Shadows and Lies by Karen Reis

washer and dryer. And a backyard. And rooms separated by real walls.
    Studio apartments are not all their cracked up to be.
    Curious, I went and looked out my peephole, not knowing who it could possibly be since I didn’t get that many visitors. In the back of my head I wondered if perhaps it was Sean come to call. The notion made my heart begin to race furiously and I started to sweat.
    But it was just Nancy.
    Oh, God, it was Nancy.
    The sight of her made my heart start to beat to a different stressful tune, and I sucked in a breath of surprise, braced both hands against the door frame and studied her for about 30 seconds. She appeared to be in an amiable mood. She was frowning, but that was normal. The fact that she wasn’t red in the face and didn’t have a stick in her hands boded well for whatever had prompted her to visit. Feeling only a moderate degree of apprehension as to my safety and future mental health, I opened the door.
    “Hello Nancy,” I said warily, quickly reaching behind me to belatedly turn off my radio, which I often listened to while I did chores. Nancy disapproved of most music. She figured that if it wasn’t played on the Lawrence Welk Show, it was trash and something to be automatically criticized and banned.
    My stress level kicked up a notch as memories of radios being thrown out my sisters’ bedroom windows paraded across my mind. My parent’s house was two-stories high, with the bedrooms upstairs. The radios had not survived, nor had they ever been replaced.
    Nancy looked at me as she stood outside on the landing. “Are you going to invite me inside?” she asked, sounding only slightly annoyed with me.
    I shook my head. “Why are you here?”
    My voice was firm, but I was curious. I had been dead to Nancy for eight months and two weeks. Something big must have happened for her to suddenly show up at my door like this.
    Nancy shuffled her feet and adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder. She actually looked uncomfortable. “I came here to apologize,” she said gruffly.
    I could of course only stare at her for a moment, not able to believe my ears. “Apologize?” I asked dumbly.
    “It was brought to my attention by a certain person that I have been acting very childish lately – his words, not mine – and I was persuaded to agree,” she said stiffly. I could only stare with wider eyes. “I’ve come to realize,” she continued, “That I said some very hurtful words to you when you left – moved out – and I’m sorry that I told you that you weren’t welcome at home. You are. And I’m sorry for other things I’ve said and done in past few months.”
    The apology sounded sincere, but frankly I was unconvinced. Nancy had been apologizing to me for most of my life, but it didn’t change how she continued to act. Should I let her in? I wondered. I studied her face, looking for clues there because it was entirely possible that she had an ulterior motive in apologizing. But instead of finding an answer, the only thing I could see was that she looked older, and it hit me that it had been eight months since I’d last seen her. She had more gray hair, more lines on her face, and she looked tired and worn out. I felt a crack in my emotional defenses open up, and I felt pity for her and how her life had turned out.
    “I’m going to try to have more control over my temper,” she added when I continued to say nothing.
    Against my better judgment, I opened the door wider and gestured for her to come in.
    “Thank you,” Nancy said, accepting my invitation with uncommon grace.
    We stood awkwardly in my entryway for a moment. “How’s thing’s going?” I finally asked.
    “As well as can be expected,” Nancy said vaguely, which didn’t tell me a thing, of course.
    Want the ten cent tour?”
    She shrugged. “Sure.”
    I had made strides in decorating my apartment. I showed Nancy my two used armchairs and the little wooden coffee table that I’d refinished. These,