remember they left in a hurry on a day not unlike today. Was it last year? Two years ago? Was it October they left or was it summer? Everything’s messed up in my head, and I can’t seem to set it straight. What happened to them? Why did they leave so quickly? My memory fails me.

But sitting here by myself with nothing to watch, I challenge myself to remember. It’s good to push the mind. I shake my head, trying to recall, searching the inner recesses of my brain for faces and names and details. My head starts to ache from the process, but I can’t let it go.

Who were they? I can’t believe my memory is so hazy. It frustrates me, causing me to rock a little faster, to rub my head a little bit harder.

Think. Remember.

Images come to mind of a couple, a black-haired woman with very tanned skin and an exotic look about her. I see her fuzzily in my mind, the details of her face blurred. She was lean and lanky, but in a model sort of way. She was married, her husband a rather large man. I remember thinking he didn’t need any pie. I do know that much.

I recall images of them moving in, angrily yelling in the front lawn. There were no sweet kisses. There was no laughter. They were miserable over there from the beginning. I remember feeling like they didn’t deserve a house as grand as 312 Bristol Lane.

I remember sitting here thinking I wished they would just move out, even on day one.

Still, I don’t remember the ins and outs of their lives or the details of what they were all about. What did they do all day? What interactions did I witness? I can’t really recall. It’s hell to get old, for the mind to start to fade. It’s crazy what we remember and what we forget.

I rock for a bit more, staring at the house, still trying to jog my memory, but it’s not really working. It’s like I can’t remember a time the sunshine-yellow woman didn’t live next door. Maybe it’s just that I don’t want to remember a time when she didn’t. I like them. They bring energy to the street.

The longer I think, though, the more anxious I get. I feel a bit like my skin is crawling, the prickling of the hairs on my arms making me uneasy. I may not remember the last couple so well, but I do get this sense of dread, of heaviness.

And even though I can’t remember the details, I do get one overwhelming vibe from my jaunt down memory lane: I don’t think I liked them very much.

In fact, the more I stare at the house, the more I’m certain of it. I didn’t like them at all, especially her. That dark, luscious hair didn’t fool me. She was beautiful on the outside, I know that. But she wasn’t a good person.

She was nosy. That’s it. I remember. She was so, so nosy. Always looking at me, perusing me like I was some kind of person to keep an eye on. The nerve of her. I’ve lived here so long, and this young thing moved in and thought she could take over the lane. She thought she could be rude, could get in my business. She was always glaring at me, always staring. And not in a neighbourly way or a curious way. It was in a way that told me she didn’t like me.

There were no afternoon teas with that one. There were no sweet gestures or pies or kind exchanges. There were just nosy stares and questions about what I was doing. There was no neighbourly love, I remember now.

I was so glad when they left. Surprised but glad. Did they leave in the middle of the night? I think they did. If my memory serves me correctly, which in fairness it doesn’t always, I think one morning I got up and the couple from 312 Bristol Lane were gone. They must’ve packed their belongings in the night and left like some scoundrels disappearing under the cover of darkness.

I knew she shouldn’t be trusted from day one. And I was right.

I guess none of it really matters now, though, in truth. Because those neighbours weren’t even important. The new people in 312 Bristol Lane are all that matters. I’m glad the other couple left so early. These two suit me so much better.

Still, I wonder what happened to them, the old neighbours. Where are they now? Is life working out as they planned?

I’ve lived long enough to know that life has a way of working out differently, no matter who you are. And now, the couple across the street get a chance to live out their story here, me bearing witness. I hope they get it right. I hope they make the story a good one. I hope they don’t turn out to be scoundrels. I hope with all my heart they find the life they want.

But even as the thought dances in my deepest wishes, I look down to see my hands slightly shaking. They deserve happiness … but will they get it? Will they find a way to make it work?

I inhale deeply, clutching my hands together in a prayer-like pose, trying to calm down the tremors.

It can happen. They can make it work. They can find the life I couldn’t. They can make their own happiness, can’t they? It’s possible. It’s certainly possible. But then again, life doesn’t always work out how you hoped.

* * *

It’s dinnertime. I spent the morning in my chair, of course, with my cup of tea. At noon, I watched my soap operas and read the newspaper. I even grabbed my favourite novel, Gone With the Wind. I was feeling literary today I guess, the dusty pages dog-eared from being reread so many times. After all, I was so bored today with the couple from 312 Bristol Lane gone. I wish I knew where they went, if for no other reason than to entertain my mind today with fancy visions of them doing whatever it is they’re doing. I hope they did something fun.

I was sitting in my rocking chair, flipping through the pages of my book with Amos on my lap when they came home. The car pulled into the driveway. It was late afternoon when they returned, smiling and holding hands up the walkway before heading inside. They looked good, happier than usual. I smiled at the sight of their return, the sun lowering on the horizon. I was so glad they were back. I closed my book and studied them, waiting to see what the view would uncover today.

It makes me a little sad that my day depends so much on their actions. How crazy that my mood clearly improved when they came home. Then again, they are the only sense of life left in my days. They’re the only things that remind me of what it means to do more than simply exist. Maybe I just need to escape from this house, from the memories – and from the date.

I have a cup of tea in my hands now as I settle back into the rocking chair. I ate a quick meal at the table, mainly to stretch my legs a bit. I found myself hurrying, though, to get my eating over with. I wanted to get back here so I didn’t miss anything. I hardly got to see any of them today, so I want to make the most of tonight.

Darkness looms as I settle in, studying the changing sky. A few birds are flying about, left and right, the impending night inciting them to head for home. Amos lets out a meow before plodding off to his cat bed in the corner of the room.

I stay put.

They’re having dinner tonight in the dining room.

It seems they only have dinner there once in a while. They have a tiny table in their kitchen, too.

She’s gone above and beyond today, though. There are beautiful candles adding a soft glow to the room. With the encroaching darkness, it’s getting even easier to see the scene. She still hasn’t put blinds or curtains up. I hope she keeps it that way. The glass is a little bit dingier now, time passing and caking a thin veil of dirt and dust on the pane. Still, my view is almost unobstructed. Maybe she’ll wash the windows soon and my view will be improved.

She’s wearing royal blue tonight, a satiny finish on the top of her dress gleaming beautifully in the eerie glow of the candlelight. The light dances off her face, her hair swept upward in an elegant style. Her dark lipstick painted on her perfectly shaped lips contrasts with her pale skin in a way that is arrestingly gorgeous. I can’t stop watching her as she carefully places items on the table, a graceful domestic dance.

Next, she puts a casserole in the centre of the table, fidgeting with her hair after she does. It seems like she has a bunch of different dishes on the table. I wonder what she’s made and if she’s a good cook. She disappears for a moment, walking back with a basket between her two hands, golden bread rolls stacked up towards her chin. I wonder if she made them from scratch. They’re the best, after all. They’re so worth the work, even if they are tedious. My mouth waters at the thought of the homemade rolls I always made, the ones that practically melted in my mouth.

Eventually, he comes in, and she gives him a peck on the cheek. He loosens the black tie around his neck, the white collar on his shirt standing at attention. They sit across from each other, the long table in between them, each at the head seats so they are sideways to me. They each hold up a glass of champagne or wine or some other drink and toast. The candlelight dances between them, the glow of the room warm yet oppressive at the same time.

I wonder what their toast is. I hope it’s something sweet. She should say something like, ‘To an amazing night with a man who makes every day a special occasion.’

Okay, so that’s a little cheesy, I know. But I think she should say something to make him know he’s special, that every single day with him is special.

It’s not my toast to give though, so I just sit, studying them, not knowing what she decides on. I’m sure it’s lovely. I’m sure it will do.

There is a shuffling of dishes as they heap their plates, passing around the casserole and laughing. She has a wide smile, and her head flies back at several moments in laughter. He’s a good storyteller; I can tell. He talks with his hands, just like her. Good storytellers, I think, should talk with their hands.

Plus, he makes eye contact with her when he’s telling a story. I always liked that. You need to look into someone’s eyes to really speak to them. It’s a skill so many ignore.

I watch the scene, a peaceful scene, as the moon rises over their house. They take their time, languishing over dinner. I’m glad to see they’re appreciating the meal, that they’re taking a moment to just slow down. They’re always rushing about, to and fro. I like that they’re focusing on each other, even if just for tonight.

After a while, he gets up from the table, putting his napkin down. He crosses the distance between them casually, in a couple of strides. Standing before her, he offers her his hand, and I smile at the gesture. I love an impromptu dance. More than that, I love a man who isn’t afraid to dance without a reason, to dance around the dining room table on a Wednesday evening.

She shakes her head as if she’s embarrassed, looking down at the plate in front of her.

I will her to change her mind. Don’t say no. Please don’t say no. You’ll regret it someday if you do. Someday, you’ll wish you had danced with him every chance you got. Someday, you’ll give anything to feel his hands on your waist, to have him twirling you around that table in a fit of laughter.

And for a moment, I think I’m losing my mind because, as if she’s heard my whispered prayer, she looks up from the table, turns her head and stares directly at me. I feel our eyes lock, my stomach flipping at the odd sensation pulsing through me as she stares. It’s like her eyes pierce through me, body and soul. I’m so uncomfortable, yet I can’t look away. After a long moment of her staring, no smile, her face steadfast, she glances back to the scene playing out.

With some coaxing, she eventually nods and takes his hand. She doesn’t say ‘no’ today. I exhale the breath I didn’t realise I was holding, shaking my head.

Did I imagine it? Certainly, she hadn’t been looking at me, had she?

I brush off the chill in my veins, focusing instead on the beautiful scene unfolding before me now. They lean in to each other, dancing by the candlelit table like two lovers who just uncovered the truth between them, his hand finding the waist of her satiny blue dress, her head resting on his shoulder.

I close my eyes, partially because I feel like this intimate moment should be between the two of them only, and partially because I’m drifting back to one of the many dances by the dining room table I had.

Our song plays in my head, that jazzy, big band song. He sings it to me in my ear, his hot breath sending chills down my spine.

* * *

‘This is crazy,’ I said, giggling wildly.

‘This is perfect,’ he said.

‘I have dishes to do,’ I argued.

‘They can wait.’ He kissed my cheek, then my forehead and finally my lips. We kissed for a long time, the magic of the first wedded year dancing in our hearts.

The dishes didn’t get done that night, but it was okay. Instead of chores or responsibilities, we spent the night revelling in the beauty of our love, in our connection and in each other.

Then, our early dance morphs into another scene, a scene from later in our marriage.

‘Dance with me,’ he said, holding out his hand. He started humming the familiar song.

‘I can’t,’ I replied, icily, averting my gaze to the ground. Tears formed, burning the inner corners of my mascara-laden eyes.

‘Please, honey. Don’t do this. I love you. I know things are tough right now.’

‘Tough? You have no idea what tough is. There you are, pretending things are great, but in the meantime, I’m devastated. How can you even suggest we dance, like nothing’s happened? Like nothing’s changed?’

‘But, baby, it hasn’t. It doesn’t have to. Just dance with me. I love you. I’ve always loved you and only you.’

I looked up to see his pleading eyes this time. They sobered me, but the anger wouldn’t let go. I knew it was misplaced. I knew none of it was really his fault, and maybe a piece of me knew I was being slightly insane. He loved me; I knew this.

But it wasn’t enough. He just wasn’t enough then.

The hurt and denial intensified. It whirred within me. I tossed my linen napkin on the table, kicked the leg of the wooden heirloom and stormed to the kitchen.

‘I need to finish the dishes,’ I bellowed. And with that, the dance never happened, the song left unsung as the stark silence filled the growing void between us.

* * *

I open my eyes, tears flowing again. They’re still dancing, the moment not lost.

‘Dance with him always. Every time. Don’t let anything stop you,’ I whisper into the darkness, a silent prayer for the couple. If only there had been someone to warn me. If only I had danced when he asked.

But the ‘if onlys’ can’t change anything. All they do is make an old lady lose her mind a little more, make her lose sight of the good. I’ve got to let it go.

So, standing, I call for Amos as I trudge up the stairs to slip into my nightclothes and put another evening behind me. Another wedding anniversary is over, and I’ve survived. Sometimes, after all, survival is the best we can hope to achieve.

Chapter 5

I’m taking a break from the window today. It doesn’t do an old woman any good to completely absorb herself in another life. My own days may not be exciting anymore, the sparkle of youth long gone, but I need to live them as best I can. I need to get up, move around, do things. I have no choice.

Well, I suppose there is always a choice. But right now, I think the only choice I can reasonably make is to keep pushing through, like I’ve done for so many years.

I decide, with a sigh, to do some cleaning today. The house isn’t very dirty, it’s true. When you live alone, there aren’t any people to pick up after, many dishes to wash, many beds to make, or much dirt to clean. There are no lawn clippings tracked in on his shoes to swipe up or coffee cups scattered about to tend to. Life alone is decidedly less messy, although I’m no longer certain that’s something to be happy about. In my younger days, I hated cleaning. I would yell at him for leaving his socks around, for leaving dirty plates on the end table. I was frustrated to no end that no matter what I did, the house was never clean.

Now, the house is too clean. Other than the dusky smell from age and time passing, other than the stale air from the doors and windows being shut, it’s pretty much the same as it’s been for years. Not a picture is moved, not a new decorative display has been added. What’s the point? In many ways, this draughty house is a mausoleum for the past, so little having been changed in so many decades.

Still, I feel like I need to do something that seems productive even if it really isn’t. I have nervous energy building, and I need to burn it somehow. I want to get rid of it before it builds up anymore.

I stumble towards the cleaning closet and stoop to get the duster. My back aches as I lean down, but I try to ignore it.

Amos meows at my feet as I head towards the living room, ready to crack every piece of dust there is, ready to swipe it all away.

Twenty minutes later, sweat beads on my forehead. I’ve managed to dust all the pictures and shelves on the left half of the room. I’m huffing a little, out of breath from the stretching and bending. It’s pathetic.

I take a seat, duster in hand, frustrated with myself. I can’t even do things I hate, like cleaning. There’s so little left I can do, even when I’m feeling up to it.

I sit, staring at the broken photograph that still lies flat on the mantel. I don’t need to look at it to know the curve of my lips, the lines of his stance. It’s seared into my memory like a scorching flame.

I think about all the times we fought in this room – about dusting, about him pulling his weight, about all sorts of decisions. I think about his eye rolls that would infuriate me, all the times he tried to tell me to calm down. Sometimes, I savoured the chance to get to him, to push his buttons. Such is marriage, I suppose – annoying each other, getting angry. It’s not all perfect, you know.

In the middle of my dusting depression, there’s a knock at the door. For a moment, I think maybe I’m hearing things; it wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe Amos jumped on the counter or maybe something fell. But no, there’s another gentle rap, rap, rap, and it’s clearly coming from the front door.

Energised by the possibility of a visitor, which rarely happens, I pick myself up from the couch, tossing the duster to the floor. I’ll retrieve it later.

‘Coming,’ I yell in a voice hoarse from age and time. I mindlessly fluff my hair and try to smooth my shirt. I will my feet to shuffle faster.

In my youth, I used to be afraid to open the door, afraid a serial killer or a burglar would try to weasel his way in. I always made my husband go. In the past couple years, though, I’ve realised two things.

First, there’s no one else to answer the door now.

And second, at my age, who cares if it is a burglar or a serial killer? Maybe it would make things interesting. That’s the one good thing about getting old – fear wanes a bit because really, what is there to fear? Death? It’s knocking on my door anyway.

Not literally, though. Because when I open the door, I smile.

It’s her: Jane from 312 Bristol Lane.

‘Hi there, can I come in?’ she asks. She’s got a delicate scarf wrapped around her neck to keep out the biting chill of the autumn air.

‘Of course. I was just doing some pesky housework.’ I extend my hand towards the interior of the house, ushering her in from the brisk air. I’m surprised she’s here, but also excited to have some company. You don’t always realise how lonely you’ve been until the chance to talk to another person arises. I’ve never been one to complain when someone interrupted my cleaning. The rest of the dusting can wait for another day.

She steps over the threshold, getting ready to kick off her shoes on the rug inside the doorway that masks the hardwood, protecting it from what, I don’t know. ‘You don’t have to take them off, really. It’s fine. Come in. Can I get you some tea?’

‘Tea would be lovely. If you show me where it is, I can make it.’

I want to say no and be a good host. I want to tell her it isn’t a bother, that I can make her tea. But my hands are aching from all the damn dusting, and I’m out of breath. So I smile and nod, leading her slowly to the kitchen.

Amos meows, rubbing Jane’s legs as she makes a fuss over him.

‘You like cats?’ I ask.

‘Love them. I’ve always wanted one, but my husband’s allergic.’

I give a sympathetic nod as I point her towards the tea cupboard. ‘Everything is in there, dear, and the kettle is on the stove.’

I pull out a chair and have a seat, feeling like a lump on a log sitting here while company makes tea in my own house. Watching her move gracefully, though, her long, slender body stretching to reach the tea and then to fill the kettle with water in the sink, I smile. It feels good to have someone here to care for me, even if it is just a cup of tea. I can’t remember the last time someone ventured in and spent some time with me. It’s been years and years. Who would come to visit, after all? That’s a terribly sad thought, I realise, and decide not to think about it. Instead, I choose to focus on the beauty of the fact I finally do have someone to visit with me and to make me tea. It’s really a lovely thing.

I study her, realising that the stoic stare the other day must have been in my imagination. How foolish I was to think she was anything but kind and sweet. She’s lovely, inside and out. Looking at her in my kitchen, I can’t imagine anything but warmth radiating from her.

I shake my head, telling myself I need to get it together. It wouldn’t do to lose my mind at this stage of the game.

She picks out two teabags.

‘Put them in after. You put the teabag in after,’ I say when she tries to put it in the cup first.

She turns to look at me, wordlessly setting down the teabag.

I breathe a sigh of relief. No use messing with routine now.

‘It’s lovely of you to stop by,’ I say once she’s got the kettle on and has a seat across from me.

She smiles. ‘Sorry it’s been so long. You know how it is. Busy and all that,’ she says, waving her hand.

I nod and smile, not wanting to ruin the moment by telling her I have no clue what she’s talking about. Because I don’t these days. Busy for me is having to retrieve the mail from the slot or make a single phone call. Busy isn’t really in my vocabulary anymore, the sleepy pace of life I’ve become accustomed to seeming quite sad.

But busy was in my vocabulary at one time, so I choose to speak from that point of reference. ‘Life’s so hectic, huh?’

‘It is.’

‘Everyone’s right, you know. It flies by. Really does.’

‘That’s what they all tell me. Some days, though, with the washing and cooking and all that, it’s kind of hard to believe.’ Her smile, carefully outlined in a gorgeous hue of lipstick, is wide, softening the words.

‘I always hated chores. It’s the one bonus of being a lonely old woman – you don’t have to worry about keeping up appearances, you know?’

She reaches across to pat my hand. I shouldn’t have laid on the lonely part. I don’t want pity. But she smiles. ‘Yeah, well, not many people to keep up appearances for these days. We barely know anyone in this town.’

I see a hint of sadness in her eyes and wonder what it’s all about.

Then again, I seem to recognise it. The haze of the honeymoon stage is dulling a bit and the knowledge of wifely duties is setting in for her. It isn’t easy sacrificing your identity to be part of a duo. I get it. I had so many days when I, too, wondered why. What was the point of it all? Was laundry, cooking dinner and sex once in a while really what life had come to? It’s a struggle painted on her face, one I understand even after all these years.

‘Don’t you have friends in the area?’ I prod, curious now, wanting to give her a chance to vent.

She shrugs. ‘Not really. I’m originally from out of the area. I met my husband, we fell in love and, before I knew it, I was packing up my bags and leaving everyone I knew. I didn’t mind. He’s a good enough man. Handsome, good job. It’s just – a little lonely sometimes, you know?’

‘I know, dear. But you’ll make friends. Are you working?’

‘No. I’m a full-time housewife. Seemed like it made the most sense for us, you know? I’m hoping to have kids soon, start a family.’

‘That’s lovely,’ I say, a smile taking over.

‘How about you, do you have any kids?’ she asks as she stands to tend to the boiling kettle and make our tea.

I sigh, fidgeting with my ring. Pressure builds in my chest, a pain throbbing. I inhale and exhale, telling myself it’s okay. It isn’t her fault. It’s an innocent question. ‘No, no kids. It was just my husband and me. I’m the only one left now, obviously.’

She turns, pausing from the tea pouring. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.’

My wedding ring turns slowly in between the fingers of my right hand, spinning round and round as my foot taps. I look up at Jane, though, and am grounded in the fact she didn’t know. How could she?

I force the fake smile I’ve used so many times to the forefront and reassure her. ‘It’s fine. Besides, it’s not like it’s a secret. I’m doing okay, really. I’ve learned to make peace with it.’

She looks at me, a long look, and I can tell she wants to ask something but is debating. I want to nudge her forward, but I don’t want to be pushy. I get the sense she’s … I don’t know what. But I get this creeping suspicion I need to be careful with her, watch my tongue. I don’t want to push her away. It would be terrible to push her away.

She turns the conversation now to autumn and Mark’s Mart and the price of strawberries as she brings the tea over. We laugh and talk like two old friends for the next couple of hours, sipping our tea in between laughter and the exchange of stories.

When she leaves and the house is empty, I realise how much she filled it when she was here. I realise how much I’d missed having friends, having conversation, having connection. Just having someone to sip some weak tea with on a dull afternoon. Someone to give me an excuse to stop dusting for. The time went so quickly with her there. I forget sometimes how having someone to talk to really does make the day go faster. I miss that.

I also realise she never quite said why she stopped by. It was sort of odd timing, her showing up out of the blue.

I don’t care, though. Because she can come back anytime. Maybe she’s just lonely too. Maybe she feels the need to do a good deed or do some penance by visiting a clearly isolated old lady. Whatever her reasoning, I hope she comes back, because as I lower myself into the tub very carefully later that night, I note that I feel peaceful for the first time in years.

And when I crawl under the covers, settling my head onto the lumpy, familiar pillow later, I don’t think about the black emptiness of the room or the cold, empty spot beside me. I simply think about Jane’s smile, her laugh and how much I hope she returns.

It’s good to have a friend, after all. I’ve always needed a friend, especially now.

Life is hard. Life isn’t perfect. We all have our regrets, something I know all too well. Sometimes it takes another person to help us overcome those regrets, those feelings, that darkness. And even now, in this stage of my life, I’m surrounded by plenty of dark regrets.

I could use a friend indeed. Maybe Jane is exactly the person to be just that.

Chapter 6

I was seven the first time I realised the world is a lonely place.

In truth, I should’ve learned it years before that. My perfect place in the world was tainted the day Lucy came into my life. I just didn’t know it at the time. Of course, I’d been too young when she was born to know the difference between right and wrong, just and unjust, loved and not loved.

When I was seven, though, things became apparently clear: I was no longer important in the family. Or maybe, in truth, I never was.

We stood on the altar looking out at all the people. My eyes landed on my parents, sitting five pews back. I counted the five rows with pride, double-checking to make sure I’d counted correctly. I’d been working on my numbers, on my counting. My teacher said I was a smart girl. I’d beamed with pride that she’d noticed.

Lucy stood beside me, her red satin dress shining under the streams of sunlight as the preacher spoke about something I wasn’t listening to. I was too busy watching Mom and Dad. Dad was in his best shirt and slacks, his jacket frayed at the edges but still looking great. Mom was in my favourite dress, the blue one with pink flowers. She looked beautiful, even with her hair swept back.

We’d been picked along with some other children in the church to perform a song. It was a special moment because I was getting to sing the solo. It was my mom’s favourite song, too: ‘The Old Rugged Cross’. I’d memorised the words. I’d practised over and over. I couldn’t wait for my moment to shine.

This was going to be my moment. I imagined Mom and Dad beaming with pride, rushing up after the song to hug me, Dad lifting me into the air like he had when I was younger, before Lucy became their sole focus. They’d crowd around me, praising me for a job well done. After church, we’d all gather in the hall and they’d be grinning ear to ear, telling everyone I was their daughter.

The preacher grew quiet, and I knew it was time. I fidgeted with the skirt on my blue-checked dress. Mom told me the mustard stain on the hem wasn’t noticeable. Still, I tucked the fabric over itself, clutching it with a hand to cover it. I needed everything to be perfect.

The song began, our Sunday school teacher leading us as we sang the words in our makeshift choir. Lucy sang too loudly, as usual, her voice shrieking out the words. At one point, she stepped in front of me, shoving me over. I shoved her back slightly, knowing my moment to sing was coming up. I needed to be the centre of attention for once. I needed to be in the middle, noticed, for when it was my turn.

She stepped forward again, right in front of me, and anger bubbled. It was just like her to try to steal the spotlight all the time. In school, at home, when we were baking with Mom – she was always stealing my spotlight. She was always making sure I was shoved to the side.

Not today, I thought to myself. It was my solo. I needed this moment, had waited for it all week.

I elbowed her in the ribs, inching forward as the song came to my solo. It was a soft shove, not enough to do any damage but enough to show her where she belonged.

I opened my mouth to belt out the words, but at that moment, Lucy screamed, falling to the ground, tumbling down the steps of the altar.

‘Ow, you hurt me,’ she whined, flailing on the ground and pointing up at me.

The organ continued playing, but the words for my solo eluded me. I didn’t sing. I watched in horror as the teacher rushed over, helping Lucy from the ground and asking if she was okay. My parents, too, rushed from their pews.

Couldn’t they see she wasn’t really hurt? That I hadn’t done anything? That she’d started it?

The other kids laughed and pointed at the ruckus, ignoring the song. ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ went unsung, the preacher looking angry. The whole church stared at me. I was in the centre of the altar, feeling so alone, my face burning with embarrassment and frustration.

And eventually, that embarrassment and frustration boiled over into something else entirely: rage.

My parents helped Lucy up, her crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks. Mom hurried over, grabbing me by the wrist and yanking me down from the altar in front of everyone.

‘You’ve done it now,’ she hissed through clenched teeth.

And instead of them congratulating me, they dragged me from the church as everyone watched, kids on the altar laughing and pointing as the preacher tried to regain composure and order.

Outside the church, the sun was shining, the clouds billowy and soft. Mom’s hold on my wrist hurt, but I didn’t dare cry out. I was too stunned, too shattered to complain anyway. My stomach burned and my head pounded. How did this happen? How could this happen?

It was her. It was always her. I seethed inside as she held Dad’s hand. He comforted her, telling her it was all okay.

They rushed us to the car and Dad tucked Lucy safely in the back. I was shaking now, out of frustration and fear of what would come. Dad didn’t like to be humiliated.

Before I could open the door, he took one arm and slammed me up against the back of the car. Mom crawled inside, ignoring the scene unfolding.

‘You bitch. How dare you embarrass us. Look what you’ve done. You’re ruining this family. You ruin everything,’ he said, his face inches from mine.

Tears welled, stinging my eyes.

‘Daddy, it wasn’t me. She did it. She started it. She shoved me.’ My voice was shaky as I pleaded with him. I needed him to understand, just this once. I wanted him to side with me and to understand that it was all Lucy. It was always Lucy.

There was no sense of understanding that day, however. There was no pride or acknowledgement of what today was supposed to be about. Instead, he shoved against me, his arm pressing against my chest, making it hard to breathe. I felt the metal of the car, hot from the sun, against my back.

‘You’re the older one. You should know better. Don’t you dare blame Lucy. She’s an angel. You’re nothing. You’re the problem. We’d have been better off without you. Now get in the car.’ He pressed against me one last time, his rage jolting through the pressure he placed on me.

As he stepped back, I slumped to the ground, but he grabbed me by the hair, yanking me up and tossing me in the car. I crumpled on the seat, in shock even though I really shouldn’t have expected anything different. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt Mom or Dad’s unhinged wrath.

The whole way home, I shook with terror, with anger, with a sense that all was not right. I stared out the window, watching the familiar landscapes whir by as the car sped onward, back to the home that had always housed so many dark truths for me, even at seven.

What had happened to me? Why had everything changed? Why was I never good enough?

The questions swirled over and over in my head, looping through clips of memories and of other times I’d felt this bubbling anger inside. I thought about how Lucy was always the one to get new clothes while mine fell apart into tattered rags. I thought about the beaming smiles when she came home with a good report from her teacher and the ignorance or wave of a hand when I did the same. I thought about all the signs I’d tried too hard to ignore but couldn’t any longer.

I was nothing. She was everything.

Although I was the eldest, there was never a doubt: she was first; I was second.

Sitting beside Lucy, a scalding fury stirred in me. I thought about how I could get payback. I considered lopping the head off her favourite doll or drowning it in the river next time we were outside. I imagined putting bugs in her shoes or cutting her hair when she was sleeping. I thought about what it would feel like to pin her against the car like Dad had done to me, to keep pressing, overpowering her, showing her just how strong I was. It became clear to me as we turned onto the familiar street that I wanted, no needed, revenge.

She needed to pay.

When we got home and everyone got out of the car, Dad still seething mad, I trudged to my room, tears falling from my eyes.

Lucy strutted into my room, her satiny dress still perfectly crisp.

‘Sorry about your solo,’ she murmured, mocking me and mimicking me with the whiny voice that made me want to choke her.

I stared at her, my chest heaving with rage. I crossed the floor of the room and she backed up, perhaps seeing something in me she hadn’t noticed before.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured, shaking a little now, but I didn’t stop.

I kept creeping towards her as she inched backwards into the corner.

‘I’ll scream for my mom,’ she said, and the way she said ‘my’, like she was claiming her as her own, did something to me. It made something snap.

Maybe because I’d known it was the truth.

I put my arm against her tiny chest, shoving her hard against the wall in the bedroom, pushing and pushing, thinking about how hard I could push. Her breathing was ragged and she was crying now. I stared into her face, watching the fear in her eyes and feeling relief that she hadn’t won, that I could still win.

Finally, after a long moment, my arms grew weak, shaking from the exertion and the sheer adrenaline. It was only when the strength left my body that I realised I needed to stop. I let up, releasing her. She ran out of the room, panting, and I slumped to the floor, feeling horrible in so many ways as the emotions surrounding my violent victory faded.

What had happened? What had I done?

I sobbed myself to sleep that night. I cried for the lost solo, for my lost parents and for my lost temper.

Most of all, I cried because I realised the anger burning inside wasn’t okay.

And because I wasn’t sure if I would be able stop it again.