Chapter 55
NOW
It’s dark when Adeem and Libby leave. They offered to leave earlier—several times, in fact—but I insisted we press on. There was a lot to get through, and we were in flow.
“Browbeaten,” I mutter as I let them out. Adeem rolls his eyes. Libby chuckles.
I wave them off with a plan for them to return in a few days, then go back to the living room.
The house feels different with them gone.
The cushions are still indented from Libby’s arm, and I can smell the remains of Adeem’s cheap aftershave.
But I don’t fluff the cushions or open a window.
I like the feeling of my house after guests.
Apart from Daphne, and more recently Persephone and Roxanne, my house hasn’t felt this kind of energy.
I take myself off to bed, oddly buoyed by my afternoon despite the content of the discussion.
As I lie in the darkness, I think about baking something next time—carrot cake perhaps.
Though Adeem’s wife probably wouldn’t appreciate that given the size of his waistline.
Then again, if she’s worried about him straying, perhaps she’d find it comforting?
He’s a nice enough chap, but unlikely to tempt the ladies if his waistline grows any more.
I must drift off with this thought, because when I wake, it’s 4 AM, and Nugget is yapping. I hear scratching outside on my porch. Possums, most likely. I rap on the window, and the noise stops—both Nugget’s barking and the scratching—and I fall back to sleep.
I sleep in until 8:30 AM, and when I wake it’s without the sense of dread of the previous few days.
I know it’s speaking to Libby and Adeem that has made a difference.
Not just the catharsis of talking, although I like that part too, but the sense of taking my power back.
For so long I’d accepted that I was powerless over the truth of my story, and perhaps I was, but at least now I was doing what was in my control to set the story straight.
I slide out of bed and into my robe. I’m tying it around me when I notice movement outside my window.
I peer out. Peter is standing outside my house, and not just Peter.
Joan is there too, and Roxanne and Persephone.
They’re lined up, looking at my house. Odd people.
I have slept late, I suppose. Perhaps Persephone told everyone I died?
I pull up the sash window and wave. “Bad news! I’m alive!”
I throw them a smile, adding a burst of conviviality in the hope it will send them on their way. Frankly it’s a little unnerving waking up to find the entire street anxiously focused on your home, as if preparing to bid at an antiques market.
They don’t smile back. Humorless bunch.
I close the window and go outside. From the porch, I survey the somber faces of the neighbors.
Peter and Joan stand side by side, synchronized in their hand-wringing.
Mrs. Nguyen watches from a few paces back, beside Mr. Nguyen, who is smoking a cigarette and glancing away. Roxanne, I notice, looks ashen.
Persephone is the only one who looks delighted to see me. I find myself thinking of a charmingly stupid dog. If she’d been closer, I might have given her a pat.
“Mad!” Persephone cries.
“Confused, actually,” I reply, “as to why you’re all staring at my house.”
“No!” She laughs, pointing. “Look. Mad!”
I turn, following her pointed finger. Then I understand. How foolish of me.
The scratching I’d heard in the early hours outside my bedroom window. Not a possum, apparently. Painted on the lavender brick wall of my home is a word in sloppy letters. Blood red.
MAD.