Читать книгу The Widow Next Door: The most chilling of new crime thriller books that you will read in 2018 - L.A. Detwiler - Страница 14

She comes over several times a week now.

At first, I felt terrible about it, maybe even a little uneasy. I should’ve never gone on and on about not having kids. She probably just feels obligated or pities me. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. I’ve always found it to be a detestable emotion, reserved for the weakest of the weak.

I have to admit, though, she never makes me feel like it’s an imposition. Her smile is always gentle, soothing, when she comes through the door. We have tea together and chat. A few times, she’s even stayed to watch the soap operas with me. I feel a connection to her, despite our age difference.

I know she’s got her own life, and I know I should tell her she doesn’t have to keep coming over. But I can’t. Because, suddenly, I’m not so isolated. Suddenly, getting out of bed in the morning isn’t so difficult. Suddenly, I feel like a little piece of me is back.

So what do an old lady and a young, perky blonde talk about, you ask?

Everything. We talk about everything.

The weather and the grocery store – that’s where it started. But as we spend time together, getting to know each other, we’ve come to realise we have so much to talk about.

We talk about how we both want to visit Paris someday. We talk about the actors on our soap operas and predict what’s coming next. We talk about Amos and how she wants a cat too. We talk about muffin recipes and cleaning tips and books we’ve both read.

It’s quite lovely having a friend after all this time. It’s exhilarating to have companionship, to have someone to share things with. I didn’t realise how much I’ve missed it.

Today, we’re making a pie.

Mostly, she’s making a pie – rhubarb, of course, because what other kind of pie is even worth it? I’m standing nearby, my shaky hands and aching legs of little use other than handing her ingredients. I have to pass the flour bag with two hands – two hands. It’s disgraceful.

I don’t have time for self-pity, though, because Jane animatedly chats and chats and chats.

‘So, darling, what are you thinking of the neighbourhood now that you’ve been here a bit?’ I ask as she works on the crust.

She smiles. ‘It’s a nice area. At first, I was taken back by the seclusion of it, you know? With us being the only people on the lane, it felt a little eerie. But now that we know each other, it doesn’t feel so lonely, huh?’

I smile and nod. ‘Agreed. It was quite uncanny before you moved in. It just felt unnatural, you know? This lovely lane with no children playing on the sidewalk, no cute little families out and about. I’d adapted, of course, gotten used to it over the months the house sat empty. But I was so glad when you moved in. You brought life back to Bristol Lane,’ I admit, readjusting my glasses as I stare at her.

She nods. ‘Thanks. We try, I guess. I like how quiet it is, but I agree it can be a little too quiet sometimes. A little dull during the day, if I’m being honest. Sometimes, I don’t know, I wonder if this is really it, you know?’

I sigh. I know. I know all too well she’s not talking about our empty street or the lack of noise. I know she’s talking about everything – her, them, life in general.

‘It’s okay. I know all about it. Being a housewife isn’t a walk in the park, and sometimes men are just daft when it comes to understanding our feelings. Sometimes people in general are quite daft. It’s a tough world.’

‘I know. I guess I’m just edgy, too. I just … We’ve been married a while now. I thought by now, things would be different. It’s not really going according to plan.’ She pauses from rolling out the pie dough and fiddles with the ring on her hand as I watch. There’s dough stuck on her wedding band.

‘How do you mean?’ I ask as I walk over to the kitchen chair, my breathing intensifying despite the short distance to the chair. It’s one of those days when everything tires me.

She continues rolling out the dough.

‘I guess family is what I mean. I thought by now maybe we’d have a family.’

‘Oh? You really want kids, huh?’ It’s a wasted question because just looking at her as she talks, I know the answer. Of course she wants kids. She wants them as badly as she wants to breathe. It’s all over her face.

She pauses, hands on the rolling pin. For a moment, my blood goes cold because I have a flashback to the icy gaze I’ve seen – no, the icy gaze I thought I’d seen – her emit. I see her face go dark, her eyes narrow in on me. I see a rage frothing beneath that wickedly convincing smile.

Fear simmers to the surface, just beneath my sense of composure.

Just as I’m ready to convince myself I’m not crazy, that she’s definitely got a sharp edge to her, the calm, soothing Jane returns. What’s wrong with me? Am I going mad?

I rock in my chair a little, readjusting. I don’t take my eyes off her.

She turns to me, her smile a little too wide. ‘I do. It just feels right, you know? I mean, I didn’t have the best family growing up. Mom was a control freak, to put it mildly, and, well, things were … let’s just say really complicated. Not the best, in truth. I just always dreamed of having my own, doing it right – or as right as one can. I wanted a chance to sort of … redeem my childhood through my own child. I know that makes no sense. I just want to prove I can do it right. But it’s been over a year now and doctors are saying it might not happen.’

She’s got a faraway look now, her hands still frozen on the rolling pin.

Is it just me or are her hands shaking slightly, the tremors palpable from here despite her attempt to steady them?

She reaches up and smooths a blonde strand, swiping it away from her eye, some white, powdery flour clinging to the strands like snow.

I sigh. I want to convince her it’s going to be okay. I should convince her it’s going to be okay. But I don’t know. I’m not one to help in this department.

‘I’m sure it’ll work out like it should, you know?’ I offer weakly, not really sure what else to say. My gaze falls to my feet, focusing on the small imperfection in the flooring that’s been there for decades. I study the crevice, my eyes dancing along the line as I take deep breaths.

‘Yeah,’ she replies absent-mindedly.

‘Well, I’m going to take that back,’ I say, refocusing on her. I need to be honest. ‘I hope it works out. But if it doesn’t, know it’s okay not to be okay with it. I had a hard time with it all, to tell you the truth. I think even though I have come to terms with it, some days are still harder than others. I still struggle with aspects of it, I guess.’

Her hands leave the rolling pin then. She wraps herself up in them, as if she’s cradling herself, flour now on her shirt. The specks of flour and dough dotting her top bother me. I feel a need to cross the kitchen and bat at the spots, but I don’t.

She eyes me, leaning on the counter. ‘You couldn’t conceive?’

Now it’s my turn to wrap myself in my arms in defence. How do I broach this subject? And why, after all this time, is it still so hard?

I slump backwards in the chair, taking a ragged breath and exhaling audibly before continuing. ‘It’s complicated. But we never had children, and for a long time, I tried to fool myself into thinking it wasn’t an issue. But it was. And it built into bigger issues. It took me a long time to realise not having kids … well, it set my life on a different path, and not a good one like all those motivational speakers would like you to believe. It’s hard. So I understand the stress you’re under.’ I pick at a sharp edge on my fingernail and bite my lip. After all this time, the words are still unbearable to utter. The admission of how badly I wanted it and how much it hurt when it didn’t come true – it’s a bitter pill, one I haven’t ever been able to swallow, even now as an old lady. And I’ve swallowed a lot of pills over the years. This one – it’s different.