This is why I have rules about tea.
I was up at least four times last night – twice to use the bathroom and twice because I jolted awake, the caffeine in my blood too much. I was restless, I was bored, I was lonely. I was dancing around in all sorts of memories I didn’t want to think about.
The second time I awoke, around four in the morning, I decided enough was enough. What was the sense in pretending anymore? I got out of bed and wandered down the hall, thinking of heading to the kitchen to start the day, even if it meant staring out into the darkness.
I passed a few hours in the old recliner in the living room, rocking back and forth, telling myself I just wanted to sit somewhere comfortable.
In reality, I don’t think I was ready to sit at the window with the darkness still present. If I was being honest with myself, I was afraid of what I might find lurking in the darkness, what I might witness. There are some things that make you anxious for daylight.
I think I dozed off, though, because when Amos’s meows startle me awake, I’m still in the chair but it’s now light. The night has passed, the long, horrifying night.
After slowly peeling myself from the recliner’s comfortable grasp, I stretch, feeling quite rough but knowing I need to face my fears. Plus, I’ll admit, I’m curious. How will they be today? Was last night all just a bad, nightmarish encounter that is smoothed over now? Are they back to normal? I need to figure it all out, no matter what.
I traipse to the kitchen, Amos still meowing, and I find a can of tuna to feed him. I plop the food into the bowl, noticing that although he rushes to his bowl, he somehow looks as frazzled as I’m feeling – or maybe it’s my imagination. I really should brush that guy. His fur is looking a little bizarre.
I trudge to the front door, deciding to get my mail. Did I get the mail yesterday? I don’t know. Is it too early for the mail now? I’m all confused, my messed-up sleep schedule throwing everything off. I feel really out of whack this morning.
I open the door, glancing over at 312 Bristol Lane, thinking about the scene from last night and shuddering. What happened? I wonder if everything is okay. I can’t help but worry.
I reach into the mailbox, my hand feeling around and finding nothing. I must’ve gotten the mail or none came. Hard to tell. When did I last get the mail?
My inability to think coherent thoughts scares me. I need to get it together. It wouldn’t do to go mad, it really wouldn’t.
I’m ready to close the door and head back inside, to make some more tea and get myself awake, when I glance down.
There, sitting underneath the mailbox, is a foil-wrapped pie. It’s familiar. Then I realise it’s the pie from yesterday. She must’ve returned it.
What does that mean? Why would she do that?
I sigh in frustration, wondering why I even tried at all. Quickly, though, my frustration turns to something else.
Anger.
I crouch down to reclaim the pie, shaking my head in frustration. All that work, and for what? What good did it do? And how selfish can she be? I traipse back to the house, slamming the door shut behind me, a photograph in the entranceway shaking a little from the intensity.
I stomp across the entranceway and into the kitchen, finding the waste bin.
‘Fine then. Be that way,’ I bellow to the empty kitchen, slamming the pie into the bin, the foil cold to the touch. I wipe my hands, and Amos pauses from eating to look at me, probably wondering if he should dash under the sofa.
I lean on the counter, my breath ragged from exertion and from irritation. Some people just don’t get it. Some people just can’t appreciate anything. Maybe some people really aren’t worth the effort, the time.
I know it’s stupid. It was just a pie, for Pete’s sake. It’s not like it really was a grand gesture. But in many ways, it was. It was me trying to make amends – for what? Why am I involving myself so much in their lives? True, with them being the only other house on the lane, it’s easy to get enveloped by them. Still, my attachment is probably unhealthy. I really should let it go, let them go about their business.
As I find my way over to my rocking chair, though, I know I just can’t let it go. I can’t just close my eyes and pretend it’s not happening. It’s just not in my nature.
* * *
I’m in a weird mood now. It’s ten in the morning. He’s gone to work – I saw him leave. Maybe it was my imagination, but his shoulders looked a little lower today. His head hung just a bit more towards the ground. His pants were a little wrinkled. He wasn’t his crisp, bright-eyed self.
I get it, though, because neither am I.
I’m tired from last night’s adventures – if you call the bathroom and an abandoned room an adventure, which I do these days. I’m still stewing from it all. It seems silly that the people living next door can affect my mood so readily. But they do. They can. They’re in many ways my only human interaction, even if it is observational. Their lives, their story, creep around me like a bad weed that needs to be plucked. The weed, though, has blossomed, tricking onlookers into thinking it’s a soft, spindly flower.
How long until the thorns on the weed prick me? How long until I have the strength to pluck the weed from the ground and throw it into the woodchipper until it disintegrates into unrecognisable flecks? Will I ever have that strength, or has the weed wrapped around me too closely, like a vine entangling me?
I rock back and forth, back and forth. Amos is fed. I have my cup of tea – half full but still sloshing dangerously close to the edge since I’m rocking. I’m feeling a little dull. I do wish she’d come over. I could use a visitor. Plus, I’m worried about her. Really worried.
I’m also, in honesty, scared. I want her to come over, yet I don’t. It’s that odd push and pull we feel so often in life. The wanting, and the not wanting. The needing and the fear.
I rock and rock, my mind a haze, unable to focus on a clear thought until, finally, there is nothing.
I must have drifted off because suddenly, my eyes are snapping open at the sound of a rapping at the door. I almost spill my tea, which is now lukewarm, as I spring up.
It has to be her. Jane from 312 Bristol Lane. She’s come to her senses. Maybe she just needed to get some anger out. She’s obviously feeling better.
I open the door, and there she is. Royal blue dress, the one from that night so long ago. Coat wrapped around her. A black scarf dramatically draped around her neck. I bite my lip, wondering what I should do. Part of me wants to slam the door. But a bigger part of me is curious, and I’ve never been one to say no to curiosity, even if it is of the dark kind.
‘Hi,’ she says, a weak smile telling me she’s still in there. Relief cloaks me. Despite the pie situation and last night, I feel her weaselling her way back in. God, maybe I’ve become soft. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. I don’t have time for internal debates, though, because she’s here, and I know I need to find out what’s going on. I push down the creepy-crawly feeling on my skin and pull the door open a little wider.
‘Come in,’ I demand, ushering her out of the cold and into the kitchen. ‘Can you stay a while? Can I put on some tea?’ I ask, before inwardly chiding myself. Why am I being so friendly? I have a right to be a little peeved, after all.
‘I’ve got it,’ she says, ambling towards the kitchen like we haven’t missed a beat, like last night didn’t even happen.
She heads for the kettle and starts the water boiling as I take a seat. The exhaustion fades. It feels so good – so darn good – to have company. It feels good to see her out of that house, up and about.
She wordlessly gets cups ready, finds the teabags and gets out the sugar before sitting down with me.
‘So what’s new?’ I ask once she’s sitting across from me, wondering how to approach the subject.
She sighs, running a hand through her hair. ‘I don’t know, really. I’m sorry I haven’t been over for a while. It’s been so long, I know.’
I consider mentioning the pie, asking about it, but now, in the light of day with her here, it seems … petty. Maybe the pie was just gross, or maybe she just didn’t want it. What’s it matter anyway? Am I really going to cause a drama over a pie?
Yes, yes, I would. But something tells me not today. Today isn’t the day to start something. I know what she’s capable of, and I’m not up for a fight, not right now. So I let it go.
‘Don’t apologise. I know how things can get. I’m glad to see you now.’ And despite everything, it is true in an inexplicable way. I want to hate her, to want nothing to do with her. But somewhere inside of me, there’s a happiness to see her. In spite of everything, in spite of the true side of her I’ve witnessed, and even in spite of the terror building, I’m glad to see her. A huge piece of me does want everything to be okay, for her to be okay. I want things to go back to how they were, our afternoon tea and gossip sessions. I want to see that smile, that steady, calm woman who moved in. I don’t like the woman I saw a glimpse of last night, not one bit. ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, treading cautiously.
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’
I sit in silence, giving her space to breathe, to muster courage to say what she needs to say.
‘Things are just … different. I’m different.’ In her voice is a tone I haven’t sensed before. Maybe it’s dejection, or maybe it’s a moroseness on a whole other level than before. Whatever you label it as, it’s clear that something’s plaguing her, and that she’s not the same. She is indeed different.
I consider saying I know. I want to tell her I saw her last night, saw her with him. I don’t. That would be spectacularly creepy. I don’t want to scare her off. Instead, I sit quietly, waiting for her to continue. She stares at her cup of tea, her fingers delicately touching the spoon she’s placed on the table. She mindlessly traces the outline of it on the wooden tabletop, seemingly lost in her own world. I wonder what kind of world that truly is these days.
‘I just … I feel angry. Frustrated. Sad. It’s hard to explain,’ she continues.
I reach across and pat her hand. ‘Life is hard, you know?’
‘I know. But it’s just … I’m so frustrated.’
‘About what?’
‘I don’t know. I know that’s a terrible answer, but I really don’t know the root of it. But mostly, it’s him. He makes me so mad. He’s so pathetic sometimes, you know? So weak and so … just so weak. He’s constantly working, constantly leaving me there in that house while he’s out. And there’s this secretary, Sheila. I know she’s pretty. I just know it. And I think he might be cheating with her.’ She stares at me now, her words no longer hesitant or morose. Instead, there’s a fire fuelled by rage in her eyes and in the tone of her voice. Her words practically grate her throat as she spews them out, and once she’s finished, I notice she’s clenching her jaw.
I blink, the random slew of words causing me to pause. ‘Honey, when would he be cheating? Doesn’t he work a lot?’ I stop myself from revealing the fact I’ve seen him come home every single day at the same time. He’s practically never late, punctual as always. He never leaves at random hours, never disappears for long chunks of time. I don’t mention this though; that is for me to know, to savour on my own. Still, she’s not a fool. If I know he never disappears, she does too. Her accusations just don’t make sense.
She lets out a little laugh. ‘Men have their ways. It wouldn’t surprise me. He never can say no to anything. Why would he say no to her? I’m sick of worrying about it. He’s not getting away with it, you know? He can’t even get me pregnant. He’s sure as hell not going to go screwing around with other women, making a fool of me. I won’t be second. I just won’t be second.’
Her fists are clenched. I study her face. I see a bubbling fury up close, the kind I’ve only witnessed from the window before now. A rage the sunshine-yellow dress woman who moved in didn’t seem to know, or at least was very good at masking.
The monster rears its ugly head.
But an anger like that, it’s chilling, and it’s not something that comes out of nowhere. It’s not something you can just turn on. It must have been dormant all this time. It’s the kind of inner demon you possess for a long while, covering faintly just so it can slip beneath the surface, toiling away until it’s time to emerge. She must be good at smiling to cover herself.
I get it. I don’t fault her. Life is brutal. We all wear the mask we have to wear to make it through.
‘Is that what’s really going on? Is it the baby situation? I know how rough that can be. I know what it’s like to be disappointed every single month, to feel like you’re lacking. It can play on a woman.’
Her fists are still clenching. She hisses her words through gritted teeth. ‘It’s probably because he’s so worthless. It’s because he’s such a useless man. He refuses to go to the doctor. I bet he knows it’s him. It’s his fault.’
I take a deep breath, trying to figure out how to proceed. ‘You know that’s not fair. You know it. I think maybe, just maybe, you’re hurting from all this and from something else from the past. I don’t know. I can’t be sure. But it seems to me like behind that anger is pain. But don’t let yourself drown in it. It seems like you have a good man. Don’t push him away. Don’t hurt him because you’re hurting. Let him love you. Let your love get you through.’
I hear my advice, the words of an old woman who has been alone a long time. In some ways, I don’t have the right to tell her what to do. I know she’ll do what she will anyway. Still, the words ring true, feel good to say aloud.
She stares at me, those lost eyes. So much pain. So much anger.
So much frightening vehemence.
I’m worried … and not just for her.
For him.
The kettle screeches, and she jumps up, a grin on her face as she pours and changes the subject, chattering about the new character on the soap operas, about this new kind of tea she bought that I should try and about a pie recipe she found.
‘Speaking of pie,’ I begin when the opportunity arises, but I’m not sure how to proceed.
‘Uh-huh,’ she says as she sips on her tea.
I stare at her, hoping that I’ve lead her into a discussion of the pie, and more than that, I’ve given her an opening to discuss last night. I need to figure out what happened. It’s all so confusing.
But I don’t see any recognition in her face. She doesn’t jump in with an explanation for the returned pie or what happened. She doesn’t say anything about last night. She just stares at me over her cup, an eyebrow raised. Her eyes practically laser into me, and I suddenly squirm under her gaze.
‘Never mind,’ I offer, waving a hand. I hate myself for letting it go, but what else can I do? I don’t know what I expected. I guess a part of me hoped somehow there would be an explanation, a mitigation of what I witnessed. A part of me desired a wiping away of the sins of last night so that I could move on without trepidation. I could go back to my easy window-watching, the gorgeous moments between them brightening my days.
Instead, I’m left with the ugly truth that something is off, and I don’t quite understand it. Perhaps it’s the lack of understanding that irks me the most.
She stays for a while, and her pleasantness almost convinces me that I was crazy to think such dark things about her, even with last night still reverberating in my memory.
The woman before me who talks about the latest magazine article she read about yoga and the new oven she’s picked out is a far cry from the rageful demon I saw last night. What’s happening? What is going on? It’s all just too much for me, it really is.
When she leaves, I see the bubbles of the old Jane shining through.
I tell myself she’s just under a lot of pressure, that she’s not all bad. It’s a hard time they’re going through. I’ve been through the infertility situation. I get it. It wears on you, especially as a woman. Thus, when I watch her cross the front yard and amble in through her front door, I hope things will change. I hope last night was a one-time occurrence. I hope she won’t shatter my image of who she is or who they are together. I hope they can be different than what I fear they’ll become. I hope she comes to her senses before he does and leaves.
Because, despite it all, despite those scary cracks I’m seeing in her, I think she’s good deep down. I think, behind her bruised, battered, and tarnished heart, there’s still good there.
There has to be good, because the alternative is too much to bear.