Caroline Eriksson - The Watcher

He is wearing a red hoodie and worn jeans, with a full backpack slung over one shoulder. At first he raises his hand to greet me, then changes his mind and holds it out to me. His palm is sweaty, but his grip is firm.

“Hi, I’m Leo. Leo Storm.”

It’s him, the son of the family who lives across from me. He’s slim, if not downright skinny, and quite a bit shorter than I am. But he’s older than twelve—that’s clear now that I’m seeing him close up. There’s something about the look in his eyes. Thirteen is a better guess, maybe even fourteen.

“I came home early. My mom’s not home from work yet, and since I forgot my key, I was thinking maybe I should come introduce myself. You just moved in, right? I hope I’m not bothering you.”

He turns around and points.

“I live in that house over there, across the yard.”

I say my name, but my voice is hoarse from disuse and I have to clear my throat and try again. Leo nods.

“So you’re an author, huh?”

Then he mentions the title of my latest book, the one that, after I released three books with unremarkable sales numbers, became an unexpected hit. Like my earlier works, my fourth thriller was a dark tale. The story revolved around a family that was falling apart, exploring what they were prepared to do to each other. The reviews used words like “unique” and “first class.” I was invited to discuss the death of the nuclear family on TV, and the book raced up the bestseller list, appealing apparently to both suspense fans and readers of more traditional novels.

For a few months, people would recognize me in town, but that passed quickly, thank goodness. New books were always flooding the market, new authors sitting down on the morning-talk-show sofas and being featured in the books section of the paper. The spotlight went out, and I welcomed that, returning to my role as an observer, which is the role that makes me the most comfortable.

I’m not on social media, and my books are hardly targeted for teens. And yet this boy knows who I am. Apparently my confusion is evident.

“I hang out at the library a lot,” Leo explains. “I’m, like, a major reader, so I keep track of stuff.”

His bangs are long and hang down over his face. When he tosses his head, flinging his hair to the side, I get a glimpse of the skin on his forehead. It’s covered with red and white zits.

“I hope it’s OK that I came by. We don’t usually knock on just anyone’s door around here, and I don’t want to bother you. It’s just that I… well, I kind of…”

He pushes the long bangs off his forehead and then immediately lets them fall down again, using both his unconscious reaction to having his hair in his eyes and his conscious strategy of hiding his zits. An emotion I can’t explain seizes hold of me.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “You’re not bothering me.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He looks down at his feet, at his carelessly tied, dirty white sneakers. Then he looks up again and meets my gaze from under his bangs.

“I want to be an author, too. When I grow up, I mean.”

“Really? How exciting.”

He tells me that he writes a fair amount on his computer at home, mostly short stories and shorter texts, everyday observations. And then, as he said, he reads a ton. He gestures toward his backpack and explains that it’s not only full of schoolbooks but also a stack from the library.

“I have such a hard time choosing. I always check out too many.”

“I was like that,” I say. “Always starting a new book. Or five.”

Leo laughs a little and asks what my parents thought about it. When I explain that my mother was the same way, that my interest came from her, he looks down again. His smile disappears.

“My dad thinks I ought to do more sports and read less. And the guys in my class, they don’t understand why anyone would read anything if they didn’t have to. They say I’m a fucking wuss who always—”

He stops midsentence, runs his hand under his bangs, and then straightens his backpack.

“Well, I guess I ought to…”

He speaks slowly, drawing out the words. I want to say something but don’t know what, then the next moment, I’ve lost my chance. Leo is already on his way.

“I’ll leave you alone now,” he says. “See you.”

“Good luck with the writing. And let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.”

His eyes widen.

“Really? That’s awesome! Thanks.”

We say goodbye. I shut my door and lean back against it.

Why did I have to throw out that last bit and give him room for hope? I already know I won’t live up to it. How can I help that boy when I’m only barely keeping it together myself?

Then it hits me. Didn’t he say he didn’t have a key? And that neither of his parents was home yet? What does he think he’s going to do—sit outside and wait for them? The temperature drops rapidly this late in the afternoon, and I think his red hoodie doesn’t look very warm.

I hesitate, and just as I reach to open the door again, my phone rings in the kitchen. I promise myself I’ll check on him after I take the call, but I forget all about Leo Storm the second I see the caller ID: A name, just five letters, is all it takes to turn everything on its head. Because the caller is the love of my life, the man I haven’t spoken to for five weeks and two days, and whom I’ve missed every second since then: Peter.

I don’t know how many rings it takes for me to get hold of myself—two, three, five? But just before my trembling index finger can press the button to answer, the phone goes silent. Its screen goes black, and the phone is cold and lifeless in my hand. I slump down onto one of the kitchen chairs, stretch out my arms in front of me, and press my palms against the tabletop, realizing that otherwise I might collapse right out of the chair, collapse through the floor, down into empty nothingness.

Philip Storm steps out of the pale morning fog and lingers for a few seconds outside his front door. He stuffs something into his briefcase before he hurries off across the green space. The same shiny shoes as usual, the same self-confident bearing. His wife is still sitting at the kitchen table inside. Her face is turned toward the window, and she follows Philip’s back with her eyes. The expression on her face is anything but loving, though. There’s something about her expression, how she’s staring at her husband… I chew a fingernail, trying to put my finger on what emotion she’s radiating, but I don’t succeed. My mind is far too foggy after yet another night of sleepless hours. I spent them wandering around and sorting books, my thoughts racing like wild animals within me.

We wouldn’t contact each other at all, that was the agreement Peter and I had made: three months’ trial separation, and only in exceptional cases would we get in touch if anything out of the ordinary happened—or if one of us reached a decision on how we wanted to proceed. Alone or together, divorce or reunite. Just over a month had passed, and neither of us had gotten in touch until yesterday.

The questions tore at me as I moved around in the night’s shadows, feeling alternately cold and hot. Ultimately I decided it must have been a mistake and that Peter’s name in my call log was nothing to worry about, nothing I could allow myself to feel hopeful about. Then I fell into some form of spasmodic, dreamless sleep before waking up again only a few hours later, and now I’m sitting here, in my bathrobe with my tangled hair, unable to even fix myself breakfast.

The next time the door across the way opens, it’s the wife’s turn to come out. Veronica. She turns around to lock her door, but I can still picture her face the way it looked an hour ago. I blink and enlarge the mental picture for myself. Its focus improves. I zoom in on every little muscle, every feature, and finally the picture is as clear as if she were standing beside me. A black fire burns in her eyes as they follow Philip across the yard. Is it rage? Or hatred? I open my eyes just as the bottom of her coat flaps and disappears around the corner. She’s gone, but that nagging sensation inside me is still there.