LITMIR.BIZ

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I’ve become accustomed to seeming quite sad.

      But busy was in my vocabulary at one time, so I choose to speak from that point of reference. ‘Life’s so hectic, huh?’

      ‘It is.’

      ‘Everyone’s right, you know. It flies by. Really does.’

      ‘That’s what they all tell me. Some days, though, with the washing and cooking and all that, it’s kind of hard to believe.’ Her smile, carefully outlined in a gorgeous hue of lipstick, is wide, softening the words.

      ‘I always hated chores. It’s the one bonus of being a lonely old woman – you don’t have to worry about keeping up appearances, you know?’

      She reaches across to pat my hand. I shouldn’t have laid on the lonely part. I don’t want pity. But she smiles. ‘Yeah, well, not many people to keep up appearances for these days. We barely know anyone in this town.’

      I see a hint of sadness in her eyes and wonder what it’s all about.

      Then again, I seem to recognise it. The haze of the honeymoon stage is dulling a bit and the knowledge of wifely duties is setting in for her. It isn’t easy sacrificing your identity to be part of a duo. I get it. I had so many days when I, too, wondered why. What was the point of it all? Was laundry, cooking dinner and sex once in a while really what life had come to? It’s a struggle painted on her face, one I understand even after all these years.

      ‘Don’t you have friends in the area?’ I prod, curious now, wanting to give her a chance to vent.

      She shrugs. ‘Not really. I’m originally from out of the area. I met my husband, we fell in love and, before I knew it, I was packing up my bags and leaving everyone I knew. I didn’t mind. He’s a good enough man. Handsome, good job. It’s just – a little lonely sometimes, you know?’

      ‘I know, dear. But you’ll make friends. Are you working?’

      ‘No. I’m a full-time housewife. Seemed like it made the most sense for us, you know? I’m hoping to have kids soon, start a family.’

      ‘That’s lovely,’ I say, a smile taking over.

      ‘How about you, do you have any kids?’ she asks as she stands to tend to the boiling kettle and make our tea.

      I sigh, fidgeting with my ring. Pressure builds in my chest, a pain throbbing. I inhale and exhale, telling myself it’s okay. It isn’t her fault. It’s an innocent question. ‘No, no kids. It was just my husband and me. I’m the only one left now, obviously.’

      She turns, pausing from the tea pouring. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.’

      My wedding ring turns slowly in between the fingers of my right hand, spinning round and round as my foot taps. I look up at Jane, though, and am grounded in the fact she didn’t know. How could she?

      I force the fake smile I’ve used so many times to the forefront and reassure her. ‘It’s fine. Besides, it’s not like it’s a secret. I’m doing okay, really. I’ve learned to make peace with it.’

      She looks at me, a long look, and I can tell she wants to ask something but is debating. I want to nudge her forward, but I don’t want to be pushy. I get the sense she’s … I don’t know what. But I get this creeping suspicion I need to be careful with her, watch my tongue. I don’t want to push her away. It would be terrible to push her away.

      She turns the conversation now to autumn and Mark’s Mart and the price of strawberries as she brings the tea over. We laugh and talk like two old friends for the next couple of hours, sipping our tea in between laughter and the exchange of stories.

      When she leaves and the house is empty, I realise how much she filled it when she was here. I realise how much I’d missed having friends, having conversation, having connection. Just having someone to sip some weak tea with on a dull afternoon. Someone to give me an excuse to stop dusting for. The time went so quickly with her there. I forget sometimes how having someone to talk to really does make the day go faster. I miss that.

      I also realise she never quite said why she stopped by. It was sort of odd timing, her showing up out of the blue.

      I don’t care, though. Because she can come back anytime. Maybe she’s just lonely too. Maybe she feels the need to do a good deed or do some penance by visiting a clearly isolated old lady. Whatever her reasoning, I hope she comes back, because as I lower myself into the tub very carefully later that night, I note that I feel peaceful for the first time in years.

      And when I crawl under the covers, settling my head onto the lumpy, familiar pillow later, I don’t think about the black emptiness of the room or the cold, empty spot beside me. I simply think about Jane’s smile, her laugh and how much I hope she returns.

      It’s good to have a friend, after all. I’ve always needed a friend, especially now.

      Life is hard. Life isn’t perfect. We all have our regrets, something I know all too well. Sometimes it takes another person to help us overcome those regrets, those feelings, that darkness. And even now, in this stage of my life, I’m surrounded by plenty of dark regrets.

      I could use a friend indeed. Maybe Jane is exactly the person to be just that.

       Chapter 6

       I was seven the first time I realised the world is a lonely place.

       In truth, I should’ve learned it years before that. My perfect place in the world was tainted the day Lucy came into my life. I just didn’t know it at the time. Of course, I’d been too young when she was born to know the difference between right and wrong, just and unjust, loved and not loved.

       When I was seven, though, things became apparently clear: I was no longer important in the family. Or maybe, in truth, I never was.

       We stood on the altar looking out at all the people. My eyes landed on my parents, sitting five pews back. I counted the five rows with pride, double-checking to make sure I’d counted correctly. I’d been working on my numbers, on my counting. My teacher said I was a smart girl. I’d beamed with pride that she’d noticed.

       Lucy stood beside me, her red satin dress shining under the streams of sunlight as the preacher spoke about something I wasn’t listening to. I was too busy watching Mom and Dad. Dad was in his best shirt and slacks, his jacket frayed at the edges but still looking great. Mom was in my favourite dress, the blue one with pink flowers. She looked beautiful, even with her hair swept back.

       We’d been picked along with some other children in the church to perform a song. It was a special moment because I was getting to sing the solo. It was my mom’s favourite song, too: ‘The Old Rugged Cross’. I’d memorised the words. I’d practised over and over. I couldn’t wait for my moment to shine.

       This was going to be my moment. I imagined Mom and Dad beaming with pride, rushing up after the song to hug me, Dad lifting me into the air like he had when I was younger, before Lucy became their sole focus. They’d crowd around me, praising me for a job well done. After church, we’d all gather in the hall and they’d be grinning ear to ear, telling everyone I was their daughter.

       The preacher grew quiet, and I knew it was time. I fidgeted with the skirt on my blue-checked dress. Mom told me the mustard stain on the hem wasn’t noticeable. Still, I tucked the fabric over itself, clutching it with a hand to cover it. I needed everything to be perfect.

       The song began, our Sunday school teacher leading us as we sang the words in our makeshift choir. Lucy sang too loudly, as usual, her voice shrieking out the words. At one point, she stepped in front of me, shoving me over. I shoved her back slightly, knowing my moment to sing was coming up. I needed to be the centre of attention for once. I needed

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