А Финн - The Woman in the Window

I do, in fact. “Not at all.”

“You should experience the effects quite quickly.”

The rattan on the stairs scratches at my soles. “Swift results.”

“Well, I’d call them effects rather than results.”

No shower-pisser, he. “I’ll keep you posted,” I assure him, descending to the study.

“I felt concerned after our last session.”

I pause. “I—” No. I don’t know what to say.

“My hope is that this adjustment in your medication will help.”

Still I say nothing.

“Anna?”

“Yes. I hope so, too.”

His voice shrivels again.

“Sorry?”

A second later he’s at full volume. “These pills,” he says, “are not to be taken with alcohol.”

28

In the kitchen, I chase the pills with merlot. I understand Dr. Fielding’s concern, I do; I recognize that alcohol is a depressant, and as such, ill-suited to a depressive. I get it. I’ve written about it—“Juvenile Depression and Alcohol Abuse,” Journal of Pediatric Psychology (volume 37, number 4), Wesley Brill, coauthor. I can quote our conclusions, if necessary. As Bernard Shaw said, I often quote myself; it adds spice to my conversation. As Shaw also said, alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of life. Good old Shaw.

So come on, Julian: These aren’t antibiotics. Besides, I’ve been mixing my medicines for almost a year, and take a look at me now.

My laptop sits in a pane of sunlight on the kitchen table. I pry it open, visit the Agora, walk two new recruits through the drill, weigh in on yet another drug debate. (None of them are to be taken with alcohol, I preach.) Once—only once—I cast a quick look at the Russell house. There’s Ethan, tapping away at his desk—playing a game, I suppose, or writing a paper; not surfing the Internet, anyway—and in the parlor Alistair sits with a tablet propped in his lap. A twenty-first-century family. No Jane, but that’s fine. None of my business. Too much stimulation.

“Goodbye, Russells,” I say, and turn my attention to the television. Gaslight —Ingrid Bergman, never more luscious, slowly going insane.

29

Sometime after lunch, I’m back at the laptop when I see GrannyLizzie enter the Agora, the little icon beside her name morphing into a smiley face, as though to be present on this forum is a pleasure and a joy. I decide to beat her to the punch.

thedoctorisin:Hello, Lizzie!

GrannyLizzie:Hello Doctor Anna!

thedoctorisin:How’s the weather in Montana?

GrannyLizzie:Rainy outside. Which is OK for an indoor gal like me!

GrannyLizzie:How’s the weather in New York City?

GrannyLizzie:Do I sound like a hillbilly saying that? Should I just say NYC??

thedoctorisin:Both work! It’s sunny here. How are you doing?

GrannyLizzie:Today has been tougher than yesterday, to be honest. So far.

I sip, roll the wine around my tongue.

thedoctorisin:That happens. Progress isn’t always smooth.

GrannyLizzie:I can tell that ! My neighbors are bringing groceries to me at home.

thedoctorisin:How terrific that yo’ve got such suportive people around you.

Two typos. More than two glasses of wine. That’s a pretty decent batting average, I think. “Pretty damn decent,” I say to myself, sipping again.

GrannyLizzie:BUT: The big news is that . . . my sons will be visiting me this weekend. Really want to be able to go outside with them. Really really!

thedoctorisin:Don’t be hard on yourself if its not meant to be this time around.

A pause.

GrannyLizzie:I know this is a harsh word, but it’s difficult for me not to feel like “a freak”.

Harsh indeed, and it needles my heart. I drain my glass, pull back the sleeves of my robe, rush my fingers over the keyboard.

thedoctorisin:You are NOT a freak. You are a victim of circumstance. What you’re going through is hard as hell. I’ve been housebound for ten m onths and I know as well as anyone how difficult this is. PLEASE don’t ever think of yourself as a freak or aloser or anything other than a tough and resourceful person who’s been bravev enough to ask for help. Your sons should be proud of you and you should be pruod of yourself.

Fin. Not poetry. Not even decent English—my fingers slipped on and off the keys—but every word was true. Strictly true.

GrannyLizzie:That’s wonderful.

GrannyLizzie:Thank you.

GrannyLizzie:No wonder you’re a psychologist. You know just what to say and how to say it.

I feel the smile spreading across my lips.

GrannyLizzie:Do you have a family of your own?

The smile freezes.

Before answering, I pour myself more wine. It brims at the lip of the glass; I bow my head, slurp it down to high tide. A drop rolls off my lip, down my chin, onto my robe. I smear it into the terry cloth. Good thing Ed isn’t watching. Good thing nobody’s watching.

thedoctorisin:I do, but we don’t live together.

GrannyLizzie:Why not?

Why not, indeed? Why don’t you live together, Anna? I lift the glass to my mouth, set it down again. The scene unfolds before me like a Japanese fan: the vast flats of snow, the chocolate-box hotel, the ancient ice machine.

And to my surprise, I begin to tell her.

30

We’d decided ten days earlier to separate. That’s the starting point, the once-upon-a-time. Or rather—to be entirely fair, to be strictly true—Ed had decided, and I had agreed, in principle. I admit I didn’t think it would happen, not even when he summoned the broker. Could’ve fooled me.

Why, I reason, isn’t for Lizzie to concern herself with. With which it is not for Lizzie to concern herself, as Wesley might insist; he was a stickler for dangling prepositions. I assume he still is. But no: The why isn’t important, not here. The where and the when I can provide.

Vermont and last December, respectively, when we packed Olivia into the Audi and revved onto 9A, over the Henry Hudson Bridge, and out of Manhattan. Two hours later, wending through upstate New York, we’d hit what Ed liked to call the back roads—“with lots of diners and pancake places for us,” he promised Olivia.

“Mom doesn’t like pancakes,” she said.

“She can go to a crafts store.”

“Mom doesn’t like crafts,” I said.

As it turned out, the back roads of the region are remarkably fallow when it comes to pancake places and crafts stores. We found a single lonely IHOP in easternmost New York, where Olivia dredged her waffles in maple syrup (locally sourced, claimed the menu) and Ed and I arrowed glances at each other across the table. Outside, a light snow began to shake down, frail little kamikaze flakes smiting themselves against the windows. Olivia pointed with her fork and squealed.

I jousted her fork with my own. “There’ll be a lot more of that at Blue River,” I told her. This was our final destination, a ski resort in central Vermont that Olivia’s friend had visited. Classmate, not friend.

Back to the car, back on the road. The ride was quiet, on the whole. We hadn’t said anything to Olivia; no sense spoiling her vacation, I’d argued, and Ed nodded. We’d forge ahead for her.

So in silence we swept past broad fields and little streams lacquered with ice, through forgotten villages and into a feeble snowstorm near the Vermont border. At one point Olivia burst into “Over the Meadow and Through the Woods,” and I piled on, trying and failing to harmonize.