А Финн - The Woman in the Window

And without turning around, without averting her gaze, she replies, in the same clear tone, “Jane.”

Jane.

The name bubbles to my lips before I can swallow it down. The woman pivots, spears me with a stare.

“I’m surprised to see you here.” Her tone as flat as her eyes. Shark eyes, I think, cold, hard. I want to point out that I’m surprised to be here myself, but the words skid on my tongue.

“I thought you were . . . impaired,” she continues. Withering.

I shake my head. She says nothing further.

I clear my throat again. Where is she and who are you? I want to ask. Who are you and where is she? Voices swirl around me, mingle with the words inside my head.

“What?”

“Who are you?” There.

“Jane.” It isn’t her voice, but the barista’s, floating across the counter, tapping Jane on the shoulder. “Skim latte for Jane.”

She keeps looking at me, watching me, as though I might strike. I’m a well-regarded psychologist, I could say to her, should say to her. And you’re a liar and a fraud.

“Jane?” The barista, trying a third time. “Your latte?”

She swivels, accepts the cup in its snug cardboard jacket. “You know who I am,” she tells me.

I shake my head once more. “I know Jane. I met her. I saw her in her house.” My voice is quaky but clear.

“It’s my house, and you didn’t see anyone.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t, ” says the woman.

“I—”

“I hear you’re a drunk. I hear you’re on pills.” She’s moving now, circling me, the way a lioness does. Slowly I revolve with her, trying to keep up. I feel like a child. The conversations around us have stalled, stilled; there’s a brittle silence. In the corner of my eye, in a corner of the coffee shop, I can see the Takeda boy, still stationed by the door.

“You’re watching my house. You’re following me.”

I shake my head, drag it back and forth, slow, stupid.

“This has got to stop. We can’t live like this. Maybe you can, but we can’t.”

“Just tell me where she is,” I whisper.

We’ve come full circle.

“I don’t know who or what you’re talking about. And I’m calling the police.” She pushes past me, knocks my shoulder with her own. In the mirror I watch her leave, maneuvering between the tables as though they’re buoys.

The bell cries as she opens the door, again when it slams behind her.

I stand there. The room is quiet. My gaze sinks to my umbrella. My eyes close. It’s like the outside is trying to get in. I feel harrowed, hollowed. And once again, I’ve learned nothing.

Except this: She wasn’t arguing with me—not only arguing with me, anyway.

I think she was pleading.

62

“Dr. Fox?”

A voice, hushed, right behind me. A hand, gentle, on my elbow. I turn, crack an eyelid.

It’s the Takeda boy.

Still can’t remember his name. I close my eye.

“Do you need some help?”

Do I need some help? I’m a couple hundred yards from my home, swaying in my bathrobe with my eyes screwed shut in the middle of a coffee shop. Yes, I need some help. I dip my head.

His grip tightens. “Let’s go this way,” he says.

He steers me through the café, the umbrella slapping against chairs and knees as though it’s a white cane. A low rumble of coffee-talk surrounds us.

Then the bell chimes and a draft rushes toward me, and his hand drops to the small of my back; he nudges me out the door.

Outside the air is still—no drizzle. I feel him move to take the umbrella from me, but I tug it away from him.

His hand returns to my elbow. “Let me walk you home,” he says.

As we walk, he keeps a hand clasped firmly around my arm, like a blood-pressure strap. I imagine he can feel my arteries humming. It’s strange, being escorted like this; makes me feel old. I want to open my eyes, look at his face. I don’t.

We proceed fitfully, the Takeda boy matching my pace; we break the backs of leaves beneath us. I hear the sweep of a car as it coasts past on the left, sighing. Somewhere above, a tree sheds raindrops onto my head, my shoulders. I wonder if the woman is on the sidewalk ahead of us. I imagine her turning her head, watching me trail her.

Then:

“My parents told me what happened,” he says. “I’m really sorry.”

I nod, eyes still shut. We move on.

“It’s been a while since you got out of the house, I guess?”

Surprisingly often of late, I think, but I nod again.

“Well, we’re almost home. I can see it.”

My heart fills.

Something clacks against my knee—his own umbrella, I realize, hooked over his arm. “Sorry,” he says. I don’t bother to reply.

Last time I spoke to him—when was that? Halloween, I think, more than a year ago. That’s right: He answered the door when we knocked, Ed and I in our weekend clothes, Olivia dressed as a fire truck. He complimented her costume, ladled candy into her backpack. Wished us happy trick-or-treating. Such a nice boy.

And now, twelve months later, he’s guiding me down the block as I shuffle in my bathrobe, eyes sealed against the world.

Such a nice boy.

Which reminds me:

“Do you know the Russells?” My voice sounds bent but unbroken.

He pauses. Perhaps he’s surprised I’ve spoken. “The Russells?”

I suppose that answers my question, but I try again: “Across the street.”

“Oh,” he says. “The new—no. My mom keeps meaning to visit them, but I don’t think she’s done it yet.”

Another strike.

“Here we are,” he says, softly turning me to the right.

I raise the umbrella and, unpeeling my eyelids, find myself before the gate, the house looming above me. I shiver.

He speaks again. “Your door is open.”

He’s right, of course: I can look straight into the lamp-lit living room, glinting like a gold tooth in the face of the house. The umbrella wobbles in my hand. I close my eyes again.

“Did you leave it open?”

I nod.

“Okay.” His hand glides up to my shoulder, gently presses me forward.

“What are you doing?”

It isn’t his voice. His grip jostles; my eyes spring open before I can stop them.

Standing beside us, shrunken in an oversize sweatshirt and pale in the gloom, is Ethan. A stealth pimple deranges one eyebrow. His fingers worry at his pockets.

I hear myself murmur his name.

The Takeda boy turns to me. “Do you know each other?”

“What are you doing?” Ethan repeats, stepping forward. “You shouldn’t be out of the house.”

Your “mother” can tell you all about it, I think.

“Is she okay?” he asks.

“I think so,” answers the Takeda boy. Somehow, suddenly, I remember he’s called Nick.

Slowly I swing my gaze between them. They must be almost the same age, but my escort is already a young man, fully formed, finished in marble; Ethan—gawky, narrow, with his slender shoulders and riven brow—looks like a child next to him. He is a child, I remind myself.

“I can—can I take her inside?” he says, looking at me.

Nick does the same. I nod again. “I guess so,” he agrees.

Ethan takes another step toward us, lays a hand on my back. For a moment I’m flanked by the two of them, fastened like wings to my shoulder blades. “Only if you want me to,” Ethan adds.

I look him in the eyes, those liquid blue eyes. “Yes,” I breathe.

Nick releases me, moves back. I mouth the words before I can say them.

“You’re welcome,” he replies. To Ethan: “I think she’s had a shock. Maybe give her some water.” He retreats to the street. “Want me to check in on you later?”