She
Jennifer S. Willis
She sits in the window seat, upstairs, watching the world go by below. While an occasional frown or narrowing eyes might mar her otherwise perfectly placid face, she works very hard at thinking of nothing.
She notices how the sunlight glints off of the leaves in summer, and off of the iced, crystalline branches in winter. She worries over the child's tricycle left just outside the garage door across the street. She studies neighborhood pets taking their owners out to be walked and indulges in a quiet sigh as the street lamps flicker on in the evening.
Sometimes she looks away from the window. She looks at the floor, or scrutinizes from afar the veined, branching pattern of the marble top of the chest of drawers. At times, she quite simply looks at nothing at all.
She says she has no use for television. Rather she thinks this, but she is quite certain that this is what she would say should she actually speak to another person. She has no defenses against the images which assault her when that thing is on. She does have a television. It is unplugged, and sits on the floor in the hall closet.
Each day is the same. She rises early so that she may see the children off to school. It does not matter to her that these are not her own children, and that they have no awareness of her as she gazes down upon them from her window seat. In a very small and secret place, she likes to think of them as hers, or that perhaps she is a very quiet guardian angel, watching over these neighborhood cherubs.
She has named each and every one of them and pays special attention to their comings and goings. Perhaps Sally's name is not really Sally, but her golden curls and scraps with the boys are just as precious all the same. And Buster has calmed down as he has grown older, not so much the terrible bully he used to be. There are a few others -- Mickie, Beth, Jessie, and Ben -- but her favorite would have to be Justin, named for a favorite playmate from childhood.
This morning, Justin is running late, galloping down the sidewalk in his too-big galoshes and clutching his Lion King lunch box as he races for the school bus. His dark bangs are just now growing too long for his round face, and his autumn jacket has not been properly fastened. He wears no hat and has mismatched, brightly colored gloves.
She would have known better than to let him run out of the house like that.
Justin barely makes it to the bus. It is the same story every morning. The bus driver teases the little boy, pretending that he is about to drive off without him, sometimes going so far as to partially close the doors or even drive on a few feet, with Justin struggling to make it just in time. She wonders if Justin enjoys this playful behavior or if this is a particularly demoralizing way to start his day.
On winter days, like today, she sits with her tea, warming herself as she sits at the cold window. She bundles herself in long robes and warm slippers, curling herself up in a secure but relaxed ball as she settles in for her daily vigil. She often thinks to herself that the winter is her favorite time of year, although she hasn't ever stopped to wonder why.
Public radio drones on somewhere in the house. It used to be that she actually listened. It used to be that she became absorbed in the international news programs and entertainment specials. It used to be that she would read the newspaper or soak in a hot bath while mountain folk music or the strains of a symphony orchestra lilted somewhere above her.
It used to be that she didn't mind being connected to the outside world.
If she were to allow herself to dwell on such things today, as she gazes off into the nothingness just inside the glass panes, she might acknowledge to herself, however reluctantly, that she is recoiling even further inside on a daily basis. She might comfort herself by thinking that she needs to heal, and this is her personal hibernation period, no matter how long it might take.
It was difficult for her at first. Friends worried, family was constantly stopping by because they were magically "in the neighborhood," and there were other annoyances as well. She suspected that there was not a single bad intention amongst these people, but she couldn't take that chance.
Sometimes she thinks she hears a phantom knock and the door, though she no longer bothers herself with climbing down the stairs to check the peep hole. It wouldn't matter who might be standing there, anyway. She will not open her door to anyone. In a fit of anger and fear she had one afternoon ripped out the wires for the doorbell. When was that? Last month? Last year? It's not important to her. Remembering is hard. She would rather sit, and think of nothing.
She does still have the telephone plugged in, however, although her service has long since been discontinued. There is some security in at least the appearance of being able to call for help, even though she never would.
Now that the children have been taken off to school, she has the rest of the morning and a good portion of the afternoon to herself. But she does not hasten away from her window seat. There are no pressing issues which require her attention. Her mug has grown cooler by now, and she clasps it tightly between both of her hands to see if her own heat might warm the little bit of tea still remaining.
There is something about this day, although she cannot quite put her finger on it. She knew that she certainly didn't have any appointments scheduled, and the groceries had already come for the week, so there were no deliveries expected. It would come to her, possibly as she slept.
Her tea experiment has failed. She rises somewhat reluctantly from her perch and places the disappointing mug on a bedside table. She stands there for a moment, contemplating going back to sleep.
Were last night's dreams good dreams or bad dreams? At night, she dreams of being surrounded by warmth. The light around her is a comfort, far different than the frequently harsh brightness which streams through her windows. At first, she fought against such dreams, these happy longings which somehow seemed so much more terrifying to her than the nightmares which haunted her. But now, she doesn't so much mind the loving embrace into which she sinks as she drifts off.
She sleeps a lot, though not enough to worry her, indulging in long, luxurious naps during the day and going to bed by 9:30 every evening. She does not much need to conserve her strength for anything, though these somewhat excessive hours of sleep are one of the few comforts left to her.
But sometimes the dreams she has during the day are too much for her to handle.
No, she will not sleep just yet.
But she does sit down on the bed, pulling one of the pastel, handmade quilts around her for warmth. Gazing across the room at a small bookcase, she contemplates her journals from years gone by. Perhaps they could tell her what was special about this day?
She drags the quilt across the carpeting with her, then kneels down before these few, long undisturbed books. She is not sure how long she just sits there, huddled in her blanket, looking at the bookcase. She is deciding.
Somewhere in the house a clock chimes, and she reflexively rises from the floor to return to her station by the window just in time to see the postman drive up in his jeep. He stops a few houses down across the street and climbs out to cover the entire block at once. She's missed him for the past few days. There was some young girl covering the route while he was gone. She had worried that he was sick, but he looks well, from her vantage point high above. Maybe he was just on vacation.
She likes this mail carrier. She has had problems with others in the past, but this one knows the rules. He knows to leave the mail just inside the storm door, and to never ever use the mail box outside. She hasn't made any special requests of him, but he seems somehow to understand. A few months ago he signed for a registered letter for her himself, so as not to disturb her. It's good to have such an ally on the outside, and she remembers him generously during the holidays. He is just three houses away now, and approaching. She shies away from the window, not wanting to be seen. She sits on the floor, still wrapped in her blanket, her back against the wall, waiting. Perhaps she will build a fire this afternoon. The woodpile is fairly close to the back of the house. She could be in and out in a matter of minutes.
She hears the almost silent click of the storm door closing. She gets up from the floor and returns to her spot in front of the bookcase. She will collect the mail later, as is her custom.
Tentatively, she reaches for one of the journals, almost closing her eyes so that her choice is random. She lets her fingers drift over the familiar fabric and suddenly finds her hands longing for the reassuring weight of her grandmother's pewter pen.
It hasn't been since the early days of this seclusion that she entrusted these pages with her thoughts and feelings. And her journals have rested undisturbed ever since that time. Is today the day to open this door?
What is it about this day?
She slips the journal back into its place on the shelf. Gathering the folds of her quilt around her, she steps out into the hallway and sits down on the top stair. On clear days, she can lean back against the wall and watch the clouds float steadily by overhead through the skylight. It is overcast today, however. Maybe it will snow.
She raises her right thumb to her mouth and places her fingernail between her teeth. Compress, release. Not chewing or biting at her nail, just pressing down on it, then releasing. It's mindless. It fills the space.
Only a year or two before, she probably could have seen that it was she who carefully constructed this pleasant prison. She would have rationalized that she was protecting herself, that as she was the master architect and building planner, that only she would know what secret entrances might exist, that only she would hold the keys to this cave of hibernation. It never occurred to her that she might reach a place from which she would never want to venture out again, once she had become ensconced inside this self-directed sanctuary. Although she might have then entertained the thought that perhaps it was all a hallucination, that there indeed had been no crime or violence which had touched her body or her soul. Or perhaps she might have considered this heavy fortress as a kind of cocoon in which she could effect her most glorious transformation. But she also might have seen that the price of this security may well have been forever sealing herself inside this tomb which her home had become, and perhaps she would have taken some measure of comfort in that.
So sitting on this top stair, with no clouds to distract her thoughts. She focuses instead on the gallery of family photographs that lines the wall along the staircase. Such happy faces, looking back at her from the past. These memories she doesn't mind.
She hadn't thought that she would be the type who would enjoy living alone, although she wouldn't necessarily apply a word like "enjoy" to her life now. She's not sure how she would describe this existence, though no one has ever asked. So she doesn't much think about it. But these pictures on the wall speak to her in a language she had almost forgotten. She normally doesn't even use the front staircase, mostly out of concerns for privacy, afraid she might be seen from the outside. But when she needs to be close to her family, for whatever reason, she sits down on this top stair and lets her gaze drift over these familiar smiles.
She had been surrounded by them nearly all of her life. Her childhood home had been what has become an increasingly rare multi-generational community, a house full of brothers and sisters, grandparents, and spinster aunts. She never thought of it as being crowded then, because there was always something going on, and there was always someone to talk to.
Thinking of that closeness now, she pulls the folds of her quilt up around her shoulders. She cannot ever seem to be warm enough in this house.
Sometimes, when she does try to remember, it all seems so unreal to her. She has not lost her recollection, but those years of life seem as though they must necessarily belong to someone else. There is no connection to the person she was then, if that had truly been her at all.
Other times, it is all a blur to her, and she cannot keep any of the details straight. Was it Grandma or Aunt Ellie who always made her father's favorite peach pie in the summer? Had she worn the red velvet or the peacock colored taffeta to the Christmas dance when she was seventeen? That wasn't so long ago -- ten years? Twelve? How old is she now? She can occasionally call up the face of an old beau or two, although she cannot match them with names, cannot remember which ones had been important to her or why.
Every once in awhile, a familiar face floats across the landscape of her dreams. If she were to concentrate now, she might even be able to see him again in her mind. She knew him, understood who and what he was to her, but upon waking, he became just another mystery. She wasn't sure if she liked those dreams or not.
It is noon now. So speaks the chiming clock. Mindlessly, she is driven by her routine and so rises from the floor to get back on track. Today, as every day, she pads down the back steps to the kitchen, always pausing at windows, looking outside to make sure there is no one looking in, before she passes by.
The kitchen floor is cold, even through her slippers and socks. Never warm enough, in this house. Except when she is sleeping.
It is definitely a day for soup. Opening one of the cabinets, she is confronted with her stockpile of Campbell's cans. Her soup bowl and spoon are already waiting for her on the counter, just as she had left them the night before, so that she would be ready for lunch today. She chooses one can from among the several dozen that she has stashed away and entrusts her meal to her reliable microwave oven. New England clam chowder. One of her favorites. She remember the first time she ever tried it, when her parents took her to an oyster festival in Maryland when she was ten. It had been so cold that day, and the chowder that had been handed to her in a paper cup warmed her to her bones. She retrieves the black pepper from the nearly empty spice cabinet and waits.
The pepper is purely a matter of habit now, as it doesn't matter much to her what she eats these days. She doesn't pay much attention to taste anymore.
Had he liked pepper? The face from her dreams?
The microwave beeps to let her know that her lunch is ready, drawing her gently back to matters at hand, though she cannot say where her mind has been. She doesn't like her food too hot, especially clam chowder. A burnt tongue from too hot milk is a purgatory unto itself. She likes her soup just warm enough to register and to be palatable. It seems to her that she used to have a tray with which to carry her lunch upstairs with her, but she cannot imagine what may have happened to it. The bowl in her hands is just warm enough to be pleasant, and she again goes to the back stairs, climbing up slowly and silently, returning to her bedroom, and assuming her post in the window seat.
She eats slowly, though not with the deliberation of one who savors every mouthful. Instead, she drifts, lost in some piece of Celtic music on the radio. She wishes that she understood the words. She decides that she likes the chunks of potatoes better than the bits of clam, purely from a texture standpoint.
The empty bowl soon joins the cold mug on the bedside table. She immerses herself in the cocoon of her many blankets and pillows of her bed in preparation for her early afternoon nap. She checks once more to make sure that her bedroom door is standing wide open, so that she can at any time look up to see that there is no one standing in the hallway. Having made herself comfortable, she curls up around George the Bear and closes her eyes.
The nightmares are probably the worst part for her. Dealing with even a relatively empty reality is far preferable to doing battle against the demons which come to call during sleep. In the beginning, she couldn't sleep at all. She could still feel his grip on her then, long after the bruises and welts had healed. But she did not dream of him, or of the knife at her throat, or the torn clothing. She dreamt instead of a great blackness, a dark and heavy cloud which always appeared out of nowhere, which enveloped her, strangled her. Consumed her.
She always awoke in terror when she had those dreams, that used to come to her every night, several times a night. She wouldn't even think of going to sleep without the lights on.
But she has no fear of that now. She has instead her many blankets and her tattered teddy bear.
It was her body that had remembered the most, and she hadn't known how to make it forget. She had often spent hours upon hours every day working to distract or even numb her mind and her heart, but her body had not been so easily fooled. Without warning, it sometimes began to relive the attack on its own, and she was helpless to stop it, captive inside this contorting body as it struggled to fend him off.
She awakens, opening her eyes to look out at her empty hallway. Then she checks the clock on the bedside table. It is 3:15. The children will be home soon, that is her first thought. She sits up in her bed, surveying the bedroom slowly, as if this might help to clear her mind of too much sleep. Then she briefly takes stock of her dreams. She typically does not have any trouble with them during her daytime naps, and even the night no longer seems to encourage the darkest of her nightmares.
No, she has had no bad dreams today, only the comforting visions of warm and glowing river flowing over her. Was this a dream of healing?
Reaching for her robe at the end of the bed, she steps toward the coffee maker that she keeps in the hallway, so that she must leave the sanctuary of her bedroom no more than necessary. There is still some herbal tea left from the pot she made early this morning, and she pours this into her favorite turquoise mug to finish it off before she sets the machine to work on a pot of her special afternoon tea.
The only real excitement that she knows during her day is the return of the children after school. As she watches them pile out of the school bus, she wonders what they learned today, what games they played on the playground, whether the school's cafeteria served them hot lunches, and what kind of instruments they are learning to play in music class.
She especially longs to see Justin, to catch a brief glimpse of whatever project he may be carrying home from art class. In her mind, he is a very creative child, quite possibly making all sorts of mischief, but bright and loving and delightful. Every time she sees Justin, she cannot help but think how much this little boy looks like him, the face in her dreams, how this might have been the child they almost had.
Her tea mug is just warm enough this afternoon, and she wraps her thin fingers around it, comforted by the familiar texture of the heavy pottery. For a moment, she considers drawing the blinds on some of the other windows, to let a bit more light in, especially so that she can better see the light snow that has just begun to fall, but the thought is quickly dismissed. This one window will suffice.
She places a pillow between herself and the wall as she settles into the well-worn window seat, and she waits quietly for the school bus to arrive. She knows that the children will be very excited by the snow, and she hopes that it might be enough to keep them home from school tomorrow. Although their shrieks and squeals are sometimes too much for her, she does so delight in watching their snowball fights and sled races.
She again checks the street, and sees that it is clear. She used to worry that her neighbors could see her through this upstairs window, that they would label her as crazy and warn the children to avoid her gaze at all costs. She used to worry a lot about what other people thought of her. But no one ever seems to notice her in the window, alone, watching the comings and goings of the world below.
The school bus is soon in sight, and Justin jumps off almost before it has stopped moving. He is full of excited energy, dancing around in the whirl of snowflakes which fall all about him. The snow is now sticking to the pavement and has already begun dusting the neighborhood lawns, although it will be some time yet before there is enough for a decent snowball.
The other children join Justin, skipping up and down the sidewalk, trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues. It doesn't matter so much to her now that it is cold.
Sally is the last off of the bus, taking special care not to damage a precious, yellow balloon which she has tied around her wrist.
And then it occurs to her, what it is that is special about this day.
Today is her birthday.