The Woman in the Window(13)

I grimace. “Back in the spring. Delivery guy left my groceries on the front steps, and I thought I could just . . . grab them.”

“And you couldn’t.”

“I couldn’t. But there were lots of people passing by that time. It took them a minute to decide I wasn’t crazy or homeless.”

Jane looks around the room. “You definitely aren’t homeless. This place is . . . wow.” She takes it in, then pulls her phone from her pocket, checks the screen. “I need to get back to the house,” she says, standing.

I try to rise with her, but my legs won’t cooperate. “Your son is a very nice boy,” I tell her. “He dropped that off. Thank you,” I add.

She eyes the candle on the table, touches the chain at her throat. “He’s a good kid. Always has been.”

“Very nice-looking, too.”

“Always has been!” She slides a thumbnail into the locket; it cracks open, and she leans toward me, the locket swaying in the air. I see she expects me to take it. It’s oddly intimate, this stranger looming over me, my hand on her chain. Or perhaps I’m just so unaccustomed to human contact.

Inside the locket is a tiny photograph, glossy and vivid: a small boy, age four or so, yellow hair in riot, teeth like a picket fence after a hurricane. One eyebrow cleft by a scar. Ethan, unmistakably.

“How old is he here?”

“Five. But he looks younger, don’t you think?”

“I would have guessed four.”

“Exactly.”

“When did he get so tall?” I ask, releasing the locket.

She gently shuts it. “Sometime between then and now!” She laughs. Then, abruptly: “You’re okay for me to leave? You’re not going to hyperventilate?”

“I’m not going to hyperventilate.”

“Do you want some more brandy?” she asks, bending to the coffee table—there’s a photo album there, unfamiliar; she must have brought it with her. She tucks it beneath her arm and points to the empty glass.

“I’ll stick with water,” I lie.

“Okay.” She pauses, her gaze fixed on the window. “Okay,” she repeats. “So a very handsome man just came up the walk.” She looks at me. “Is that your husband?”

“Oh, no. That’s David. He’s my tenant. Downstairs.”

“He’s your tenant?” Jane brays. “I wish he were mine!”



The bell hasn’t chimed this evening, not once. Maybe the dark windows put off any trick-or-treaters. Maybe it was the dried yolk.

I subside into bed early.

Midway through graduate school, I met a seven-year-old boy afflicted with the so-called Cotard delusion, a psychological phenomenon whereby the individual believes that he is dead. A rare disorder, with pediatric instances rarer still; the recommended treatment is an antipsychotic regimen or, in stubborn cases, electroconvulsive therapy. But I managed to talk him out of it. It was my first great success, and it brought me to Wesley’s attention.

That little boy would be well into his teens now, almost Ethan’s age, not quite half mine. I think of him tonight as I stare at the ceiling, feeling dead myself. Dead but not gone, watching life surge forward around me, powerless to intervene.





Monday, November 1





13


When I come downstairs this morning, sloping into the kitchen, I find a note slipped beneath the basement door. eggs.

I study it, confused. Does David want breakfast? Then I turn it over, see the word Cleaned above the fold. Thank you, David.

Eggs do sound good, come to think of it, so I empty three into a skillet and serve myself sunny-side up. A few minutes later I’m at my desk, sucking the last of the yolk and punching in at the Agora.

Morning is rush hour here—agoraphobes often register acute anxiety after waking up. Sure enough, we’re gridlocked today. I spend two hours offering solace and support; I refer users to assorted medications (imipramine is my drug of choice these days, although Xanax never goes out of style); I mediate a dispute over the (indisputable) benefits of aversion therapy; I watch, at the request of Dimples2016, a video clip in which a cat plays the drums.

I’m about to sign off, zip over to the chess forum, avenge Saturday’s defeats, when a message box blooms on my screen.

DiscoMickey: Thanks again for your help the other day doc.





The panic attack. I’d manned the keyboard for nearly an hour as DiscoMickey, in his words, “freaked out.”

thedoctorisin: Anytime. You better?

DiscoMickey: Much.

DiscoMickey: Writing b/c I’m talking to a lady who’s new and she’s asking if there are any professionals on here. Sent her your FAQs.





A referral. I check the clock.

thedoctorisin: I might not have much time today, but send her my way.

DiscoMickey: Cool.

DiscoMickey has left the chat.





A moment later, up pops a second chat box. GrannyLizzie. I click on the name, skim the user profile. Age: seventy. Residence: Montana. Joined: two days ago.

I flick another glance at the clock. Chess can wait for a seventy-year-old in Montana.

A strip of text at the bottom of the screen reports that GrannyLizzie is typing. I wait a moment, then another; either she’s whipping up a long message or it’s a case of senioritis. Both my parents used to stab at the keyboard with their index fingers, like flamingos picking their way through the shallows; it took them half a minute just to bash out a hello.