The Watcher

53

It’s Sunday afternoon, and despite the tentative sunshine peeking over the roofs, the yard is empty. Veronica came home a few hours ago. I saw her open the trunk of her SUV and unload her suitcases onto the sidewalk. Philip came out to meet her and gave her a long hug before they carried the things into the house and closed the front door behind them. Since then there’s been no sighting of anyone from the Storm family.

I drum my fingers on the edge of the table and look down at the paper in front of me. The plan was for me to write a shopping list, but at the same time there are so many other things swimming around in my head.

I wonder how Leo is doing and how he’s feeling. And then of course I think about what happened at the police station yesterday. I was shown into an office where I spoke to a man in a uniform with a receding hairline. He had friendly eyes. I thought that several times during our conversation. He took notes while I talked and asked a few clarifying questions, but mostly he listened. He said they’d be in touch with me soon and then told me I was free to go.

“It was good that you came in,” he said.

Just what exactly those words meant remains to be seen. I’m prepared to accept the consequences of my actions, no matter what they are. A possible prison sentence doesn’t frighten me. For the first time in a long time, I feel something resembling faith in the future, even hope. What I’ve been through, what I’m still going through, is a tunnel, not a dead end.

I bring the pen to the paper. My sister is coming over for dinner tomorrow even though it’s a totally normal weekday. She pretty much invited herself, and I said she could come on one condition: that she brings Walter. I remember how affectionate and warm her voice was when I heard them talking on the phone through the bathroom wall. If she and I are going to strengthen our relationship, it makes sense for Walter to be a part of that, too. Besides, I need more people in my life, not fewer. In reality, it’s kind of lame for a puzzle to only have two pieces.

The only question is what kind of food to make. Anything besides lasagna, I think, and catch myself sniggering a little at my sister’s lack of culinary imagination. Once I’ve jotted down the ingredients for a curry recipe that doesn’t seem too hard to make, I add a few other things to my list, the kinds of things I may need for the week ahead. Fruits and vegetables, whole-grain bread and rice, turkey and salmon fillet. I should start eating properly again, taking care of myself. You need to eat… otherwise you’ll die, as my sister had said last Friday night. And I don’t want to die, not yet.

Mama. My pen stops. How long does it take for frozen grief to melt away once it’s begun to thaw? There’s no definitive answer to this question, but at least I’m not alone anymore. My sister and I can help each other handle the longing when it strikes or when something new pops up that Mama turns out to have said or done, the kind of thing we maybe don’t always understand. I twirl the pen in my hand and shake my head. That thing my sister told me, what my mother had told her about me… I still can’t get it to add up.

I can’t decide if it’s a blow to the image of my mother or if it simply adds some nuance. Maybe I don’t need to decide. Maybe it’s enough to point out that she wasn’t superhuman, that like any other person, she must have struggled with doubt and anguish—and no one wants anything other than to do right by their child, even at times when that’s damned near impossible.

The doorbell surprises me. Leo! I look up and peer out the window. But the person standing outside and raising her hand when our eyes meet through the glass isn’t Leo.

“Hi,” Veronica says when I open the door. “Am I disturbing you?”

Her long honey-colored hair is pulled back as usual, although there’s something different about her. Maybe the fact that she’s not wearing any makeup at all. I shake my head. No, she’s not disturbing me.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing here, but…”

We eye each other for a brief moment.

“Or, well, I do know of course. I wanted to ask how you’re doing.”

My hand flies up to my forehead automatically. The cut still burns and feels tight, but it’s healing. The scar will scarcely be noticeable.

“Plus,” Veronica continues, “I kind of wanted to try to explain myself a little. I feel like I sort of went on and on up there at the cabin, talked as if there was no tomorrow.”

She hesitantly tugs on the collar of her sweater, says that she read somewhere that something dramatic can have that effect, that shock and adrenaline can make people open up to total strangers and say things they never would have said otherwise.

“I was really shaken. One minute I was being pursued by a crazy person, the next minute you were lying on our deck in a pool of blood and raving about how I shouldn’t kill you.”

She quickly makes a face.

“And then there was the alcohol on top of that.”

I clear my throat and pull my cardigan together over my chest.

“I… It did all get a little fraught, all of it.”

“I think you could safely say that.”

She laughs, and in her laugh I hear the echo of Leo’s. Otherwise there’s not much resemblance, at least not in their appearance.

“At any rate,” she continues, “I think we’re going to solve this. Philip was really excited when I came home. Said that only now did he understand how preoccupied he’s been with his own affairs, that for a long time he hadn’t really been noticing me or Leo properly and that he was ashamed of it. He even cried, and it seemed as if—”

Veronica stops.

“There I go, going on and on again,” she says rolling her eyes at herself. “Oversharing.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

She flashes me a quick smile.

“Maybe it wasn’t just the shock and the whiskey, after all. Maybe there’s something about you, too, something that makes people… well, that it’s easy to say too much to you, extremely easy. Could it be that whole author thing? That you’re one of those people who sees things? And listens, maybe? That’s what Leo says, that you’re a good listener.”

“How’s he doing?” I ask.

Veronica scratches her arm, says that the two of them sat down and talked for a long time today as well. It wasn’t an easy conversation, but for the first time in ages, she felt like they’d actually managed to get through to each other.

“As I said, he thinks very highly of you. ‘More grown-ups should be like her.’ I’m pretty sure that’s what he said when you came up.”

“If only more teenagers were like him,” I respond.

Veronica laughs again, and a strange sensation comes over me. A feeling that there’s something that unites us, her and me, something that can’t be seen from the outside. Of course it could be even bigger, bigger than both of us. Maybe more women than you would think have hacked apart bouquets of roses in a fit of rage. Maybe more ought to.

Veronica checks the clock and says she’s got to be getting back home. Then she looks up again and our eyes meet.

“I hope things work out for you and your husband, too,” she adds. “Or at least for you.”

Yet again, I hear Peter’s words ringing in my ears. Don’t you love me anymore? Have you stopped loving me, Elena? Maybe he didn’t understand that the question was phrased wrong. It wasn’t my love that fell short, it was his.

I tell Veronica to say hi to Leo, and we say goodbye. After I close the door behind her, I slowly roam into the living room and over to the bookshelf. I run my hand over the spines of the books and feel the force of all the stories hiding within flow into my body.

Early tomorrow I’ll call the agency and ask for some new editing projects. Or maybe not. Maybe I should take a walk instead and visit a café downtown, or simply sit down at the kitchen table and see what turns up outside my window.

I’m not the same woman as before, nor am I the author I once was. If and when I start writing something new, I’m going to keep an eye on myself, be very attentive to the sometimes-thin, but crucial, dividing line between reality and fiction, be careful not to confuse myself with other people. But, that said, I’m still an observer, and I know that good stories are everywhere, sometimes where you suspect them least of all. All you have to do is keep your eyes open.