The Watcher

28

With one tug, I lower the blinds and angle them so that it’s impossible to see either in or out. It makes the kitchen feel smaller. Small and confined, but that’s how I want it. I don’t want to see the house across from me, don’t want to think about the look on Leo’s face as I walked down his stairs and past him out his front door.

At first I thought I would be able to handle the situation. I felt the words forming in my mouth—lying, adult, explain-things-away sorts of words. But then Leo looked at me, and I was done for. I couldn’t get a sound out other than mumbling that I had to go, that I needed to work. That part, at least, is true. The text is waiting, the text I need to finish before I will allow myself to contemplate my future—my and Peter’s future.

The computer sits in the kitchen, sleeping and dark but still alive, reminding me that my departure earlier happened so quickly that I didn’t have a chance to shut it down properly. When I touch one of the keys, it hums and the screen lights up. For a long time, I stare at the last several lines I wrote, and then I look up. Suddenly I have the feeling that I missed something important, something I overlooked, and that I really should… Then I stop midthought. Stop now. Stop putting off what needs to be done.

I fetch a stack of research materials from the living room, books that I have collected and made varying degrees of use of over the years. I used several of them as the basis and inspiration for previous writing projects. I sit down at the kitchen table, making a show of turning my back to the window, and pick up one book at a time. If something catches my eye, I flip through the pages and read a few random paragraphs. My hands are still trembling to start with, but as what I’m reading grabs my attention, I succeed in distancing myself from thoughts of what recently transpired. The stack contains books about psychiatric diagnoses and disorders, about developmental psychology and destructive relationship patterns. There are also quite a few books about grief and loss and death. I feel a pang inside: Mama.

I lay book after book aside. The pile gets shorter until I’m holding Getting Away with Murder. It came out a few years ago, written by a lawyer who was already bathed in scandals. Published by a small, but reliable, publisher, the book approaches the subject as if consulting or coaching the reader, as if it’s targeted at potential murderers. When the book came out, it stirred up a lot of controversy and debate.

With a grimace, I open up the book and read the first few lines: “Every year a number of homicides go undetected by our legal system.” Then I turn the page and browse the accounts of actual murder cases. There are shootings, hatchet attacks, fires, fights that got out of control, drug transactions, and simulated suicides. The attorney’s own commentary and analyses are interspersed here and there. He’s especially interested in what made the cases hard to solve, details that could just as easily have led to the perpetrator going free. Even if no laws were broken, the spirit evident in the title is still present in the text.

My browsing rate slows. My fingers have become wooden and reluctant. I’m having more and more trouble not thinking about what happened a little while ago. I was inside their house. There was a knife under her bed. My phone’s muffled ringtone brings me to my feet. Where did the sound come from? Then I remember that I had it in the pocket of my vest and hurry out to the front hall. Peter’s name rushes into my head. If it’s Peter, then to hell with it all, I’m going to ask him to come over here and never leave me again. But it’s not Peter, it’s my sister, and it hits me: Today is Friday. I had completely forgotten that. I step into my shoes as I answer.

“I’m just on my way out to pick up the last few things!”

“Oh, OK then. Well, all right, bye,” my sister says on the other end.

I put on my vest and look at the time. Only a few hours until we’re getting together.

“Did you want anything in particular? I mean, since you…?”

“Yes,” she says, “actually I did…” But then she stops. “Is everything OK? You sound a little… I don’t know.”

I stop in midmotion and lean back against the wall. It feels hard and unwelcoming behind my back. The wall would push me away if it could, I’m sure of that. Or maybe sooner just let me fall, which I’m already doing, freely, quickly.

“The neighbors,” I hear myself say. “I was over at their place.”

“Really? Well, I’ll be. When did you get so social?”

I shake my head.

“No, not like that. I mean… they weren’t…”

I try to explain, but the words won’t come together; they are tripping all over each other, incoherent. The gaps between the sentences grow until I’m completely silenced.

“Well, whatever,” my sister says. “I called to tell you I just spoke to Papa. He called, can you believe it, to say thank you for the birthday card.”

I rub my face.

“Something wasn’t right over there,” I mumble. “She’s pretending to be bedridden when in fact she’s strong and has plenty of energy.”

“Who?”

“Veronica, the woman who lives across from me.”

My sister moans faintly.

“OK, but did you hear what I said, that Papa called? He seemed happy about the card, actually really happy. And you know what else? You’re not going to believe this. Brace yourself, now. He said that they’ve discussed coming here this summer. I didn’t ask him to stay at my place or anything, but if they stayed at a hotel downtown maybe we could get coffee or something. If you want, of course.”

“I have a bad feeling. She’s planning something. I’m sure of it. But I don’t know when, and I don’t know—”

“Elena, enough already!”

My sister’s voice is so loud and shrill that I wince. A few seconds of silence pass, and then she comes back.

“Sorry. But it feels like this… like your fixation with the neighbors doesn’t really seem healthy. It’s like you’re focusing on them instead of dealing with your own problems.”

There’s an audible sigh on the other end.

“We really need to talk—you and me—for real.”

“OK,” I respond. “We can start with you telling me how things are actually going with Walter, between the two of you.”

I don’t even listen for her answer, just add something about seeing her soon and hang up. Then I open the door to get going, but that doesn’t go the way I thought it would.

Someone is standing outside, someone who’s holding a writing handbook in his outstretched hand.

“You forgot this,” Leo says.