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The entire time, my neighbor—or by now a completely new, improved and fictional version of her—occupies my mind.
As the night rolls in and I, yet again, don’t know what to do with myself, another emotion seeps through. Frustration and anger. I don’t want to be obsessed with my fucking neighbor. She’s not even that attractive, not really my type. And clearly full of drama. And what’s with that voice? She sounds like an old carburetor.
Have I really gotten so desperate that I latch onto the idea of a woman who came to yell at me? And my reaction pisses me off even further. I wish I had my punching bag here.
Okay, damn it, let’s channel the newly acquired anger into something productive. I sit down at the high stool at the breakfast bar in my kitchen and make a plan for the following week. It includes three items: shave, join a gym, and move the boxes into storage.
Writing the list fills me with a sense of accomplishment and I briefly consider completing the first task. But there are seven days in the week, and I only have three concrete tasks so far. No need to push it.
Goddammit. I feel like a loser, despite the minuscule progress. I have done nothing for a month. While my therapist suggested a mild antidepressant, I chose to move halfway across the country instead.
Voices in the hallway pull me to the door. I don’t care about my new neighbor. I don’t want to see her again. As I raise these objections in my mind, my hand reaches for the handle and I open the door. Whoever kidnapped my head needs to give it back. Fast.
My neighbor smiles at me. There is another woman with her. They share similar features, perhaps sisters. I don’t have time to contemplate that because I’m still stunned by the smile. I actually liked her more when she glared or faked her grins.
This smile is too cheerful, and I can’t imagine what prompted her to shine like that. It’s disconcerting. And then, she steps forward and extends her hand.
“Hi, have you just moved in? I’m—”
“What the fuck?” I growl and leave her standing there, slamming my door.
Is she completely deranged? Her sweetness confirms the other day was a reaction to something else, but why would she pretend we haven’t met?
Fuck it. I take two pills and get into my bed, hoping darkness claims me quickly. Before my roaming thoughts lead me back to the crazy woman next door.
Chapter3
London
The words on the page blur in front of my eyes, but I push through, blinking away the tears. This is the only place I allow myself to cry in public. Not that anyone sees it or cares because despair and sadness are part of the decor here, along with comfortable beds, peaceful paintings and kind staff.
Madeleine’s head nestles small in the middle of the large pillow, her fine silver hair framing her pale face like patches of dandelions. One blow of a draft and she might float away. So fragile. So spent.
In the two months since she’s been admitted she seems to have shrunk, but at least she looks serene, courtesy of the drip flowing into the tiny vein in her arm.
People come here to die and there is nothing I can do about it. Or very little, so I ignore my tears and read. Because if there is one thing I can offer, it’s my company. And money to run this place. So that’s what I do.
I finish the chapter and close the book. I want to say something, but what is there to say? That’s why I read, because I need to borrow words when I’m here. Madeleine doesn’t require conversation anymore.
I put the book on her nightstand, pat her hand and stand up. I lean in, pressing my forehead against the window’s cold glass. Outside, the unseasonably strong sunshine kisses the busy streets.
Large windows with a lot of natural light were one of the conditions when I was looking for the building. I found this one and we have been offering free care for three years now. Not enough. Never enough. Only a drop in the ocean.
This building—aside from my condo—is the only thing I own. This cause is the only reason I’d even contemplate such a binding purchase. But here we are, and I’m glad I took the leap.
Madeleine can enjoy a lot of natural light in her last days. Not all dying people have the same possibility. Frustration seeps deep into my bones, making room for the simmering anger. That’s more like it. That’s the emotion I can rely on to cope with life. And with death. It’s the source of my energy.
As soon as I’m fired up enough, I look at Madeleine.
“I’ll see you this weekend. You better wait here for me.” I sigh and march out of her room.
I peek into a few other rooms on my way out. At the end of the hallway, Ralph looks my way from his bed.
“Why so grim, London?” He barely pushes the words out, but he never fails to tease or entertain. God, I admire his strength. Sometimes I want to yell at him.Don’t you know you’re dying? Why are you so cheerful?
I don’t respond, I glare at him. Everyone and everything pisses me off, because no matter how much I try, it’s never enough.
“Listen, sunshine—” A bout of coughing eats his words. I rush to his side and hand him a cup of water. With my palm on his shoulder, I watch as he struggles to catch his breath. Helpless. I’m always so utterly helpless.
