The Woman in the Window(53)

I drum my fingers atop the mouse. It isn’t exactly the Cotard delusion, but I can propose some quick fixes. Let’s solve this, I tell her—and instantly my blood runs warm, the way it does when I’m walking a patient through a problem.

I take a pencil from the drawer, slash a few words onto a Post-it. At the office I used a Moleskine notebook and a fountain pen. Makes no difference.

Maintenance: See if there’s a local handyman who can visit weekly—can she do that?

GrannyLizzie: There is Martin who works at my church.

thedoctorisin: Great!





Electronics: Most young people are good with computers and TVs. I’m not sure how many teenagers Lizzie knows, but—

GrannyLizzie: The Roberts on my street have a son with an ipad.

thedoctorisin: He’s your man!





Bills (a particular challenge for her, it seems; Paying on line is difficult, too many different user names and pass words): She should Choose consistent and easy-to-remember logins for both—her own name, I suggest, or a child’s, or a loved one’s birthday—but switch out some of the letters for numbers and symbols. W1LL1@M, for example.

A pause.

GrannyLizzie: My name would be L1221E





I smile again.

thedoctorisin: That’s catchy!

GrannyLizzie: Laughing Out Loud.

GrannyLizzie: The news said I could be “hacked”, is that something I should worry about??

thedoctorisin: I don’t think anyone will crack your code!





I should hope nobody would, anyway. She’s a septuagenarian in Montana.

Finally, outdoor work: Winters are really really cold here, Lizzie notes, so she’ll need someone to clear snow off the roof, spread rock salt on the front walk, shear icicles from the gutters . . . Even if I am able to go outside, it’s a heck of a lot of work to get ready for winter.

thedoctorisin: Well, let’s hope you’re back in the world by then. But either way, maybe Martin from church could help you. Or kids from the neighborhood. Your students, even. Don’t underestimate the power of $10 an hour!

GrannyLizzie: Yes. Good ideas.

GrannyLizzie: Thank you so much, Doctor Anna. I feel SO much better.





Problem solved. Patient helped. I feel as though I’m glowing. I sip my wine.

And then it’s back to pot roast, and rabbits, and William and Beau.



A light in the Russell parlor. I peek around the side of the desktop screen and see that woman walk into the room. I haven’t thought about her for more than an hour, I realize. My session with Lizzie is doing me good.

GrannyLizzie: William is back with shopping. He better have bought the donuts I asked for!

GrannyLizzie: I have to go stop him from eating them.

thedoctorisin: Please do!

GrannyLizzie: Have you been able to go outside yet, btw?





btw. She’s learning Internet slang.

I splay my fingers, fan them over the keyboard. Yes, I’ve been able to go outside. Twice, in fact.

thedoctorisin: No luck, I’m afraid.





No need to go into it, either.

GrannyLizzie: I hope you will be able to soon . . .

thedoctorisin: That makes two of us!





She signs off, and I drain my glass. Set it on the desk.

I push one foot against the floor, set the chair slowly spinning. The walls revolve before me.

I will promote healing and well-being. I did that today.

I close my eyes. I’ve helped Lizzie prepare for life, helped her live it a little more fully. Helped her find relief.

I will place others’ interests above my own. Well, yes—but I benefited, too: For nearly ninety minutes, the Russells retreated from my brain. Alistair, that woman, even Ethan.

Even Jane.

The chair drifts to a halt. When I open my eyes, I’m looking through the doorway, into the hall, into Ed’s library.

And I think about what I haven’t told Lizzie, what I didn’t get to tell her.





53


Olivia refused to return to the room, so Ed remained with her while I packed, my heart booming. I trudged back to the lobby, where the flames were simmering low in the grate, and Marie dragged my credit card through a reader. She wished us folks a pleasant evening, her smile absurdly broad, her eyes wide.

Olivia reached for me. I looked at Ed; he took the bags, slung one over each shoulder. I gripped our daughter’s hot little hand in my own.

We’d parked in the far corner of the lot; by the time we reached the car, we were starchy with flakes. Ed popped the trunk, stuffed the luggage inside, while I swept my arm across the windshield. Olivia clambered into the backseat, slamming the door after herself.

Ed and I stood there, at opposite ends of the car, as the snow fell on us, between us.

I saw his mouth move. “What?” I asked.

He spoke again, louder. “You’re driving.”



I drove.

I drove out of the lot, tires squealing on the frost. I drove into the road, snowflakes thrilling against the windows. I drove onto the highway, into the night, into the white.

All was silent, just the hum of the engine. Beside me, Ed gazed dead ahead. I checked the mirror. Olivia was slumped in her seat, head bobbing against her shoulder—not asleep, but eyes half-shuttered.