The Woman in the Window(52)

“You’re not mixing with alcohol?”

“No.” Pouring.

“Good. Well, I’ll see you then.”

“See you then.”

The line goes dead, and I sip.





52


I travel upstairs. In Ed’s library, I find the glass and bottle I abandoned twenty minutes ago, brimming with sun. I collect them, ferry the whole lot to my study.

At the desk I sit. And think.

Spread across the screen before me is a chessboard, pieces already in place, night-and-day armies braced for battle. The white queen: I remember claiming Jane’s. Jane, in her snowy blouse, saturated with blood.

Jane. The white queen.

The computer chirps.

I look toward the Russell house. No signs of life.

GrannyLizzie: Hello, Doctor Anna.





I start, stare.

Where had we left things? When had we left things? I expand the chat box, scroll up. GrannyLizzie has left the chat at 4:46 p.m. on Thursday, November 4.

That’s right: just as Ed and I had broken the news to Olivia. I remember how my heart thrummed.

And six hours later I dialed 911.

And since then . . . the journey outside. The night in the hospital. The interview with Little, with the doctor. The injection. The ride through Harlem, sun aching in my eyes. The hustle inside. Punch, snaking into my lap. Norelli, circling me. Alistair in my house. Ethan in my house.

That woman in my house.

And Bina, and our Internet searches, and her prim snores in the night. And today: Ed, disbelieving; that phone call from “Jane”; David’s apartment, David’s anger; Dr. Fielding’s voice croaking in my ear.

Has it only been two days?

thedoctorisin: Hello! How are you?





She cut me off cold, but I’m taking the high road.

GrannyLizzie: I’m fine, but more importantly I am SO sorry for leaving so abruptly the last time we spoke.





Good.

thedoctorisin: That’s all right! We’ve all got things to do!

GrannyLizzie: It wasn’t that, I PROMISE. My internet gave up on life! Rest in peace internet!

GrannyLizzie: This happens every couple of months but this time it was on a Thursday and the company couldn’t get anyone out here until the weekend.

GrannyLizzie: I’m SO sorry, I can’t imagine what you must think of me.





I put the glass to my mouth, drink. Set it down and sip from the other glass. I’d assumed that Lizzie didn’t want to hear my sob story. Me of little faith.

thedoctorisin: Please don’t apologize! These things happen!

GrannyLizzie: Well I feel like a real rhymes with witch!!

thedoctorisin: Not at all.

GrannyLizzie: Forgive me?

thedoctorisin: Nothing to forgive! I hope you’re doing well.

GrannyLizzie: Yes I am well. My sons are visiting :-)

thedoctorisin: :-) indeed! How nice for you!

GrannyLizzie: Wonderful to have them here.

thedoctorisin: What are your sons’ names?

GrannyLizzie: Beau

GrannyLizzie: And William.

thedoctorisin: Great names.

GrannyLizzie: Great guys. They’ve always been a huge help. Especially when Richard was ill. We raised them right!

thedoctorisin: Sounds like it!

GrannyLizzie: William calls me every day from Florida. He says HELLO THERE in his biggest voice and I smile. Gets me every time.





I smile too.

thedoctorisin: My family always says “Guess who” when I talk to them!

GrannyLizzie: Oh I like that!





I think of Livvy and Ed, hear their voices in my head. My throat swells. I swallow some more wine.

thedoctorisin: It must be very nice to have your sons with you.

GrannyLizzie: Anna, it is SO nice. They are back in their old bedrooms and it feels like “old times”.





For the first time in days, I feel relaxed, in charge. Useful, even. Almost like I’m back on East Eighty-Eighth, in my office, helping a patient. Only connect.

I might need this more than Lizzie does.

And so, as the light dims outside and the shadows fade across my ceiling, I chat with a lonely grandmother thousands of miles away. Lizzie loves to cook, she tells me; the boys’ favorite meal is my famous pot roast (not really famous), and she bakes cream cheese brownies every year for the fire department. There used to be a cat—here I tell her about Punch—but now she has a rabbit, a brown girl named Petunia. Though not a film buff, Lizzie likes cooking shows and Game of Thrones. The latter surprises me—pretty gritty.

She talks about Richard, of course. We all miss him very much. He was a teacher, a Methodist deacon, a lover of trains (with a big model set in our cellar), an affectionate parent—a good man.

A good man and a good father. Suddenly Alistair steps into my mind. I shudder, wade deeper into my wineglass.

GrannyLizzie: Hope I’m not boring you . . .

thedoctorisin: Not at all.





I learn that Richard was not only decent but responsible, and managed all the house work: maintenance, electronics (William brought me an “apple TV” I cannot work, Lizzie frets), landscaping, bills. In his absence, explains his widow, I feel overwhelmed. I feel like an old lady.