The Woman in the Window(30)

I finger the wound. My pinkie dips into his nose; he snorts. “How did it happen?” I ask.

He twists my hair around his thumb. “My cousin.”

“I didn’t know you had a cousin.”

“Two. This was my cousin Robin. He held a razor against my nose and said he’d slit my nostrils so that I only had one. And when I shook my head no, the blade sliced me.”

“God.”

He exhales. “I know. If I’d only nodded okay, it would’ve been fine.”

I smile. “How old were you?”

“Oh, this was last Tuesday.”

Now I laugh, and so does he.



As I surface, the dream drains away like water. The memory, really. I try to scoop it up in my palms, but it’s gone.

I press a hand against my forehead, hoping to smooth away the hangover. Cast the sheets to one side, ditch my nightclothes as I walk to the dresser, check the clock on the wall: 10:10, a waxed mustache on its face. I slept for twelve hours.

Yesterday has faded like a flower, yellow and wilted. A domestic dispute, unpleasant but not uncommon—that’s what I heard. Overheard, really; it’s none of my business. Perhaps Ed is right, I think as I clop down to my study.

Of course he’s right. A lot of stimulation: yes, indeed. Too much. I’m sleeping too much, drinking too much, thinking too much; too much, too much. De trop. Did I involve myself like this with the Millers when they arrived back in August? They never visited me, no, but still I studied their routines, tracked their movements, tagged them like sharks in the wild. So it isn’t that the Russells are particularly interesting. They’re just particularly nearby.

I’m concerned for Jane, naturally. And especially for Ethan. He just lost his temper—that must be a pretty ferocious temper. But I can’t approach, say, Child Protective Services; there’s nothing to go on. At this point it would do more harm than good. That I know.

My phone rings.

This happens so infrequently that for a moment I’m confused. I look outside, as though it’s a birdcall. The phone isn’t in the pockets of my robe; I hear it buzzing somewhere above me. By the time I’ve reached my bedroom and found it in the trough of the sheets, it’s gone mute.

The screen reads Julian Fielding. I hit Redial.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Dr. Fielding. I missed you just now.”

“Anna. Hello.”

“Hello, hi.” Many benedictions all round. My head throbs.

“I’m calling—one minute . . .” His voice shrinks, then returns, hard in my ear. “I’m in an elevator. I’m calling to make sure you filled your prescription.”

What prescript—ah, yes; the pills Jane collected for me at the door. “I did, in fact.”

“Good. I hope you don’t think this patronizing, me checking in on you.”

I do, in fact. “Not at all.”

“You should experience the effects quite quickly.”

The rattan on the stairs scratches at my soles. “Swift results.”

“Well, I’d call them effects rather than results.”

No shower-pisser, he. “I’ll keep you posted,” I assure him, descending to the study.

“I felt concerned after our last session.”

I pause. “I—” No. I don’t know what to say.

“My hope is that this adjustment in your medication will help.”

Still I say nothing.

“Anna?”

“Yes. I hope so, too.”

His voice shrivels again.

“Sorry?”

A second later he’s at full volume. “These pills,” he says, “are not to be taken with alcohol.”





28


In the kitchen, I chase the pills with merlot. I understand Dr. Fielding’s concern, I do; I recognize that alcohol is a depressant, and as such, ill-suited to a depressive. I get it. I’ve written about it—“Juvenile Depression and Alcohol Abuse,” Journal of Pediatric Psychology (volume 37, number 4), Wesley Brill, coauthor. I can quote our conclusions, if necessary. As Bernard Shaw said, I often quote myself; it adds spice to my conversation. As Shaw also said, alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of life. Good old Shaw.

So come on, Julian: These aren’t antibiotics. Besides, I’ve been mixing my medicines for almost a year, and take a look at me now.



My laptop sits in a pane of sunlight on the kitchen table. I pry it open, visit the Agora, walk two new recruits through the drill, weigh in on yet another drug debate. (None of them are to be taken with alcohol, I preach.) Once—only once—I cast a quick look at the Russell house. There’s Ethan, tapping away at his desk—playing a game, I suppose, or writing a paper; not surfing the Internet, anyway—and in the parlor Alistair sits with a tablet propped in his lap. A twenty-first-century family. No Jane, but that’s fine. None of my business. Too much stimulation.

“Goodbye, Russells,” I say, and turn my attention to the television. Gaslight—Ingrid Bergman, never more luscious, slowly going insane.





29


Sometime after lunch, I’m back at the laptop when I see GrannyLizzie enter the Agora, the little icon beside her name morphing into a smiley face, as though to be present on this forum is a pleasure and a joy. I decide to beat her to the punch.