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The Window She Looked Out of Until She Died
by Jon Herring I recovered the bounce and passed the puck back to Jack. He released another rip. The puck flew towards the upper right corner. Doug screamed to Benji, positioned near the post, “Block!” he said. Benji ducked. The puck zoomed over his head and found its target. Jack and I erupted with cheers, crossing our sticks in the air. “What was that?” said Doug. “Who ducks? What the hell?” Benji stood red-faced and fuming. He slammed his stick into one of the goal posts. “Shut up Doug,” he said, emphasizing the “ugg”. “Seriously guys, can we switch teams for once? Look at what I’m dealing with.” “I’m warning you Doug,” said Benji. “You shut your big stupid mouth.” Benji gripped his stick, cutting off circulation to his knuckles, his white hands twisting around the shaft. “I’m real scared Benji. What are you gonna do? Dodge me to death?” Benji swung back his stick like a bat and whipped it through the air. The stick propelled across the asphalt and struck Doug in the shins. He immediately took off after Benji, who fled down the street, running on his blades opposed to any form of graceful skating. Doug caught up to him in seconds and with one arm he lassoed Benji’s neck into a headlock and brought him to the ground, where a brotherly beating ensued. The beating ended with the sound of Mrs. Wilson’s voice. The voice came from above and met our ears as a feather meets the grass. Mrs. Wilson’s face hung like a Chinese lantern in the void of their attic window, her floating head framed by diaphanous curtains, white and draped on either side. Her voice, scratchy and archaic, sounded like the first rush of air from a freshly opened tomb. She wore a white prairie-style shawl atop her bald head and what looked like a nightgown, whose only visible feature was a delicate collar resembling the ornate filigree of a paper doily. Doug ceased whomping his brother and helped him off the ground. “Sorry mom,” said both boys in complete obedience. Mrs. Wilson smiled—her face skeletal and haunting. The smile seemed inauthentic and a source of a pain for her, as if each manipulation of her face involved the concealed movement of ten thousand gears of which no one could see, but existed as part of some malevolent machination to convince strangers of her humanity. She waved to Jack and myself, her bony fingers curling, and then disappeared behind the curtains. Blue light flickered with ghostly resonance behind the window, with occasional voices from the television audible between the breeze and birds. Throughout most of my childhood, the only interactions I shared with Mrs. Wilson occurred through the interface of that attic window. I waited until Mrs. Wilson had fully returned into her hidden domain before seeking an answer to a question I’d long held. “How come your mom never leaves the attic?” I asked. I used a cautious tone, sensitive and without judgment. Jack shot me a look that said, What the hell man? I ignored him and maintained composure. The question did not strike me as rude or crass. I wanted to know and it seemed fair to ask. “Because she’s dying Yoni,” said Benji, quite candidly, as only a small boy with no understanding of death would do. Doug reflexively slapped him in the back of his head. “She’s not dying,” he pronounced, glaring at his brother. “And she does leave the attic… That’s just where she has her bed and stuff.” Out of the corner of his eye, I noticed Doug cast a furtive glance at the window, where his mother lived, sometimes looking out. Through fault of my own immaturity and imagination I developed somewhat of a fear of Mrs. Wilson. Inside the grey mush of a not yet fully-developed brain, the myth of the woman in the attic evolved into something beyond all rationality. Whenever I noticed her shadow lurking behind the attic curtain, an uncomfortable eeriness would course through my body, turning my flesh cold. Soon after, my mother began delivering the occasional meal to their house, as part of a volunteer network in the neighborhood. I asked her once about Mrs. Wilson and her bizarre existence inside of the attic. “I didn’t know she was living in the attic,” my mother said. When I inquired further, my mother told me what I’d already learned— that she was sick. “But what kind of sick?” I asked, confused by the notion, failing to see the logical entailment between sickness and one’s dwelling in an attic. My mother sat me down and adopted a serious tone. “She has a disease Yoni. It’s one of the worst types of sickness. It comes in many forms. It’s called cancer.” The word meant nothing. I had no conception. Lacking understanding and any context for meaning, I conjured demons, fearing the strange and yet unfamiliar presence of death. * I ventured through the neighborhood to the Wilson’s house. Doug and Benji had been absent from school and I’d been tasked to deliver their homework— something I found unusual, as typically students simply completed their assignments upon return. I also found it strange that the principal had charged me with delivering a message, stating that the due dates for the assignments had been temporarily waived and left to their father’s discretion. I asked the principal if I too could have a few extra days on my assignments, to which I received a look of such disgust that my face flushed red with embarrassment and I hastily exited the office. Mr. Wilson opened the door. He looked exhausted, gazing through me for a moment before acknowledging my presence. “Hello Yoni, the boys can’t play today. I’m sorry,” he said, and began to close the door. “That’s alright. I’m just here to drop off their schoolwork.” Mr. Wilson thanked me and took the books and papers. “Are they okay?” I asked. His lower lip quivered. He looked sick himself. “They are fine Yoni. Mrs. Wilson… is just having a bad day.” I left the house confused. I’d never stayed home from school because my mother had a bad day, sick or not. Venturing back down the sidewalk, I glanced up at the attic window and to my horror, found Mrs. Wilson’s cadaverous face staring down at me. Her mouth appeared outlandish and large upon her withered face. Her eyes bulged from the sockets and reminded me of an insect. She flashed a smile and disappeared behind the curtains. I ran away as fast I could. * The boys hadn’t been to school in over a week. The principal had requested, once again, that I drop off their assignments, a rather large stack of books, which I found burdensome to carry on the bus. I stopped home to use the bathroom. My mother was in the middle of preparing a meal in the kitchen. The house smelled wonderful, the odor of marsala sauce and mushrooms permeated every room. “When’s dinner?” I asked. “There’s pizza rolls in the freezer,” she said. “This is for the Wilson’s. They’re having a real go of it this week... Those poor children.” Mildly annoyed, I asked, “Why do you always cook the best meals for the Wilsons?” My mother looked at me appalled. “Mrs. Wilson is very sick Yoni. We’ve talked about this. Do I really have to explain? The last thing that family needs to worry about right now is cooking dinner. I pouted for a moment before growing bored with being upset. “I have schoolwork to drop off for Doug and Benji.” “Well we can go over together then,” my mother said. “Would you like a taste?” She held out a fork with a piece of chicken on the end, steaming and dripping sauce. I remember the taste. I remember my envy. * Mr. Wilson opened the door, pallid and disheveled. “Hi Margaret,” he said to my mother. They hugged for what seemed like ten minutes too long. “I can’t thank you enough, the boys will be thrilled. We haven’t had a proper meal all day.” “It’s the least I can do,” she said. “How’s Rose?” “She’s having a good day,” he said, with a tired smile. “But it’s been a rough couple...” Tears welled up in his eyes and he brought his hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just tough.” He looked down at me. I lowered my head, not wanting to witness his emotional display. I’d never seen a grown man cry. “But she is going to be okay,” he said. “I know it.” “Of course she is,” my mother said. “Rose is strong. If anybody can beat this she can.” I stacked the boy’s assignments on a small table just inside the front door. My mother handed Mr. Wilson the tray of food. “Is there anything else we can do?” His face squinched up and I thought that he might cry again. “If you have time to spare, I know she’d love to see you. Today’s the first time in a while that she’s been strong to get out of bed… and I know she could use the conversation.” I pulled at the back of my mother’s sweater signaling to her my wish to leave. The thought of climbing the stairs and entering the attic seemed like a nightmare. “Of course we have time,” my mother said. “Are you sure it won’t be a burden on her?” “Not at all, she’ll be overjoyed.” He placed a hand on my shoulder and guided me into the house. “The boys are out at their grandmother’s until seven, but they will be happy to hear you stopped by Yoni.” “Great,” I thought. “No escape.” At the end of the second floor hallway stood a thin doorway. The glow of blue televisual light flickered in the shadows. “You can head up the stairs at the end of the hallway,” said Mr. Wilson, “She’s awake.” Each step towards the attic seemed like an encroachment into a sinister realm. The stairs were unfinished, wooden, and creaked. The narrow stairwell seemed much too impractical for human use and the air immediately took on a scent of dust and mothballs. I cowered behind my mother, afraid of what awaited us at the top of the stairs. As we reached the final step and entered Mrs. Wilson’s domain, my fears dissolved into a cautious curiosity. In the center of the attic was a twin-size hospital bed, positioned on top of an oval oriental rug. A nightstand littered with pill bottles and a solitary lamp was positioned next to the bed, as was an IV, unconnected, its tubes dangling. Beside the solitary window rested a rocking chair with an afghan blanket draped over the back. The only other objects in the attic were a row of boxes along the right wall and a small television set against the opposite, next to a small bathroom. A giant golden retriever lay beneath the bed, curled up and sleeping. A massive lump protruded off the dog’s side. It breathed in staggered puffs that sounded discomforting and sad. Mrs. Wilson lifted her head and initiated movement to exit the bed. “Don’t fuss for us,” my mother said, rushing to her side. “We just stopped by for a quick hello.” “No fuss at all,” said Mrs. Wilson, waving her off. “I’m in this damn bed all day.” She strained to lift herself and gave my mother a fragile hug, before sitting back down on the edge of the bed. She gestured my mother to take the chair. “And I know you,” she said to me. Her bulbous eyes, while initially frightening, contained an obvious kindness that set me at ease. “I’ve seen you playing hockey with the boys.” She said this with a hint of nostalgia, as if recalling an event she had long ago committed to memory. “Thank you for dropping off their schoolwork while they’ve been absent. It’s been a difficult time for them. And every friend helps.” I said nothing in response. I lacked words entirely. Her humanity ignited an awakening in my nascent mind. Guilt flowed through my system in waves of unsustainable shame, my conscience reacting to past perceptions, like an overactive autoimmune response. She had no hair except a few thin strands and wore the aforementioned head shawl. A frilly white nightgown covered her shoulders down to her ankles. Her body was nothing but bone, every muscle in her neck and feet visible beneath her translucent skin. “How are you feeling?” my mother asked. “Better than yesterday,” she replied. “The chemo’s been unsuccessful. But I’m trying to find moments to enjoy.” Mrs. Wilson said all of this without a modicum of fear. “I’m sure the doctor’s will think of something,” my mother said. Mrs. Wilson chuckled at the thought and fell into a coughing fit. “That would be something if they did,” she eventually replied between coughs. “Excuse me,” she said and made her way into the bathroom, closing the door. My mother and I listened as her cough evolved into vomiting. The toilet flushed, the sink ran, teeth were brushed, and she opened the door. “I apologize,” she said. “My stomach isn’t as strong as one would hope.” “No need to apologize at all. Would you like if we left? I can come back another time,” my mother said. “No, no… please stay. I’m only getting worse.” Mrs. Wilson noticed me staring at the dog. “It’s a tumor,” she said, “the lump. But it’s benign.” The dog, recognizing the attention, attempted to stand, struggling. His paws slipped out beneath him and he fell onto his stomach. Mrs. Wilson shushed him and told him to sit. He happily obliged. “My husband wants me to put him down,” she said. “Can you believe that? He wants to end his life because he’s got a lump.” “Is he in any pain?” my mother asked. “No more than I,” she said. I stared at the mass on the animal’s side. The tumor nearly doubled the size of the dog’s torso. “My husband is an interesting man.... Wanting to put down a living creature… Who’s as happy as can be. Yet he does everything in his power to keep me alive and I do nothing but hurt. Well I won’t do it. He’s got me to take care of him. As long as he’s not suffering, he deserves his life.” Mrs. Wilson had to speak up over the ragged breathing of the dog. “Mrs. Wilson?” I said, addressing her for the first time. “Can I ask you a question?” She turned to me, taken aback by the change of conversation. “Of course, you can ask anything you like.” “Why do you live in the attic?” “Yoni,” my mother said. “That’s not something…” Mrs. Wilson held up a hand, signaling that it was all right. “Well there’s a very simple answer to that. I decided that it would be best. You see, the chemotherapy has me up all night, tossing and turning, getting sick at all hours... Mr. Wilson works two jobs now to pay for my care. He needs his sleep and I don’t want to disturb him. Plus, it’s best for the boys. Children should not grow up around death. A sickness spreads through a house like a shadow, smothering all of the light. A home should be a happy place. That’s all Yoni.” Tears welled up in my eyes. How could I have thought her a monster? She sacrificed everything. She chose to live, secluded, up in the attic, away from her loved ones, heaving in the toilet and lying in bed, in that thin nightgown, suffering with that tumor-filled dog while her children played hockey outside and ate chicken dinners. She served her family while facing death, refusing to allow the coldness of dwindling life to infect the delusions of their everyday existence. She withered alone so others could live together. * Her funeral took place on a cloudy fall day. Benji and Doug didn’t argue with each other once. Mr. Wilson stood straight and showed little emotion, remaining strong for his children. A small forklift placed her coffin into a mausoleum—on the highest shelf from the ground. For months afterwards, I was haunted by dreams of her body, decaying in the windowless crypt, alone, cold, and without witness. |
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