L.A. Detwiler - The Widow Next Door

She turns, pausing from the tea pouring. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.’

My wedding ring turns slowly in between the fingers of my right hand, spinning round and round as my foot taps. I look up at Jane, though, and am grounded in the fact she didn’t know. How could she?

I force the fake smile I’ve used so many times to the forefront and reassure her. ‘It’s fine. Besides, it’s not like it’s a secret. I’m doing okay, really. I’ve learned to make peace with it.’

She looks at me, a long look, and I can tell she wants to ask something but is debating. I want to nudge her forward, but I don’t want to be pushy. I get the sense she’s … I don’t know what. But I get this creeping suspicion I need to be careful with her, watch my tongue. I don’t want to push her away. It would be terrible to push her away.

She turns the conversation now to autumn and Mark’s Mart and the price of strawberries as she brings the tea over. We laugh and talk like two old friends for the next couple of hours, sipping our tea in between laughter and the exchange of stories.

When she leaves and the house is empty, I realise how much she filled it when she was here. I realise how much I’d missed having friends, having conversation, having connection. Just having someone to sip some weak tea with on a dull afternoon. Someone to give me an excuse to stop dusting for. The time went so quickly with her there. I forget sometimes how having someone to talk to really does make the day go faster. I miss that.

I also realise she never quite said why she stopped by. It was sort of odd timing, her showing up out of the blue.

I don’t care, though. Because she can come back anytime. Maybe she’s just lonely too. Maybe she feels the need to do a good deed or do some penance by visiting a clearly isolated old lady. Whatever her reasoning, I hope she comes back, because as I lower myself into the tub very carefully later that night, I note that I feel peaceful for the first time in years.

And when I crawl under the covers, settling my head onto the lumpy, familiar pillow later, I don’t think about the black emptiness of the room or the cold, empty spot beside me. I simply think about Jane’s smile, her laugh and how much I hope she returns.

It’s good to have a friend, after all. I’ve always needed a friend, especially now.

Life is hard. Life isn’t perfect. We all have our regrets, something I know all too well. Sometimes it takes another person to help us overcome those regrets, those feelings, that darkness. And even now, in this stage of my life, I’m surrounded by plenty of dark regrets.

I could use a friend indeed. Maybe Jane is exactly the person to be just that.

I was seven the first time I realised the world is a lonely place.

In truth, I should’ve learned it years before that. My perfect place in the world was tainted the day Lucy came into my life. I just didn’t know it at the time. Of course, I’d been too young when she was born to know the difference between right and wrong, just and unjust, loved and not loved.

When I was seven, though, things became apparently clear: I was no longer important in the family. Or maybe, in truth, I never was.

We stood on the altar looking out at all the people. My eyes landed on my parents, sitting five pews back. I counted the five rows with pride, double-checking to make sure I’d counted correctly. I’d been working on my numbers, on my counting. My teacher said I was a smart girl. I’d beamed with pride that she’d noticed.

Lucy stood beside me, her red satin dress shining under the streams of sunlight as the preacher spoke about something I wasn’t listening to. I was too busy watching Mom and Dad. Dad was in his best shirt and slacks, his jacket frayed at the edges but still looking great. Mom was in my favourite dress, the blue one with pink flowers. She looked beautiful, even with her hair swept back.

We’d been picked along with some other children in the church to perform a song. It was a special moment because I was getting to sing the solo. It was my mom’s favourite song, too: ‘The Old Rugged Cross’. I’d memorised the words. I’d practised over and over. I couldn’t wait for my moment to shine.

This was going to be my moment. I imagined Mom and Dad beaming with pride, rushing up after the song to hug me, Dad lifting me into the air like he had when I was younger, before Lucy became their sole focus. They’d crowd around me, praising me for a job well done. After church, we’d all gather in the hall and they’d be grinning ear to ear, telling everyone I was their daughter.

The preacher grew quiet, and I knew it was time. I fidgeted with the skirt on my blue-checked dress. Mom told me the mustard stain on the hem wasn’t noticeable. Still, I tucked the fabric over itself, clutching it with a hand to cover it. I needed everything to be perfect.

The song began, our Sunday school teacher leading us as we sang the words in our makeshift choir. Lucy sang too loudly, as usual, her voice shrieking out the words. At one point, she stepped in front of me, shoving me over. I shoved her back slightly, knowing my moment to sing was coming up. I needed to be the centre of attention for once. I needed to be in the middle, noticed, for when it was my turn.

She stepped forward again, right in front of me, and anger bubbled. It was just like her to try to steal the spotlight all the time. In school, at home, when we were baking with Mom – she was always stealing my spotlight. She was always making sure I was shoved to the side.

Not today, I thought to myself. It was my solo. I needed this moment, had waited for it all week.

I elbowed her in the ribs, inching forward as the song came to my solo. It was a soft shove, not enough to do any damage but enough to show her where she belonged.

I opened my mouth to belt out the words, but at that moment, Lucy screamed, falling to the ground, tumbling down the steps of the altar.

‘Ow, you hurt me,’ she whined, flailing on the ground and pointing up at me.

The organ continued playing, but the words for my solo eluded me. I didn’t sing. I watched in horror as the teacher rushed over, helping Lucy from the ground and asking if she was okay. My parents, too, rushed from their pews.

Couldn’t they see she wasn’t really hurt? That I hadn’t done anything? That she’d started it?

The other kids laughed and pointed at the ruckus, ignoring the song. ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ went unsung, the preacher looking angry. The whole church stared at me. I was in the centre of the altar, feeling so alone, my face burning with embarrassment and frustration.

And eventually, that embarrassment and frustration boiled over into something else entirely: rage.

My parents helped Lucy up, her crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks. Mom hurried over, grabbing me by the wrist and yanking me down from the altar in front of everyone.

‘You’ve done it now,’ she hissed through clenched teeth.

And instead of them congratulating me, they dragged me from the church as everyone watched, kids on the altar laughing and pointing as the preacher tried to regain composure and order.

Outside the church, the sun was shining, the clouds billowy and soft. Mom’s hold on my wrist hurt, but I didn’t dare cry out. I was too stunned, too shattered to complain anyway. My stomach burned and my head pounded. How did this happen? How could this happen?

It was her . It was always her. I seethed inside as she held Dad’s hand. He comforted her, telling her it was all okay.