А Финн - The Woman in the Window

“Oh, okay.”

More silence.

“I came over—” he begins, just as I say his name.

I steam ahead. “I’m so sorry.”

He cocks his head.

“I’m just so sorry.” Now he’s peering into his lap, but I press on. “For all the trouble, and for involving you. I—was so . . . sure . I was so sure that something was happening.”

He nods at the floor.

“I’ve had . . . it’s been a very hard year.” I close my eyes; when I open them again, I see that he’s looking at me, his eyes bright, searching.

“I lost my child and my husband.” Swallow. Say it. “They died. They’re dead.” Breathe. Breathe. One, two, three, four.

“And I started drinking. More than usual. And I self-medicated. Which is dangerous and wrong.” He’s watching me intently.

“It isn’t like—it’s not that I believed they were actually communicating with me—you know, from . . .”

“The other side,” he says, his voice low.

“Exactly.” I shift in my seat, lean forward. “I knew they were gone. Dead. But I liked hearing them. And feeling . . . It’s very tough to explain.”

“Like, connected?”

I nod. He’s such an unusual teenager.

“As for the rest—I don’t . . . I can’t even remember a lot of it. I guess I wanted to connect with other people. Or needed to.” My hair brushes my cheeks as I shake my head. “I don’t understand it.” I look directly at him. “But I’m very sorry.” I clear my throat, straighten up. “I know you didn’t come over here to see an adult cry.”

“I’ve cried in front of you,” he points out.

I smile. “Fair enough.”

“I borrowed your movie, remember?” He slides a slipcase from his coat pocket, places it on the coffee table. Night Must Fall . I’d forgotten about that.

“Were you able to watch it?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“What did you think?”

“Creepy. That guy.”

“Robert Montgomery.”

“Was he Danny?”

“Yes.”

“Really creepy. I like the part where he asks the girl—uh . . .”

“Rosalind Russell.”

“Was she Olivia?”

“Yes.”

“Where he asks her if she likes him, and she’s like, no, and he’s like, ‘Everybody else does.’” He giggles. I grin.

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“Yeah.”

“Black-and-white’s not so bad.”

“No, it was fine.”

“You’re welcome to borrow anything you like.”

“Thanks.”

“But I don’t want to get you in trouble with your parents.” Now he looks away, studies the grate. “I know they’re furious,” I continue.

A quiet snort. “They’ve got their own issues.” Eyes back on me. “They’re really difficult to live with. Like, super-difficult.”

“I think a lot of young people feel that way about their parents.”

“No, but they really are.”

I nod.

“I can’t wait to go to college,” he says. “Two more years. Not even.”

“Do you know where you want to go?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. Someplace far away.” He hooks his arm behind himself, scratches his back. “It’s not like I have friends here anyway.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Boyfriend?”

He looks at me, surprised. Shrugs. “I’m figuring things out,” he explains.

“Fair enough.” I wonder if his parents know.

The grandfather clock booms once, twice, three times, four.

“You know,” I say, “the apartment downstairs is empty.”

Ethan frowns. “What happened to that guy?”

“He left.” I clear my throat again. “But—so if you want, you can use it. The space. I know what it’s like to need your own space.”

Am I trying to get back at Alistair and Jane? I don’t think so. I don’t think so. But it might be nice—it would be nice, I’m sure—to have someone else here. A young person, no less, even if he’s a lonely teenager.

I go on, as though it’s a sales pitch: “There’s no TV, but I can give you the Wi-Fi password. And there’s a couch in there.” I’m talking brightly, convincing myself. “It could just be a place for you to get away to if things are hard at home.”

He stares. “That’d be awesome.”

I’m on my feet before he can change his mind. David’s key is on the kitchen counter, a little shard of silver in the dim light. I palm it, present it to Ethan, who stands.

“Awesome,” he repeats, tucking it into his pocket.

“Come over anytime,” I tell him.

He glances at the door. “I should probably get home.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks for—” He pats his pocket. “And for the movie.”

“You’re welcome.” I follow him to the hall.

Before leaving, he turns, waves at the sofa—“Little guy’s shy today,” he says—and gazes at me. “I got a phone,” he announces proudly.

“Congratulations.”

“Want to see it?”

“Sure.”

He produces a scuffed iPhone. “It’s secondhand, but still.”

“It’s awesome.”

“What generation is yours?”

“I have no idea. What’s yours?”

“Six. Almost the newest.”

“Well, it’s awesome. I’m glad you have a phone.”

“I put your number in. Do you want mine?”

“Your number?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.” He taps the screen, and I feel my phone buzz in the depths of my robe. “Now you’ve got it,” he explains, hanging up.

“Thank you.”

He reaches for the doorknob, then drops his hand, looks at me, suddenly serious.

“I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you,” he says, and his voice is so soft that my throat constricts.

I nod.

He leaves. I lock the door behind him.

I float back to the sofa and look at the coffee table, at the pills dotting it like stars. I reach out, clasp the remote in my hand. Resume the film.

“To tell you the truth,” says Jimmy Stewart, “it really scares me a little.”

Saturday, November 13

83

Half past ten, and I feel different.

Perhaps it was the sleep (two temazepams, twelve hours); perhaps it’s my stomach—after Ethan left, after the movie ended, I made myself a sandwich. Closest thing I’ve had to a proper meal all week.

Whatever the case, whatever the cause, I feel different.

I feel better.

I shower. Stand beneath the spray; the water soaks my hair, pounds my shoulders. Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. Half an hour. When I emerge, scrubbed and shampooed, my skin feels new. I wriggle into jeans and a sweater. (Jeans! When did I last wear jeans?)

I walk across the bedroom to the window, part the curtains; light blasts the room. I close my eyes, let it warm me.

I feel fit for fight, ready to face the day. Ready for a glass of wine. Just one.

I journey downstairs, visiting each room I pass, hiking up the blinds, pulling back the curtains. The house is flooded with light.

In the kitchen I pour myself a few fingers of merlot. (“Only Scotch is measured in fingers,” I can hear Ed say. I push him away, pour another finger.)

Now: Vertigo, round two. I settle into the sofa, skip back to the beginning, to that lethal lunge-and-plunge rooftop sequence. Jimmy Stewart rises into frame, scaling a ladder. I’ve spent a lot of time with him lately.

An hour later, during my third glass:

“He was prepared to take his wife to an institution,” intones the court official, presiding over the inquest, “where her mental health would have been in the hands of qualified specialists.” I fidget, get up to refresh my drink.

This afternoon, I’ve decided, I’ll play some chess, check in on my classic-film website, maybe clean the house—the upstairs rooms are powdery with dust. Under no circumstances will I watch my neighbors.