Page 20 of The Life She Had

Now I have the chance to avoid that and accomplish a critical part of my mission, and I’m hesitating. I’m making breakfast, I’m washing dishes, I’m showering, and then I’m doing laundry while this house lies open to me, my time alone ticking past.

A deep breath, and I check my watch. Eleven a.m. Celeste said she’d be back after lunch, meaning I want to be in the lanai by noon.

I grip the railing and head upstairs.

Celeste

She’s been in the house.

I realize that the second I step inside to hear the dryer tumbling. Outrage pulses through me. Outrage and fear, too, the reactions of an animal who has returned home to find her den violated, her privacy shattered.

I locked the back door. Put out a note welcoming her to grab coffee and then locked the door. I’m not proud of that. I’d rather have just stuck a bottle of water and a few granola bars outside with an apologetic “Hey, I had to take off, but here’s something to tide you over until lunch.” That made me seem like a bitch, though, so instead, I’d actually been a bitch, inviting her in and locking the door.

I hate this push-pull of being a woman, always walking the tightrope line between assertive and “bitchy,” while knowing that line moves for every person on the receiving end.

Be direct in your emails, but soften the blow with smiley faces.

Stand up for what you believe in, but remember that others have opinions, too.

A woman putting that bottle of water and granola bar outside is rude, suspicious, and that most dreaded of sobriquets: Not a Nice Person.

I follow Daisy’s trail through my house, like a wolf tracking an intruder’s scent. She made breakfast and did the dishes; then she showered and washed the towels. I understand that, in cleaning up, she was trying to mitigate the trespass, but it feels like even more of an intrusion, as if she’s making herself at home.

The back door creaks open, and Daisy sticks her head in as I fix on my most politely neutral smile.

“Hey,” she says, staying out on the porch. “Just wanted to let you know that I used the shower. I threw the towels into the wash. Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” I say, my tone as neutral as my smile.

“Is it all right if I borrow an umbrella for a walk to the store? I’m short on supplies in the shed, and I don’t want to impose any further.”

The correct response here would be to offer to drive her to the store.

No, the correct response would be to assure her that she’s welcome to my food and other necessities while offering to drive her for anything else she needs.

“I’ll get you an umbrella,” I say.

She waits, holding the door ajar. When I hand her an umbrella, she says, “Just let me know when you want that leak fixed. I really am fine with whatever state the attic is in. It can’t be worse than I’ve seen.”

The leak. Damn it.

“I’ll have you take a look when you get back,” I say. “The storm seems to be clearing up, so maybe it doesn’t need to be fixed.”

“Sure, just let me know.”

As she takes the umbrella, I glance at the door.

“I’m glad you were able to get in,” I say. “I got to my appointment and started freaking out, worrying that I’d accidentally locked it.”

“Nope. Which is good, because I really needed that shower.”

I close the door and stand there, thinking. Had there been a pause before she answered? A sign that I hadn’t forgotten to lock it or left the door not quite shut? Did Daisy break into my house?

I turn the lock now and double-check it. A few moments later, the outside door slaps shut, and through the window, I watch Daisy jog off, red umbrella bobbing in the rain.

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