Tim Meyer - The Switch House

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” She almost sounded insulted.

“Because…”

“Angela?”

“Because I’m on my way to Vermont.”

“Vermont? But, why—” Abbie stopped herself. “Angela, what are you thinking about doing?”

“I… I don’t know exactly.”

“As your psychiatrist, I must say, this is a terrible idea. I’m all for confronting your fears and dealing with roadblocks, but in a natural, controlled environment. When the patient pushes the issue—”

“To hell with your psycho-babble-bullshit.”

Silence. That finally shut her up.

“I’m sorry,” Angela said. “Look, your pills aren’t fucking working, okay. The other night I walked through hell, literally hell, and I saw things I never want to see again. So unless you give me something that works right now, right fucking now, or hand over some sage-like advice that will make all this bad shit go away, make the last nine months of my fucking life disa-fucking-ppear, then I’m taking things into my own hands.”

She waited, but Abbie kept silent.

“I didn’t think so.”

“Angela, I feel sorry for you. I really do. You’re deeply troubled and you don’t know what you’re doing. You need help. I’m thinking a full psychiatric evaluation in a controlled environment. I know a great place within twenty miles of here—”

“I’m not checking myself into a fucking mental ward!” She was hyperventilating now. Her erratic driving earned her honks from her highway neighbors. More middle fingers were flipped her way, and she ignored every single one of them. When she thought there was no more air left in her lungs, she careened her car over to the side of the road, where she stopped and shut off the engine.

“I think you need to come in, Angela. This is clearly out of your hands. We need to escalate things. Get you better before you do something to harm yourself or others.”

Angela planted her face in her hands and cried, heaving sobs. Her palms grew slick with tears.

“Think about what Terry would want.”

She lifted her head. “Abbie. I’m going to Vermont. I’m going to talk with Rosalyn Jeffries, and I’m going to find out exactly what the fuck she did to my house.”

“I think that’s a very poor decision, but it’s your life, dear.”

“That’s right. It’s my life,” she said, though it hadn’t felt like hers for quite some time. “It’s my life and I’m going to do what I want. For me.”

“Can I—”

She ended the call.

After she gathered herself, stopped crying and patted her face dry on the sleeve of her shirt, she pulled back onto the parkway and merged with traffic.

She stopped three more times, each so she could vomit.

The phone sat on the desk, staring up at her. It didn’t take long after the last call to decide what came next. Picking up the phone, she punched in the name and hit “SEND.”

She waited.

Three rings.

“What?” the gruff voice answered.

“It’s time,” the woman said.

Silence hung on the line. Then: “Are you sure?”

“The plan is in motion. We need to act now.”

“Is the child in danger?”

“No. Not yet. But if we don’t hurry…”

“I’ll leave now.”

“Good. If you hurry, you just might make it.”

“I’ll call you when it’s done.”

“See that you do.”

She slammed down the phone, leaned back in her chair, and became lost in the painting on the far wall, the one with a vase full of dead, black roses.

She parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, near the main road, got out, and walked the rest of the way. There weren’t many houses on Boulder Court, three in total, and the Jeffries’ house was the only one facing the highway, as the others were stuck fronting each other. She scurried down the sidewalk, toward the house she had recently spent two long months in. She didn’t know why she wanted to stroll down the block but felt it had something to do with her and her husband’s after-dinner routine, their nightly lap around the development to take in the New England scenery. She took a breath of fresh air and compared it to Red River’s; it was no contest—the Vermont air was fresher, sweeter, always accompanied by a hint of smoked hickory. To Angela, the air back home was stale and dry, hardly something to take a moment to appreciate. The atmosphere was often tainted with heavy motor pollution and street trash.

Reaching the woman’s cement porch, she jogged up the stone steps, one at a time, briskly. She knocked on the door and received no answer. She knocked again, this time looking at the curtain covering the bay window next to the door, anticipating the slightest flicker of movement. But there was nothing. She knocked a third time, rang the doorbell, and peeked through the semi-transparent curtain, but she saw no shadows or silhouettes moving behind it, only darkness with the faint glow of the afternoon sun beaming through the kitchen window opposite the main living space.

She decided to try something else.

Angela jogged down the stoop, toward the garage. She peeked around the neighborhood, making sure the nosy neighbors weren’t studying her from their windows, eyeing her every move. She didn’t notice any spies and shook off the notion that she was being watched.

She ducked under the overhang and approached the garage door. Flipping up the cover on the keypad, she recalled the combination she and Terry had used many times before. She punched in the digits and frowned when the garage door failed to rise.

Shit, she thought, she changed the combo.

She wasn’t surprised.

No matter—she knew the key to the backdoor was under the welcome mat. There was no way the woman changed all the locks in her house, not yet. Why would she? Angela and Terry had decided they weren’t going to swap out their locks back home, but, after considering current events, she thought they might have to reconsider.

Maybe she had done the same.

Angela jogged around the side of the house, unlatched the small hip-high gate, walked around the property until the back deck, composite and stained with a color the company called Foggy Island, was in view. She streaked toward the platform, bounding the steps two at a time, and dashed over to the back door. Bending down, she glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see the old woman at the edge of the deck, arms folded and tapping her foot as if she’d caught her grandson’s hand in the cookie jar. But there was no one there, nothing but the lush green forest beyond the property line.

She was alone. And that fact comforted her.

She grabbed the key, slipped it into the lock, and popped open the door. Before barging in, she poked her head in the kitchen and called the old woman. “Mrs. Jeffries?”

No answer. The interior sat in still, silent shadows.

All right then. Let’s do this.

She crossed the threshold and stepped onto the linoleum floor, closing the door behind her. Bypassing the light switch, opting for security the shadows provided, she trekked across the kitchen, into the living room. She headed for the bay window and peeked out. Still no car in the driveway. The woman was not here. She had beaten her home, which didn’t seem possible unless the woman either drove ten miles per hour under the speed limit or stopped several more times than she had. Either was likely, she supposed.

Or maybe she’s still stalking me in Red River, Angela thought.

Seek me out, the woman had said.

No, she’s on her way back. She has to be.

Angela decided she’d wait for her. But, while she waited, she figured she’d have herself a look around.