The Woman in the Window(78)

Not even Bina. Not even Dr. Fielding.

Yet Norelli has done it, broken the spell, said the unsayable: Your husband and your daughter are dead.

*

They are. Yes. They didn’t make it, they’re gone, they’ve died—they’re dead. I don’t deny it.

“But don’t you see, Anna”—now I hear Dr. Fielding speaking, almost pleading—“that’s what this is. Denial.”

Strictly true.

*

Still:

How can I explain? To anyone—to Little or Norelli, or to Alistair or Ethan, or to David, or even to Jane? I hear them; their voices echo inside me, outside me. I hear them when I’m overwhelmed by the pain of their absence, their loss—I can say it: their deaths. I hear them when I need someone to talk to. I hear them when I least expect it. “Guess who,” they’ll say, and I beam, and my heart sings.

And I respond.





75


The words hang in the air, float there, like smoke.

Behind Little’s shoulders, I see Alistair and Ethan, their eyes wide; I see David, his jaw dropped. Norelli, for some reason, turns her gaze to the floor.

“Dr. Fox?”

Little. I bring him into focus, standing across the island from me, his face bathed in full afternoon light.

“Anna,” he says.

I don’t move, can’t move.

He takes a breath, holds it. Expels. “Dr. Fielding told me the story.”

I screw my eyes shut. All I see is darkness. All I hear is Little’s voice.

“He said a state trooper found you at the bottom of a cliff.”

Yes. I remember his voice, that deep cry, rappelling down the face of the mountain.

“And by that point you’d spent two nights outside. In a snowstorm. In the middle of winter.”

Thirty-three hours, from the instant we dove off the road to the moment the chopper appeared, its rotors swirling overhead like a whirlpool.

“He said that Olivia was still alive when they got down to you.”

Mommy, she’d whispered as they loaded her onto the stretcher, sheathed her little body in a blanket.

“But your husband was already gone.”

No, he wasn’t gone. He was there, very much there, all too much there, his body cooling in the snow. Internal damage, they told me. Compounded by exposure. There was nothing you could have done differently.

There’s so much I could have done differently.

“That’s when your troubles started. Your problems going outside. Post-traumatic stress. Which I—I mean, I can’t imagine.”

God, how I cowered beneath the hospital fluorescents; how I panicked in the squad car. How I collapsed, those first times leaving the house, once and twice and twice more, until at last I dragged myself back inside.

And locked my doors.

And shut my windows.

And swore I’d keep myself hidden.

“You wanted someplace safe. I get that. They found you half-frozen. You’d been through hell.”

My fingernails gouge my palms.

“Dr. Fielding said that you sometimes . . . hear them.”

I squeeze my eyes tighter, straining for more dark. They aren’t—you know, hallucinations, I’d told him; I just like pretending they’re here every now and then. As a coping mechanism. I know that too much contact isn’t healthy.

“And that you sometimes talk back.”

Feel the sun on my neck. It’s best you don’t indulge in these conversations too often, he’d warned me. We wouldn’t want them to become a crutch.

“See, I was a little confused, because from what you were saying it sounded like they were just someplace else.” I don’t point out that this is technically true. There’s no fight left in me. I’m hollow as a bottle.

“You told me that you were separated. That your daughter was with your husband.” Another technicality. I’m so tired.

“You told me the same thing.” I open my eyes. Light douses the room now, draining the shadows. The five of them are ranged before me like chess pieces. I look at Alistair.

“You told me that they lived somewhere else,” he says, curling his lip. He looks repulsed. I didn’t, of course—I never said they lived anywhere. I’m careful. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters.

Little reaches across the island, presses his hand onto mine. “I think that you’ve had a hell of a time. I think that you really believe you met with this lady, just like you believe you’re talking to Olivia and Ed.” There’s a tiny pause before that last word, as though he isn’t sure of Ed’s name, although maybe he’s just pacing himself. I peer into his eyes. Bottomless.

“But what you’re thinking here isn’t real,” he says, his voice snow-soft. “And I need you to let this one go.”

I find myself nodding. Because he’s right. I’ve gone too far. This has to stop, Alistair said.

“You know, you’ve got people who care about you.” Little’s hand bunches my fingers together. The knuckles crackle. “Dr. Fielding. And your physical therapist.” And? I want to say. And? “And . . .” For an instant my heart leaps; who else cares about me? “. . . they want to help you.”

I drop my gaze to the island, to my hand, nestled in his. Study the dull gold of his wedding band. Study mine.