Chapter Seven. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER SEVEN
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
Maybe Betty secretly craves companionship, not help. This small house probably feels vast and hollow without her husband. If that’s the case, I need to be the most pleasant, engaging version of myself.
As we eat spaghetti, I ask Betty about her childhood and she describes growing up in a time when a milkman in a white cap delivered bottles to doorsteps every week, when her favorite playthings were paper dolls, and when some of her parents’ friends scoffed at the notion of a girl attending college.
I’m about to follow up with more questions, but Betty beats me to it.
“If it’s not too personal, may I ask why you and your husband divorced?”
My fork gently chimes the rim of the china plate as I set it down. I see no judgment in her expression. I owe her the truth.
“Danny was addicted to gambling. Mostly online but he went to casinos, too. It got really bad. He worked as a real estate agent so he had crazy hours and I sometimes worked the night shift at the hospital, so I never suspected a thing.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Because we shared credit cards and bought the house together, I’m responsible for his debts, too.”
Certain memories will always linger in my mind: the first time I saw Danny’s easy smile. The warmth of his hand when he walked me to my car after our first date at a Thai restaurant. The furtive look on his face as he tucked an envelope into his pocket as he sorted through the mail.
An old girlfriend, I’d thought. Or worse, a current one.
It was even more devastating: The letter announced the imminent foreclosure on our little split-level home, the one I’d sunk every penny of my savings into and dreamed of filling with a couple of kids and a dog.
I rein in my spiraling thoughts. Betty is my boss, not a therapist.
“He never told you about his problem?” Betty asks.
I shake my head. “I had no idea. He handled all the finances.”
Betty nods. “Men always do.” I don’t bother correcting her.
“Love is complicated,” she continues. “Husbands try to hide things from wives to protect us, but sometimes it’s better if we know.”
“I would’ve helped him,” I blurt. “If he’d wanted, I would’ve done anything. Gotten him into counseling. Worked with creditors.”
If he’d wanted. Sometimes I almost hate Danny, but more often, I fantasize about him finding me and begging me to come back, saying he can live without his addiction but not without me. The worst part of my fantasy is when, instead of closing the door in his face, I step into his arms.
Betty puts her delicate, bony hand over mine. I’m surprised by how comforting it feels.
“Do you have close girlfriends to talk to?” Betty asks.
I nod. “A few. They’re married, though, and most of them are starting families. Their lives are busy, you know?”
Plus they don’t know the extent of what happened. I think my brother suspected, though. He was the one who gave me his old Toyota, claiming they didn’t use it anymore.
“I’m glad you have friends to confide in.” Betty’s eyes grow faraway. “Do you know what I loved most about college? Being with my girlfriends. There were four of us who were very close. Sisters, in a way. We traded recipes and went to football games and ate lunch together almost every single day.”
“Are you still in touch with them?” I ask.
“No, I haven’t seen them since Douglas and I left Marquis.”
“Oh my gosh, that must be—sixty years ago?”
Betty nods. “Sixty-one.”
“And you haven’t spoken to them since?” I ask.
I regret my question when I see the sheen of tears in Betty’s eyes as she shakes her head.
I change the subject and we chat until Betty grows visibly fatigued and I manage to convince her to let me wash the dinner dishes.
As I suspected, she’s perfectly capable of changing and maneuvering into her bed on her own.
Once she’s settled, I bring her a glass of water for her nightstand and ask if she’d like the bedroom window open for some fresh air.
She hesitates, an emotion I can’t identify playing across her face.
“Douglas and I always slept with the windows locked. But I think I would enjoy that.”
I unlatch the brass lock and crack the window an inch, letting cool October air seep into the room.
“I’ll keep my bedroom door open,” I tell Betty. “Just call out if you need anything. I’m a light sleeper.”
“It’s nice to have you here, Riley,” she says, her voice drowsy. “This house has felt so empty since Douglas died.”
“I’m really happy to be here.” She’s a small, frail figure beneath the covers, and it makes my heart ache for her when I see she’s sleeping to one side of the bed, leaving the other half empty.
I pause in her doorway. “Would you mind if I went for a short walk to stretch my legs? I won’t be long.”
“Of course not.”
I hesitate. “I don’t have a key.”
“Oh.” In the shadowy light, I see Betty’s brow crease. “I just have one copy. You can borrow it; it’s on the little dish on top of my dresser.”
There’s only one key to this house? It’s another odd detail I don’t question. I’m lucky to be here, I remind myself.
I find the silver key and tuck it into my pocket. “I’ll be back soon.”
I throw on my coat and head toward the neighbor’s house, checking my phone as a signal kicks in. There are a half dozen emails from creditors that I immediately delete. The only one I read is from my boss. It’s so kind it brings tears to my eyes.
We’ll figure it out. Stop in and say hi sometime, Riley. Good luck.
I walk a bit farther, curious about my new neighborhood. I see a playset in one yard and a car up on blocks in another driveway. I’m about to turn back when a woman in a plaid jacket approaches, walking the brown dog I drove past earlier.
The dog makes a beeline for me and begins sniffing my legs.
“He’s friendly!” the woman calls. “Felix, knock it off.”
“It’s okay. I love dogs.” I bend to pet him and I’m rewarded with a soft lick on my hand.
“Do you live nearby?” the woman asks. She has deep-set brown eyes and a silver bob. “I thought I knew everyone on my street.”
“I’m Riley. I just moved in with Betty Sadler to help care for her.”
The woman’s smile drops away.
“You’re living in that house?”
“I mean—just as of today … Do you know Betty?”
They live a hundred yards apart. Surely they’ve crossed paths countless times.
She looks at me for a long moment. “No one does.”
Maybe it’s the darkness, or the chill in the October air. But her tone sounds ominous. I wrap my arms around myself. “What do you mean?”
“I baked them a pecan pie once,” she says. “Almost twenty-five years ago. I remember because it was shortly after I moved in, and I gave them to all the neighbors for the holidays. The husband answered the door and kept me standing on the porch. He wouldn’t accept it. He was quite rude, actually.”
I must be gaping at the woman, because she elaborates.
“No one in our neighborhood ever sees them. They keep the porch light off on Halloween so kids don’t trick-or-treat. We have a block party every Fourth of July at the neighborhood park. They’ve never once come. I’ve never even seen a delivery truck stop at their house.”
She peers at me like I’m a curiosity. “I’ve seen a bunch of people at her door lately. Now it makes sense; maybe they were interviewing for the job. But she talked to them all on the porch and they left quickly. You’re the only one.”
“The only one?” I echo.
“I’ve never seen another soul go inside that house.”