Caroline Eriksson - The Watcher

“I’m just on my way out to pick up the last few things!”

“Oh, OK then. Well, all right, bye,” my sister says on the other end.

I put on my vest and look at the time. Only a few hours until we’re getting together.

“Did you want anything in particular? I mean, since you…?”

“Yes,” she says, “actually I did…” But then she stops. “Is everything OK? You sound a little… I don’t know.”

I stop in midmotion and lean back against the wall. It feels hard and unwelcoming behind my back. The wall would push me away if it could, I’m sure of that. Or maybe sooner just let me fall, which I’m already doing, freely, quickly.

“The neighbors,” I hear myself say. “I was over at their place.”

“Really? Well, I’ll be. When did you get so social?”

I shake my head.

“No, not like that. I mean… they weren’t…”

I try to explain, but the words won’t come together; they are tripping all over each other, incoherent. The gaps between the sentences grow until I’m completely silenced.

“Well, whatever,” my sister says. “I called to tell you I just spoke to Papa. He called, can you believe it, to say thank you for the birthday card.”

I rub my face.

“Something wasn’t right over there,” I mumble. “She’s pretending to be bedridden when in fact she’s strong and has plenty of energy.”

“Who?”

“Veronica, the woman who lives across from me.”

My sister moans faintly.

“OK, but did you hear what I said, that Papa called? He seemed happy about the card, actually really happy. And you know what else? You’re not going to believe this. Brace yourself, now. He said that they’ve discussed coming here this summer. I didn’t ask him to stay at my place or anything, but if they stayed at a hotel downtown maybe we could get coffee or something. If you want, of course.”

“I have a bad feeling. She’s planning something. I’m sure of it. But I don’t know when, and I don’t know—”

“Elena, enough already!”

My sister’s voice is so loud and shrill that I wince. A few seconds of silence pass, and then she comes back.

“Sorry. But it feels like this… like your fixation with the neighbors doesn’t really seem healthy. It’s like you’re focusing on them instead of dealing with your own problems.”

There’s an audible sigh on the other end.

“We really need to talk—you and me—for real.”

“OK,” I respond. “We can start with you telling me how things are actually going with Walter, between the two of you.”

I don’t even listen for her answer, just add something about seeing her soon and hang up. Then I open the door to get going, but that doesn’t go the way I thought it would.

Someone is standing outside, someone who’s holding a writing handbook in his outstretched hand.

“You forgot this,” Leo says.

I hesitate for a second, then lean forward and take the book I had left on the stack in Leo’s room. He thanks me for loaning it to him and turns around to go back home, but I call after him to wait and dig around in my pants pocket.

“And you forgot this.”

I hold up his house key. He slowly comes toward me, takes it out of my hand, and stuffs it into his own pocket.

“This isn’t a good solution.”

I should have said something more, but the words stick in my throat. Leo shrugs.

“Better than losing it.” There is a pause, and Leo looks askance at me. “I did get one of my shoes back, anyway.”

We look at each other. If only I weren’t so ashamed of what I’d done, I would ask. As things stand, though, I can’t bring myself to do it. Maybe he senses that. Maybe that’s why he finally says it on his own, spontaneously—faltering at first, but then with increasing detail. He explains that it started with notes slid into his books or pockets, and comments on social media: “Beanpole.” “Pizza-face retard.” “Nerd.” “Homo.” How that had progressed to pushing and jeers and graffiti on his locker at school, and then more insults: “Gross.” “Disgusting.” In the last week or so, it had ramped up.

Leo gives me an embarrassed look.

“I try to have faith that it’ll all blow over, that they’ll get tired of it and stop. I steer clear of them as much as I can, but I’m pretty much everything they hate. I love to read, don’t have any muscles, and no… girls…”

A deep redness rises up his slender neck.

Something is pulsing within me, and my sense of injustice and rage on Leo’s behalf takes over and pushes all other emotions aside.

“How long has this been going on? How long has it been like this?”

“Not that long. I had a friend before. Mostly the two of us hung out together, but then he moved over Christmas. And when school started again in January, well… yeah.”

“We have to do something. This can’t continue. I’m going to help you.”

Suddenly I’m aware that my hands are clenched into fists, tight fists. Leo notices that, too, and I quickly straighten out my fingers.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he says, shaking his head.

I don’t have a good response to this, so I turn around to lock my front door.

“My mom came home a while ago.” I hear him say this behind my back as I’m turning my key. “She didn’t say anything, just went straight to her bedroom. Now she’s lying in bed again, as if nothing happened.”

I slowly turn back around to face him, stuffing my key in my pocket. Leo flings up his hands in puzzlement.

“Where did she go?” he blurts out, crossing his arms. “I don’t want… I can’t handle being at home right now.”

I stand completely still. I really need to go grocery shopping before my sister’s visit. But how can I turn my back on him after what I’ve done, after what he’s told me? How can I go off and leave him with that look on his face?

“Come on,” I say, taking out my key again. “Come in for a bit.”

I turn off my computer, open the blinds, and stack the research books back up.

“I won’t stay long,” Leo says. “I just don’t get it.”

He stands in the middle of the room with his hands stuffed into the back pockets of his jeans.

“She went out today, downtown or somewhere. How does that fit with lying in bed all the time, with her telling Dad she’s sick?”

He glances at me and shakes his head.

“I don’t get it,” he repeats.

I indicate that he should have a seat, and he sits down in the chair where I was sitting a little while earlier. I take the other seat. My legs are stiff as I cross them and study Leo across the table. Is he planning to comment at all about my having been in his house? When he was standing down there at the bottom of the stairs, surely he must have heard me come out of his parents’ bedroom and understood that I had been somewhere I shouldn’t have been?

But Leo doesn’t say anything. His face doesn’t reveal any sign that he holds what happened earlier against me or that he’s even aware of it. It’s as if the moment we spent standing over there staring at each other—me at the top of his stairs and him at the bottom—never happened.

Leo turns toward the window and sticks a finger into one of the flowerpots, saying that he needs to check if they need watering. I suppose I am one of those people who gets so engrossed in my writing that I overlook everyday tasks. I nod, admitting that he might be onto something there.

“Because you’re working on something, aren’t you? You’re writing something new, right?”

I nod again, and Leo’s eyes instantly light up. He asks me to tell him more.

“You don’t need to give away the whole plot, but what’s happening in the chapter you’re working on right now?”