А Финн - The Woman in the Window

“It’s a good day for it. Nice and mild outside.”

“No—I’m . . . no.”

“You’re hungover.”

“That, too.”

A small sigh. “Did you try it with Dr. Fielding this week?”

“Yes,” I lie.

“And how was it?”

“Fine.”

“How far did you make it?”

“Thirteen steps.”

Bina studies me. “All right. Not bad for a lady your age.”

“Getting older, too.”

“Why, when’s your birthday?”

“Next week. The eleventh. Eleven eleven.”

“Gonna have to give you a seniors’ discount.” She bends down, packs her weights into their case. “Let’s eat.”

I never used to cook much—Ed was the chef—and these days FreshDirect delivers my groceries to the door: frozen dinners, microwave meals, ice cream, wine. (Wine in bulk.) Also a few portions of lean protein and fruit, for Bina’s benefit. And my own, she’d argue.

Our lunches are off the clock—it seems Bina enjoys the pleasure of my company. “Shouldn’t I be paying you for this?” I asked her once.

“You’re already cooking for me,” she replied.

I scraped a black chunk of chicken onto her plate. “Is that what this is?”

Today it’s melon with honey and a few strips of dry bacon. “Definitely uncured?” Bina asks.

“Definitely.”

“Thanks, lady.” She spoons fruit into her mouth, brushes honey from her lip. “I was reading an article about how bees can travel six miles from their hive in search of pollen.”

“Where’d you read that?”

“ The Economist .”

“Ooh, The Economist .”

“Isn’t that amazing?”

“It’s depressing. I can’t even leave my house.”

“The article wasn’t about you.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“And they dance, too. It’s called a—”

“Waggle dance.”

She snaps a bacon strip in two. “How did you know that?”

“There was an exhibit on honeybees at the Pitt Rivers in Oxford when I was there. That’s their natural history museum.”

“Ooh, Oxford.”

“I remember the waggle dance in particular because we tried to imitate it. A lot of bumbling and thrashing. Much like the way I exercise.”

“Were you drunk?”

“We were not sober.”

“I’ve been dreaming about bees ever since I read the article,” she says. “What do you think that means?”

“I’m not a Freudian. I don’t interpret dreams.”

“But if you did.”

“If I did, I’d say that the bees represent your urgent need to stop asking me what your dreams mean.”

She chews. “I’m going to make you suffer next time.”

We eat in silence.

“Did you take your pills today?”

“Yes.” I haven’t. I’ll do it after she leaves.

A moment later, water lunges through the pipes. Bina looks toward the stairs. “Was that a toilet?”

“It was.”

“Is someone else here?”

I shake my head, swallow. “David’s got a friend over, sounds like.”

“What a slut.”

“He’s no angel.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“I never do. Are you jealous?”

“Definitely not.”

“You wouldn’t like to waggle dance with David?”

She flicks a crumb of bacon at me. “I’ve got a conflict next Wednesday. Same as last week.”

“Your sister.”

“Yes. Back for more. Would Thursday work for you?”

“The odds are excellent.”

“Hooray.” She chews, swirls her water glass. “You look tired, Anna. Are you resting?”

I nod my head, then shake it. “No. I’ve—I mean, yes, but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. This is hard for me, you know. All . . . this.” My arm sweeps the room.

“I know it must be. I know it is .”

“And exercise is hard for me.”

“You’re doing really great. I promise.”

“And therapy is hard for me. It’s hard to be on the other side of it.”

“I can imagine.”

I breathe. Don’t want to get worked up.

One last thing: “And I miss Livvy and Ed.”

Bina sets her fork down. “Of course you do,” she says, and her smile is so warm I could cry.

24

GrannyLizzie:Hello, Doctor Anna!

The message appears on my desktop screen with a chirp. I set my glass to one side, suspend my chess game. I’m 3–0 since Bina left. A banner day.

thedoctorisin:Hello Lizzie! How are you feeling?

GrannyLizzie:Doing better, thank you kindly.

thedoctorisin:Great to hear.

GrannyLizzie:I donated Richard’s clothing to our church.

thedoctorisin:I’m sure they appreciated that.

GrannyLizzie:They did and it’s what Richard would want .

GrannyLizzie:And the students in my third grade class made a big get well card for me. It’s enormous. Glitter and cotton balls everywhere.

thedoctorisin:That’s very sweet.

GrannyLizzie:Honestly I would give it a C+, but it’s the thought that counts.

I laugh. LOL, I type, but then I delete it.

thedoctorisin:I worked with kids, too.

GrannyLizzie:Did you?

thedoctorisin:Child psychology.

GrannyLizzie:Sometimes I feel like that was my job . . .

I laugh again.

GrannyLizzie:Whoa whoa whoa! I almost forgot!

GrannyLizzie:I was able to take a little walk outside this morning! One of my old students dropped by and got me out of the house.

GrannyLizzie:Just for a minute, but it was worth it.

thedoctorisin:What a terrific step. It will only get easier from here.

That might not be true, but for Lizzie’s sake, I hope otherwise.

thedoctorisin:And how wonderful that your students are so fond of you.

GrannyLizzie:This is Sam. No artistic instincts at all, but he was a very nice child and now he’s a very nice man.

GrannyLizzie:Although I forgot my house key.

thedoctorisin:Understandable!

GrannyLizzie:Wasn’t able to get back inside for a moment.

thedoctorisin:I hope that wasn’t too frightening.

GrannyLizzie:A little freaky but I keep a spare in our flower pot. I have beautiful violets in bloom.

thedoctorisin:We don’t have that luxury in NYC!

GrannyLizzie:Laughing Out Loud!

I smile. She hasn’t quite mastered it.

GrannyLizzie:I must go make lunch. Friend coming over.

thedoctorisin:Go do that. I’m glad you have company.

GrannyLizzie:Thanky ou!

GrannyLizzie:: )

She logs out, and I feel radiant. “I may do some good before I am dead.” — Jude, Part Sixth, Chapter 1.

Five o’clock and all’s well. I finish my match (4–0!), sip the last of my wine, and walk downstairs to the television. A Hitchcock doubleheader tonight, I think as I open the DVD cabinet; maybe Rope (underrated) and Strangers on a Train (criss-cross!). Both starring gay actors—I wonder if that’s why I paired them. I’m still on my analyst’s kick. “Criss-cross,” I say to myself. I’ve been monologuing a lot lately. Stick a pin in that for Dr. Fielding.

Or perhaps North by Northwest .

Or The Lady Vanish —

A scream, raw and horrorstruck, torn from the throat.

I spin toward the kitchen windows.

The room is silent. My heart drums.

Where did it come from?

Waves of honeyed evening light outside, wind shifting in the trees. Was it from the street or—