The Widow Next Door: The most chilling of new crime thriller books that you will read in 2018. L.A. Detwiler

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       Chapter 3

      It’s Saturday, and they’re raking leaves together. It looks warm out, the picture-perfect day you see on cards or those made-for-television movies that make me seriously want to crawl outside of my skin.

      Not that love is a bad thing. But those movies where everything is perfect, the woman swooning over a dozen roses like some sickeningly debilitated puppet – those are the things that make me roll my eyes and shake my head, even when there’s nothing else on. Maybe it’s just me, though. Maybe I’ve just got a deeper understanding of life and love than most, especially the not-so-rosy moments. Maybe if life were a little bit more like a made-for-television movie, things wouldn’t be such a wreck right now. Sometimes predictability makes life happy.

      I digress, though. Because the point is, 312 Bristol Lane doesn’t look like one of those annoyingly sappy movies. The couple feels real to me. They feel genuine, even in the happy moments. I don’t begrudge them these moments.

      Jane and Alex keep raking leaves, right through my existential crisis over sappy movies and predictable plots. I refocus, studying them, looking at their subtle cues as I rock, Amos in my lap.

      Alex has got short sleeves on, the rake in his hand. Jane’s in a lightweight sweater, her hair up in a ponytail. She’s sitting on the steps, chatting away animatedly. I sort of want to open the window, to get some air and to hear what they’re talking about, but I think it would be a little obvious. Plus, I’d probably just get cold in a minute or two, and I don’t want to disturb Amos. He’s all cosy, purring gently. His feet are even moving as he dreams.

      The pile of leaves is getting bigger and bigger. Alex’s back is to me, but I can tell by his posture he’s relaxed, despite the work. She’s talking away. She talks with her hands. Did I used to be a hand talker when I had the energy? When I had someone to talk to?

      I can’t remember. So many things I can’t remember now, it makes me feel sad. How do those moments slip away? The little moments, the little details, are like fleeting feathers on the breeze. I so desperately try to cling to them, if for no other reason than to say I can, but in truth, I can’t. Time stomps forward, leaving our memories in the ashy dirt. We can’t hold on to everything, not all of the big things and especially not the little things. Sometimes the loss of the little things hurts worse.

      Now don’t go feeling sorry for yourself, you old coot, I think to myself. No need to get all down in the dumps. It won’t change anything anyway. You’ve got plenty to be thankful for.

      Still, the quietude of the house can wear on a person. Talking to Amos just isn’t the same. He’s lovely, don’t get me wrong. But he doesn’t talk back. Sometimes the silence in the house is deafening. It’s enough to make me want to scream … but who would hear it?

      The pointlessness is sometimes the difficulty of ageing, especially when you’re alone. No cat can fill that void or tackle that internal dilemma.

      I’ve got other forms of social interaction, of course. I go to church on Sunday mornings when I feel up to it and when it isn’t bad weather. These eyes don’t work very well in the rain or when it’s foggy, after all. Still, I step into the little church down the road now and again, sitting in the back pew where I used to sit at the stage in my life I needed God or something to soothe the internal wounds festering, bubbling and oozing. In truth, if I look hard, they’re still there. I guess that’s why I still go to Mass once in a while, when I can. The fire and brimstone speeches are extreme, but who am I to say what’s right or wrong?

      They also send a little shiver down my spine, all the talk about eternal damnation and forgiveness. I fiddle with my fingers during these sermons, asking the question so many do but so few truly understand: Will I be saved? Forgiven? Will I make it to heaven, or will my shattered soul spend eternity paying for my sins?

      After all this time, I still don’t know the answer. Maybe I don’t want to know the answer, in truth. I don’t know if a few Sunday Masses now and then can check off a box, can mitigate my wrongdoings. But it can’t hurt.

      Plus, if nothing else, Sundays get me out of this tomb of a house, out of the interminable chill of being alone.

      After Mass, I say hello to a few of the ladies and even go downstairs for coffee once in a while. They don’t really know me, which is okay. I’d probably forget their names anyway. I’m fine with being on the edges.

      I also have my trips to the grocery store, Mark’s Mart. There’s a nice boy there who not only rings up my purchases but also loads my grocery bags in the car. He’s a young fellow, too young really to be talking to an old lady like me. His smile, his kind words, they give me something to look forward to. Best of all, he knows exactly how the groceries need to be packed – chicken in its own bag, toiletries in a brown bag, Amos’s cat food in a plastic bag. I have my system, and he doesn’t mess with it. I respect that.

      I’ve come to learn, though, it’s the small, ordinary interactions you miss most when you’re alone. The silence of the house at any given moment, the only sound my breathing. The fact there’s no one to tell about the hilarious crisp commercial you just saw or to call out to when an adorable squirrel is eating on the feeder. The seemingly unimportant times, the little joys of daily life are lost when you don’t have anyone to share them with.

      Nevertheless, I promised myself years ago I wouldn’t let that appreciation disappear. I vowed I’d cling to the positives. That’s what he’d want, after all. That’s what I need to do.

      No matter how much I swear to myself I’ll keep living, keep being thankful, it’s not easy. I’d be lying if I said it was. It’s not just the silence; it’s the lack of companionship that makes me crazy.

      It’s him. It’s the fact he’s not here.

      I miss him. In spite of everything, I know deep down we were soulmates. How could I not miss him?

      I miss our breakfasts of pancakes on Sundays when he would talk about the shocking news stories in the paper. I miss his kisses, miss the way he would wrap an arm around me as he passed by. I miss our Saturday morning drives to nowhere in particular. I miss our movie marathons on the sofa, our apple sauce with mini marshmallows on top just for fun. I miss having someone to bake for, someone to share everything with. I miss the way he didn’t give up on me even when I was falling apart, how his shoulder was there even when I didn’t realise I wanted or needed it.

      It’s true, there was a time in СКАЧАТЬ