She knocks at my door, and I spring up. My bones aren’t aching today, the extra milligrams or whatever the doctor prescribed doing the trick.
The prescription pad was burning against my skin, begging me to use it. I thought about what kind of numbing drugs I could get, ones that could take away every ache. But I didn’t. It wasn’t that I was scared. I guess I just like the pain sometimes. It’s an atonement for – well, for everything. The pain reminds me that I’m still alive and still breathing. It reminds me I’m not quite done. I’ve never really taken the easy way out – at least no one can accuse me of that.
More knocking, snapping me back to the present. I seem to be drifting away a lot lately. I need to be careful. It doesn’t do one any good to visit the past so frequently. I need to stay focused.
The pounding on the door echoes rapid-fire through the hallway, the feeling of desperation kicking in. I pause, standing in limbo. I need to get to the front door, but I look back, the shut door in the kitchen almost calling me today. I’ve managed to ignore the door for the most part for the past few months. It’s blended into the background, my psyche pushing every fleeting thought of it aside. Today, though, it seems to scream out, and it makes me uncomfortable that the door is making itself known today. Why today? I study the shiny brass knob that hasn’t been touched in so long. It’s like it’s beckoning me to come over, to look at it. I shake my head, the knocking louder on the front door.
It wouldn’t do to go to that other door. I need to go to the front door, the one I can open without fear.
But, as I saunter down the hallway, a sensation takes over me.
Terror.
It’s almost numbing, the unfamiliar feeling creeping inside and grasping me. What am I afraid of?
I don’t like the feeling. It makes me feel weak.
I shake off the icy anxiety, shoving it down. Still, as I trudge to the door, I realise an unsettling fact: she scares me a little bit. Actually, she terrifies me. I tell myself to be brave. I’m stronger. I’m wiser. I’m more wily than even she is.
I put my hand on the front doorknob, entranced by … what? What is it about her that’s so mesmerising? It’s almost like she’s the shut door in the kitchen, a brass doorknob I want so desperately to reach out and grasp but can’t.
I think I’ve known for a while she’s something mysterious, maybe since the first day. The petite frame that seemed to drip with sweetness and joviality. The endearing smile, the sinuous voice. Like a siren, she lured me in, just like she did him.
But now I see beyond the surface. I see the cracking, peeling skin. I see that behind the siren is a beast, luring those around her to their ultimate demise – a demise worse than death.
Still, I can’t say no. I can’t stop being drawn to her. I can’t, even against all rational thought, believe she’s a lost cause.
Before I turn the knob, Jane has opened the door, invited herself in. It feels – intrusive.
I don’t say a word, letting my frigid gaze do the talking for me.
‘Hi,’ she says, bubbly. It’s a far cry from the woman I witnessed just the other day or in the past weeks. Her entire being, her full aura, has changed again. It’s like her personality is this fluid being, drifting back and forth in a cacophony of utter confusion. There’s a constant pushing and pulling, an unsteadiness that only intensifies the dichotomy in her character. She’s an enigma, and even though I’m determined to sort her out, I don’t know if I ever will.
My gaze rests on the item in her hand. A bottle of wine.
‘I thought I’d liven today up a bit – what do you think? I mean, I got my cleaning done last night, stayed up into the wee hours, because I have a plan. What do you say you and me forget about all this blah weather and the grey, rainy day? How about we just have some fun? What do you say? Could you use some fun?’
By her wild hand motions, I’m guessing the cracking open of this bottle won’t be her first indulgence of the day. And what, is it even noon yet?
‘I don’t drink anymore,’ I reply, but even as I say the words, the liquid tempts me. I can almost taste it, and though it’s been years – has it really been years? – the craving resurfaces.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. One glass won’t hurt you.’ It’s almost a demand, not a friendly invitation.
The temptation builds, my hands sweating a little. I should say no. But my body aches. My head hurts. And she’s so … happy. I don’t want to taint that, no matter how false the surface-level joy is.
‘Just a half a glass,’ I agree as she emits a little dance and squeal, heading to the kitchen. She riffles through my cupboard, searching beyond the familiar ceramic mugs for wine glasses.
‘They’re on the top shelf,’ I say, thinking about how much dust must be on them, thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve had an occasion for wine glasses.
Even when I hadn’t sworn off the vice, I just drank from the bottle. It was easier that way. There was no drinking for appearance when I was drinking alone – it was imbibing purely for the numbness, and there were plenty of days, lonely nights, that those bottles numbed me to the perfect level.
I think maybe that’s what she needs now, too. She needs to feel the sweet, cradling feeling of nothingness. I can’t blame her completely.
‘I’ll just hop on a chair,’ she says, skipping over and dragging the heavy oak chair like it’s a feather. She jumps on it daintily, stretching for the glasses in the back of the cupboard as I take a seat.
After an eloquent dance of balancing glasses, dusting them off, and opening the wine – it takes a while to find my wine opener – a half-full glass of the devil’s liquid sits in front of me. I hold it to my nose, wafting in the grapey smell with a hint of potent vinegar, closing my eyes.
Sometimes just a smell can take you back, and even though it takes me back to those times in my life when I, too, needed numbness, I can almost feel the warmth soothing my weary veins.
‘Day drinking. So underrated, huh?’ she asks, clinking my glass in cheers. Cheers to what? What is there to celebrate?
‘Everything okay today?’ I ask, knowing the answer already. I set the wine glass down, fiddling with the stem in between my fingers. I’ll just look at it for a while, savour the feel of the glass between my fingers. My fingertips dance up the slim, fragile spine of the glass, tracing the curvature at the base of the bulb.
‘Is it ever?’ she asks, rolling her eyes. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how much more I can take.’
The veil of alcohol lifts slightly, just enough for me to see her true face. The glimmer of the front-yard woman is lurking just beneath the surface. I’m much better at detecting the monster that hides there now that I’ve seen it rear its head in truth.
‘Well, can I help?’ I ask, staring at my glass of wine, watching as the liquid cascades in the glass as I carefully roll the stem back and forth in my fingers. She plays with her glass too, quiet for a moment, as if in thought. I lift the glass to my lips, savouring a final whiff before committing to the first sip, the liquid hitting my lips with a familiarity that soothes. I’ve missed it so much, I realise as I swallow the first sip, feeling it trickle down my throat. I close my eyes, relishing it before taking another swig.
Finally, she breaks the silence.
‘Yeah, you can knock some sense into that husband of mine. He’s not going to get away with it.’
I glance across the table now and see the quality in her eyes I recognise but also fear. I hear my heart pounding in my chest, the thudding mixed with the swirling wine – a concoction for disaster.
‘Think you’ve already achieved that, haven’t you?’ I ask, testing the waters with my voice.
She stares back at me. ‘Excuse me?’
The words are a stark contrast to the gentle quietude of the house. Every syllable exits her lips like a whispered prayer, but the bite of the first word gives away the edge in her voice, stabbing into the contented atmosphere between us.
‘I’ve seen you with him. Don’t you think maybe you should tone it down?’ The words are hard to say but necessary. I know the risk of saying them. Things got so ugly last time. Still, I can’t just pretend anymore. I can’t let her get away with it. She needs to hear them, and I need to say them, no matter how this all turns out. I take a deep breath, wondering how the words will sit today and fearful of the worst. The wine must have dulled her senses, though, because the reaction this time is less vehement than last time.
‘Try living with him and you’d understand. The pretentious prick acts like everything is about him. And I know what he’s up to. He’s not getting away with it. Did you know he was ten minutes late yesterday? Swore it was because of a traffic accident. Didn’t hear the fire whistles. Didn’t hear the cop cars, did you? He thinks I’m a moron. And his stupid mother coming over the other day to meddle. I can’t believe I married a goddamn mama’s boy. Pathetic.’
She raises the glass to her lips, chugging on the liquid, her eyes actually closing as she does.
‘I think you’re losing control,’ I say, a bit more fear rising within that I don’t want to acknowledge. Still, someone has to stand up for him when she won’t. Someone has to point out the truth she’s too blind to see – or too far gone to want to see.
‘What, you’re actually taking his side? I didn’t peg you as so pitiful.’ She snickers and shakes the wine in her glass in a cavalier move. She doesn’t get it. She really doesn’t get it.
‘I’m taking both sides,’ I retort, my voice edgier now. ‘I’m trying to save both of you. Can’t you see? You’re on a dangerous path, and I don’t think you’re going to like where it ends up.’ I’m standing now, towering over her. Even at my short stature and with my frail frame, I feel powerful standing above her. I like how it makes me feel. I haven’t felt this power in a long time.
I walk around the table, her evil glare on me. I sink down beside her, eye level with the woman who isn’t a stranger but isn’t quite a friend either. Maybe I’m emboldened by the few sips of wine, or maybe by the morality of what I’m about to say. Maybe I feel, deep down, that this is my chance to make amends for my own mistakes.
Whatever it is, I feel brave when I inch closer, my breath slapping her in the face.
Coolly, rationally, I spew out the words I’ve been wanting to say. ‘You need to back off. You’re losing it.’
She doesn’t move back even though I’m invading her personal space. She locks eyes with me, maintaining the uncomfortable, tense position. I can feel each exhalation from her nose on my face. ‘You need to back off. I think you’re losing it. I don’t know what you think you know, but I know what’s best for me. I’m not going to let him ruin my life. You have no idea what it’s like. So don’t you sit here judging me.’
I glower at the woman who has enchanted me and also horrified me. I gape at the woman who will be the ruination of herself, of her husband, maybe of me. I stare at all the dreams I had of watching a beautiful love story unfold vanish into thin air.
I stand back up, huffing with anger, stomping to the counter to catch my breath. I lean on the side, a pie I baked the other day sitting nearby. I stare at it, the top a little too dark, the crust now too stale to be good.
I hear her rise from the creaky oak chair, and the hairs on my neck salute her, the loose skin on my arms chilling.
She struts across the kitchen, closing the gap between us calmly, slowly. I hear every footstep echoing, every slow, methodical footstep.
I’ve gone too far. Who do I think I am calling her on this? How stupid can I be to think I can rein in her danger? And now I’ve gone and prodded the beast and made myself vulnerable. My back to her, nobody here but me and her. I’ve made a terrible mistake, one I can’t recover from now. It’s too late to turn back. The monster is free to strike, and I’m at her mercy.
I’ve lived my life, and over the years, my fear of death has dulled. Perhaps it’s the benefit of getting older, knowing death is knocking. You don’t try so desperately to avoid it like you once did.
I’m not afraid to die, but I’m no martyr either. I carefully, slyly slide my hand towards the pie, the sharp knife I’d used to cut it resting casually in the pan. My fingers glide over the handle, and I grip it. The metallic handle feels familiar in my hand, and an energy seems to surge through me.
My heart rate calms and my mind clears.
‘I’d back off if I were you,’ she whispers in my ear, the warmth of her breath chilling my neck.
I don’t move, the knife comfortably in my hand, the feel of it bolstering me. Suddenly, I’m not an elderly, frail lady waiting to die. Instead, with the feel of the knife, I’m transported back. I’m a young woman full of energy and vibrancy, ready to tackle the world. I’m the woman of my past, the don’t-mess-with-me woman who commanded respect.
I’m fearless.
Her footsteps are again methodical as she crosses the kitchen, this time away from me. I don’t turn around, staring at my hand on the knife handle as I hear her move down the entranceway. The door clicks shut – not a slam as one would expect. She’s too confident, too cocky, to slam the door. She knows a gentle click is all she needs, that the soft gesture will make an impact.
I turn to the table, an empty wine glass sitting nakedly on the tabletop. I let go of the knife and cross the floor, rage boiling inside.
A rage I can’t identify. A rage with roots stemming from a place I don’t know.
I touch the cold glass, my fingers tracing an intricate pattern on it. And then, like a switch has been flipped in me, my hand grabs the bulb of the glass and slams it on the floor. The thousands of shards are a comfort to me as they fall in abstract patterns all around my feet.
Amos meowing at the window is the only thing that snaps me out of my trance, makes me remember what I’ve been wanting to forget.
It all makes so much sense now.