I think it’s a few days after the door incident when she returns. I – like I so often do – lose track of time, of the days. When you’re my age, every day is so similar that it hardly feels like there’s a point to distinguish between them. They run into each other, every wakeup like the one before. Calendars become arbitrary when no one is expecting you anywhere. The days just meld into one giant string of moments of survival.
I’m getting the mail, a few advertisements for places I don’t visit and the water bill, when I see her emerge from 312 Bristol Lane. She’s wrapped in a hat, scarf and coat, an early-season frost having settled on the ground.
I study her from the crack in the door, wondering if she’s over what happened. Wondering if she can move on.
She tentatively lifts an arm and then offers a wave and just the hint of a smile. I do the same.
We stare a long moment as if contemplating who will make the first step. It’s her. She pulls her door shut and ambles down her steps, crossing the distance between our houses with ease. I wordlessly gawk at her, mail in my hand, as she bounds up the stairs on my porch and stands before me.
‘Hi.’ Her eyes pierce mine.
‘Hi,’ I reply, the soft word a whisper off my lips.
Once more we stare, not sure who will give in. This time, it’s me.
‘I’m sorry. I just …’
‘It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. But wow, it’s cold. I could use some tea.’
‘Me too.’
And with that, I turn, leading the way into the kitchen and our old habits, pleased that we are able to move past the awkward encounter and stubbornness.
Because I could sure use a cup of tea, and, in truth, I could use company.
We settle into our routine, the shut door lingering in the corner of the kitchen like an elephant. Somehow, though, we both manage to ignore it.
‘So, anything new?’ I ask as she puts the water on, opening the teabags but not yet putting them in the perfectly lined-up mugs.
She shrugs. ‘Same old.’
‘Boy, don’t I know about that,’ I mutter.
A silence lingers between us, one filled with tension. Things aren’t smoothed over between us, not really. Perhaps it’s my fault. There’s still a deafening anger settled in my chest over what could have happened. Maybe it’s irrational after all this time. Maybe it’s ridiculous to blame her.
But I can’t help it.
I lean on my hand, my head propped up on the kitchen table. She leans on the counter, her wrists delicately bent as she stands, staring at me, waiting for the kettle to come to a boil.
‘I don’t know that I’ve ever asked what your husband does,’ I say, trying to make conversation.
‘He works a desk job. Pretty much just a yes-man, you know. Running errands, all that.’ She says it in an unimpressed tone.
‘Well, that sounds like good work.’
She shrugs. ‘He’s no CEO or anything.’
‘Does he need to be? I mean, being a CEO comes with a lot of responsibility. And requires a lot of time.’
‘Yeah, I suppose. But it also comes with a lot of power. I always thought if I had worked somewhere, I’d want to be at the top. To know what that power feels like. It must be something, knowing you’re in charge, knowing people respect you.’
There’s a twinkle in her eye, and I realise, if given the chance, she’d be a real go-getter. She’d be ambitious to the point of self-destruction, perhaps.
‘Did you ever think about working?’ I ask, genuinely curious.
She shrugs. ‘I have. But, well, I don’t always do well with people.’
I blink, surprised by her response. ‘Really?’
‘Really. I’m a different person out there.’ I assume she’s referring to the world, society. ‘Always have been. Here, I rein it in a little bit.’
I see a sadness on her face, a nuance I have yet to detect. ‘Well, sometimes out there is overrated, huh? But I don’t know, sometimes being inside isn’t all perfect either. Life is hard.’
‘Truth in that statement,’ she admits, and the kettle begins to boil.
She reaches for it, her face stern. Perhaps I’ve said too much. Maybe I should’ve chosen better words but it’s done now. She pours in the hot water, then carefully executes the dance of teabags and spoons as she so often has.
She turns and is walking towards the table, slowly.
I don’t know whether she wasn’t focused or if her hand was just unsteady. Regardless, before she makes it to the table, catastrophe strikes. The cup in her left hand shatters to the floor, hot water splashing and bits of the mug scattering everywhere.
‘Oh dear,’ I say, springing up to assess the situation, my bones screaming at me as I do, to help her. The popping sensation in my hip tells me it was a mistake, but there’s no time to deal with that now.
She freezes for a moment, staring at the broken mug and the spilled tea.
‘Shit,’ she screams, and her face contorts.
‘Are you hurt?’ I study her hands, her legs, to see if there’s blood. It looks like a bit of glass has sliced her ankle, blood trickling down and mixing with the tea and the mug fragments. ‘Let me help,’ I say, rushing over but not sure where to start.
Tears are now flowing down her face and her body shudders.
‘There, there. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine,’ I say because, in reality, it is. Nothing a bandage, some peroxide and a mop can’t handle.
She sinks to the ground, finding a dry patch of floor to rest on. She pulls her knees to her chest and rocks, the tears falling wildly now, her sobs racking her body. I step around the puddle towards her, careful not to slip, but she holds up an arm, telling me to keep my distance. I’m not sure what’s going on, truthfully. It’s obvious to me, though, that the mug’s not the most important thing that’s broken today.
I back against the counter, staring at the tea, the blood, the shattered fragments on the floor. It strikes me how the pattern is so intricate, how it looks almost like an abstract painting. It’s a beautiful mess, just like Jane. A beautiful mess indeed.
She continues to rock and sob as I head to the cleaning closet, her incoherent chanting sounding like a religious rite of the most sinister variety. Calmly, I find a mop and bucket. No use comforting her – you can’t comfort those who don’t want comfort, who won’t listen to reason.
I mop up around her, tired from the labour but energised by the excitement.
A little blood never did scare me.