The Woman in the Window: The most exciting debut thriller of 2018
As with her son, I like her on sight.
She moves to the chaise, knocks my knee with her own.
“Sit up. In case you’ve got a concussion.” I oblige, dragging myself into position, as she sets the glasses on the table, then parks herself across from me, where her son sat yesterday. She turns to the television, furrows her brow.
“What are you watching? A black-and-white movie?” Baffled.
I reach for the remote and tap the power button. The screen goes blank.
“Dark in here,” Jane observes.
“Could you get the lights?” I ask. “I’m feeling a little …” Can’t finish.
“Sure.” She reaches over the back of the sofa, switches on the floor lamp. The room glows.
I tip my head back, stare at the beveled molding on the ceiling. In, two, three, four. It could use a touch-up. I’ll ask David. Out, two, three, four.
“So,” Jane says, elbows on her knees, scrutinizing me. “What happened out there?”
I shut my eyes. “Panic attack.”
“Oh, honey—what’s your name?”
“Anna. Fox.”
“Anna. They were just some stupid kids.”
“No, that wasn’t it. I can’t go outside.” I look down, grasp for the brandy.
“But you did go outside. Easy does it with that stuff,” she adds as I knock back my drink.
“I shouldn’t have. Gone outside.”
“Why not? You a vampire?”
Practically, I think, appraising my arm—fish-belly white. “I’m agoraphobic?” I say.
She purses her lips. “Is that a question?”
“No, I just wasn’t sure you’d know what it meant.”
“Of course I know. You don’t do open spaces.”
I close my eyes again, nod.
“But I thought agoraphobia means you just can’t, you know, go camping. Outdoorsy stuff.”
“I can’t go anywhere.”
Jane sucks her teeth. “How long has this been going on?”
I drain the last drops of brandy. “Ten months.”
She doesn’t pursue it. I breathe deeply, cough.
“Do you need an inhaler or something?”
I shake my head. “That would only make it worse. Raise my heart rate.”
She considers this. “What about a paper bag?”
I set the glass down, reach for the water. “No. I mean, sometimes, but not now. Thank you for bringing me inside. I’m very embarrassed.”
“Oh, don’t—”
“No, I am. Very. It won’t become a habit, I promise.”
She purses her lips again. Very active mouth, I notice. Possible smoker, although she smells of shea butter. “So it’s happened before? You going outside, and …?”
I grimace. “Back in the spring. Delivery guy left my groceries on the front steps, and I thought I could just … grab them.”
“And you couldn’t.”
“I couldn’t. But there were lots of people passing by that time. It took them a minute to decide I wasn’t crazy or homeless.”
Jane looks around the room. “You definitely aren’t homeless. This place is … wow.” She takes it in, then pulls her phone from her pocket, checks the screen. “I need to get back to the house,” she says, standing.
I try to rise with her, but my legs won’t cooperate. “Your son is a very nice boy,” I tell her. “He dropped that off. Thank you,” I add.
She eyes the candle on the table, touches the chain at her throat. “He’s a good kid. Always has been.”
“Very nice-looking, too.”
“Always has been!” She slides a thumbnail into the locket; it cracks open, and she leans toward me, the locket swaying in the air. I see she expects me to take it. It’s oddly intimate, this stranger looming over me, my hand on her chain. Or perhaps I’m just so unaccustomed to human contact.
Inside the locket is a tiny photograph, glossy and vivid: a small boy, age four or so, yellow hair in riot, teeth like a picket fence after a hurricane. One eyebrow cleft by a scar. Ethan, unmistakably.
“How old is he here?”
“Five. But he looks younger, don’t you think?”
“I would have guessed four.”
“Exactly.”
“When did he get so tall?” I ask, releasing the locket.
She gently shuts it. “Sometime between then and now!” She laughs. Then, abruptly: “You’re okay for me to leave? You’re not going to hyperventilate?”
“I’m not going to hyperventilate.”
“Do you want some more brandy?” she asks, bending to the coffee table—there’s a photo album there, unfamiliar; she must have brought it with her. She tucks it beneath her arm and points to the empty glass.
“I’ll stick with water,” I lie.
“Okay.” She pauses, her gaze fixed on the window. “Okay,” she repeats. “So a very handsome man just came up the walk.” She looks at me. “Is that your husband?”
“Oh, no. That’s David. He’s my tenant. Downstairs.”
“He’s your tenant?” Jane brays. “I wish he were mine!”
THE BELL hasn’t chimed this evening, not once. Maybe the dark windows put off any trick-or-treaters. Maybe it was the dried yolk.
I subside into bed early.
Midway through graduate school, I met a seven-year-old boy afflicted with the so-called Cotard delusion, a psychological phenomenon whereby the individual believes that he is dead. A rare disorder, with pediatric instances rarer still; the recommended treatment is an antipsychotic regimen or, in stubborn cases, electroconvulsive therapy. But I managed to talk him out of it. It was my first great success, and it brought me to Wesley’s attention.
That little boy would be well into his teens now, almost Ethan’s age, not quite half mine. I think of him tonight as I stare at the ceiling, feeling dead myself. Dead but not gone, watching life surge forward around me, powerless to intervene.
13
WHEN I COME DOWNSTAIRS THIS MORNING, sloping into the kitchen, I find a note slipped beneath the basement door. eggs.
I study it, confused. Does David want breakfast? Then I turn it over, see the word Cleaned above the fold. Thank you, David.
Eggs do sound good, come to think of it, so I empty three into a skillet and serve myself sunny-side up. A few minutes later I’m at my desk, sucking the last of the yolk and punching in at the Agora.
Morning is rush hour here—agoraphobes often register acute anxiety after waking up. Sure enough, we’re gridlocked today. I spend two hours offering solace and support; I refer users to assorted medications (imipramine is my drug of choice these days, although Xanax never goes out of style); I mediate a dispute over the (indisputable) benefits of aversion therapy; I watch, at the request of Dimples2016, a video clip in which a cat plays the drums.
I’m about to sign off, zip over to the chess forum, avenge Saturday’s defeats, when a message box blooms on my screen.
DiscoMickey: Thanks again for your help the other day doc.
The panic attack. I’d manned the keyboard for nearly an hour as DiscoMickey, in his words, “freaked out.”
thedoctorisin: Anytime. You better?
DiscoMickey: Much.
DiscoMickey: Writing b/c I’m talking to a lady who’s new and she’s asking if there are any professionals on here. Sent her your FAQs.
A referral. I check the clock.
thedoctorisin: I might not have much time today, but send her my way.
DiscoMickey: Cool.
DiscoMickey has left the chat.
A moment later, up pops a second chat box. GrannyLizzie. I click on the name, skim the user profile. Age: seventy. Residence: Montana. Joined: two days ago.
I flick another glance at the clock. Chess can wait for a seventy-year-old in Montana.
A strip of text at the bottom of the screen reports that GrannyLizzie is typing. I wait a moment, then another; either she’s whipping up a long message or it’s a case of senioritis. Both my parents used to stab at the keyboard with their index fingers, like flamingos picking their way through the shallows; it took them half a minute just to bash out a hello.
GrannyLizzie: Well hello there!
Friendly. Before I can respond:
GrannyLizzie: Disco Mickey gave your name to me. Desperate for some advice!
GrannyLizzie: Also for some chocolate, but that’s another matter …
I manage to get a word in edgewise.
thedoctorisin: Hello to you! You’re new to this forum?
GrannyLizzie: Yes I am!
thedoctorisin: I hope that DiscoMickey made you feel welcome.
GrannyLizzie: Yes he did!
thedoctorisin: How can I help you?
GrannyLizzie: Well I don’t think you can help with the chocolate I’m afraid!
Is she effervescent or nervous? I wait it out.
GrannyLizzie: The thing is …
GrannyLizzie: And I hate to say it …
Drum roll …
GrannyLizzie: I haven’t been able to leave my home for the past month.
GrannyLizzie: So THAT is the problem!
thedoctorisin: I’m sorry to hear that. May I call you Lizzie?
GrannyLizzie: You bet.
GrannyLizzie: I live in Montana. Grandmother first, art teacher second!
We’ll get to all that, but for now:
thedoctorisin: Lizzie, did anything special happen a month ago?
A pause.
GrannyLizzie: My husband died.
thedoctorisin: I see. What was your husband’s name?
GrannyLizzie: Richard.
thedoctorisin: I’m so sorry for your loss, Lizzie. Richard was my father’s name.
GrannyLizzie: Has your f ather died?
thedoctorisin: He and my mother both died 4 years ago. She had cancer and then he had a stroke 5 months later. But I’ve always believed that some of the best people are called Richard.
GrannyLizzie: So was Nixon!!!
Good; we’re developing a rapport.
thedoctorisin: How long were you married?
GrannyLizzie: Forty seven years.
GrannyLizzie: We met on the job. LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT BY THE WAY!
GrannyLizzie: He taught chemistry. I taught art. Opposites attract!
thedoctorisin: That’s amazing! And you have children?
GrannyLizzie: I have two sons and three grandsons.
GrannyLizzie: My sons are pretty cute, but my grandsons are beautiful!
thedoctorisin: That’s a lot of boys.
GrannyLizzie: You’re telling me!
GrannyLizzie: The things I’ve seen!
GrannyLizzie: The things I’ve smelled!
I note the tone, brisk and insistently upbeat; I clock the language, informal but confident, and the precise punctuation, the infrequent errors. She’s intelligent, outgoing. Thorough, too—she spells out numbers, and writes by the way instead of btw, although maybe that’s a function of age. Whatever the case, she’s an adult I can work with.
GrannyLizzie: Are YOU a boy, by the way?
GrannyLizzie: Sorry if you are, it’s just that girls are sometimes doctors too! Even out here in Montana!
I smile. I like her.
thedoctorisin: I am indeed a girl doctor.
GrannyLizzie: Good! We need more of you!
thedoctorisin: Tell me, Lizzie, what’s happened since Richard passed?
And tell me she does. She tells me how, on returning from the funeral, she felt too frightened to walk the mourners beyond the front door; she tells me that in the days following, it felt like the outside was trying to get into my house, and so she drew the blinds; she tells me about her sons far away in the Southeast, their confusion, their concern.
GrannyLizzie: I’ve got to tell you, all joking aside, that this is really upsetting.
Time to roll up my sleeves.
thedoctorisin: Naturally it is. What’s happening, I think, is that Richard’s passing has fundamentally altered your world, but the world outside has moved on without him. And that’s very difficult to face and to accept.
I await a response. Nothing.
thedoctorisin: You mentioned that you haven’t removed any of Richard’s belongings, which I understand. But I’d like you to think about that.
Radio silence.
And then:
GrannyLizzie: I’m so grateful to have found you. Really really.
GrannyLizzie: That’s something my grandsons say. They heard it in Shrek. Really really.
GrannyLizzie: May I speak to you again soon, I hope?
thedoctorisin: Really really!
Couldn’t help myself.
GrannyLizzie: I am really really (!!) grateful to Disco Mickey for pointing me to you. You’re a doll.
thedoctorisin: My pleasure.
I wait for her to sign off, but she’s still typing.
GrannyLizzie: I just realized I don’t even know your name!
I hesitate. I’ve never shared my name on the Agora, not even with Sally. I don’t want anyone to find me, to pair my name with my profession and figure me out, unlock me; yet something in Lizzie’s story snags my heart: this elderly widow, alone and bereaved, putting on a brave face beneath those huge skies. She can crack jokes all she wants, but she’s housebound, and that’s terrifying.
thedoctorisin: I’m Anna.
As I prepare to log out, a last message pings on my screen.
GrannyLizzie: Thank you, Anna.
GrannyLizzie has left the chat.
I feel my veins rushing. I’ve helped someone. I’ve connected. Only connect. Where have I heard that?
I deserve a drink.
14
TRIPPING DOWN TO THE KITCHEN, I roll my head against my shoulders, hear the crackle of my bones. Something catches my eye overhead: In the dim recesses of the ceiling, at the very top of the stairwell three stories up, there’s a dark stain glaring at me—from the trapdoor of the roof, I think, right beside the skylight.
I knock on David’s door. It opens a moment later; he’s barefoot, in a wilted T-shirt and slouched jeans. I just woke him up, I see. “Sorry,” I say. “Were you in bed?”
“No.”
He was. “Could you look at something for me? I think I saw water damage on the ceiling.”
We head up to the top floor, past the study, past my bedroom, to the landing between Olivia’s room and the second spare.
“Big skylight,” David says.
I can’t tell if that’s a compliment. “It’s original,” I say, just to say something.
“Oval.”
“Yes.”
“Haven’t seen too many like that.”
“Oval?”
But the exchange is over. He eyes the stain.
“That’s mildew,” he says, hushed, like a doctor gently breaking news to a patient.
“Can we just brush it off?”
“Not going to fix it.”
“What will?”
He sighs. “First I need to check out the roof.” He reaches for the trapdoor chain and tugs. The door judders open; a ladder slides toward us, screeching; sunshine bolts in. I step to one side, away from the light. Perhaps I am a vampire after all.
David drags the ladder down until it bumps against the floor. I watch him as he mounts the steps, his jeans taut against his rear; then he disappears.
“See anything?” I call.
No response.
“David?”
I hear a clang. A plume of water, mirror-bright in the sunlight, pours onto the landing. I draw back. “Sorry,” David says. “Watering can.”
“It’s fine. Do you see anything?”
A pause, then David’s voice again, almost reverent. “It’s a jungle up here.”
It was Ed’s idea, four years ago, after my mother died. “You need a project,” he decided; so we set about converting the rooftop into a garden—flower beds, a vegetable patch, a row of miniature boxwoods. And the central feature, what that broker called the pièce de résistance: an arched trellis, six feet wide and twelve long, thick with leaves in spring and summer, a shady tunnel. When my father had his stroke later on, Ed placed a memorial bench within it. Ad astra per aspera, read the inscription. Through adversity to the stars. I’d sit there on spring and summer evenings, in the gold-green light, reading a book, sipping a glass.
I’ve scarcely thought of the roof garden lately. It must be wild.
“It’s totally overgrown,” David confirms. “It’s like a forest.”
I wish he’d come down.
“Some kind of trellis over there?” he asks. “Tarp covering it?”
We’d sheathe it in its tarp every autumn. I say nothing; I just remember.
“You should be careful up here. Don’t want to step on this skylight.”
“I’m not planning on going up there,” I remind him.
The glass rattles as his foot taps it. “Flimsy. Branch falls on that, it’s gonna take out the whole window.” Another moment passes. “It’s pretty incredible. Want me to take a picture?”
“No. Thanks. What do we do about the damp?”
One foot drops to the ladder, then the other as he descends. “We need a pro.” He arrives at the floor, slots the ladder into place. “To seal the roof. But I can use a paint scraper to get rid of the mildew.” He folds the trapdoor back into the ceiling. “Sand down the area. Then put on some stain block and some emulsion paint.”
“Do you have all that?”
“I’ll get the block and the paint. It’d help if we could ventilate in here.”
I freeze. “What do you mean?”
“Open some windows. Doesn’t have to be on this floor.”
“I don’t open windows. Anywhere.”
He shrugs. “It’d help.”
I turn to the stairs. He follows me. We go down in silence.
“Thank you for cleaning up the mess outside,” I say, mostly to say something, once we’re in the kitchen.
“Who did that?”
“Some kids.”
“Do you know who?”
“No.” I pause. “Why? Could you rough them up for me?”
He blinks. I press on.
“You’re still comfortable downstairs, I hope?” He’s been here two months, ever since Dr. Fielding suggested that a tenant would be useful: someone to run errands, dispose of the trash, assist with general upkeep, et cetera, all in exchange for reduced rent. David was the first to answer my ad, posted on Airbnb; I remember thinking his email was terse, even curt, until I met the man and realized he’d been downright chatty. Just relocated from Boston, experienced handyman, nonsmoker, $7,000 in the bank. We agreed on a lease that afternoon.
“Yeah.” He looks up, at the lights sunk in the ceiling. “There a reason you keep it so dark? A medical reason or something?”
I feel myself flush. “A lot of people in my …” What’s the word here? “… position feel exposed if the light’s too bright.” I gesture to the windows. “And there’s plenty of natural light in this house in any case.”
David considers this, nods.
“Are you getting enough light in your apartment?” I ask.
“It’s fine.”
Now I nod. “If you find any more of Ed’s blueprints down there, just let me know. I’m saving them.”
I hear the snicker of Punch’s door flap, see him slink into the kitchen.
“I really do appreciate all that you do for me,” I continue, although I’ve mistimed it—he’s moving toward the basement door. “With the … trash and the housework and everything. You’re a lifesaver,” I add, lamely.
“Sure.”
“If you wouldn’t mind calling someone to take care of the ceiling …”
“Sure.”
Punch bounds onto the island between us and drops something from his mouth. I look at it.
A dead rat.
I recoil. I’m gratified to see that David does, too. It’s a small one, with oily fur and a black worm of a tail; its body has been mauled.
Punch watches us proudly.
“No,” I scold him. He cocks his head.
“He really did a number on it,” David says.
I inspect the rat. “Did you do this?” I ask Punch, before I remember I’m interrogating a cat. He springs from the island.
“Look at that,” David breathes. I glance up: On the opposite side of the island, he’s bent forward, his dark eyes glittering.
“Do we bury it someplace?” I ask. “I don’t want it rotting in the trash.”
David clears his throat. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday,” he says. Trash day. “I’ll take it all out now. You got a newspaper?”
“Does anyone anymore?” That came out more pointed than I intended. I follow up quickly. “I have a plastic bag.”
I find one in a drawer. David extends his hand, but I can do this myself. I snap the bag inside out, tuck my hand inside, gingerly grasp the carcass. A little shiver jolts me.
I tug the bag over the rat and seal the band at the top. David takes it from me and slides open the trash receptacle beneath the island, dumps the dead rat inside. RIP.
Just as he’s yanking the garbage bag from its container, there’s a sound from downstairs; the pipes sing, the walls start talking to one another. The shower.
I look at David. He doesn’t flinch; instead he knots the bag at the top and slings it over his shoulder. “I’ll take this outside,” he says, striding toward the front door.
It’s not as though I was going to ask him her name.
15
“GUESS WHO.”
“Mom.”
I let it slide. “How was Halloween, pumpkin?”
“Good.” She’s chewing on something. I hope Ed remembers to watch her weight.
“Did you get a lot of candy?”
“A lot. More than ever.”
“What was your favorite?” Peanut M&M’s, of course.
“Snickers.”
I stand corrected.
“They’re little,” she explains. “They’re like baby Snickers.”
“So did you have Chinese for dinner or Snickers for dinner?”
“Both.”
I’ll have a word with Ed.
But when I do, he’s defensive. “It’s the one night of the year she gets to eat candy for dinner,” he says.
“I don’t want her getting into trouble.”
Silence. “With the dentist?”
“With her weight.”
He sighs. “I can take care of her.”
I sigh back. “I’m not saying you can’t.”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
I bank a hand against my forehead. “It’s just that she’s eight years old, and a lot of kids experience significant weight gain at this age. Girls especially.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“And remember she already went through a chubby phase.”
“You want her to be a waif?”
“No, that would be just as bad. I want her to be healthy.”
“Fine. I’ll give her a low-calorie kiss tonight,” he says. “A Diet Smooch.”
I smile. Still, when we say goodbye, it’s stiff.
16
IN MID-FEBRUARY—AFTER NEARLY SIX WEEKS shriveled inside my house, after I realized that I wasn’t Getting Better—I contacted a psychiatrist whose lecture (“Atypical Antipsychotics and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder”) I’d attended at a conference in Baltimore five years back. He didn’t know me then. He does now.
Those unfamiliar with therapy often assume that the therapist is by default soft-spoken and solicitous; you smear yourself along his sofa like butter on toast, and you melt. It ain’t necessarily so, as the song goes. Exhibit A: Dr. Julian Fielding.
For one thing, there’s no sofa. We meet every Tuesday in Ed’s library, Dr. Fielding in the club chair beside the fireplace, me in a wingback by the window. And although he speaks softly, his voice creaking like an old door, he’s precise, particular, as a good psychiatrist should be. “Kind of guy who steps out of the shower to piss,” Ed has said, more than once.