“I’m so sorry,” I said, waiting for her to appear. “Please forgive me.”
Except no one was there. There was only me and my overactive imagination. Not to mention my guilt for being where I didn’t belong. I stood in the closet, wobbling in those outrageous three-inch heels, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal. Some criminal I’d make, I thought, kicking off the shoes and returning them to their place beside the tired-looking sneakers.
At that point, I should have gotten the hell out of there. Alison was obviously feeling better. There was no need to be concerned. Certainly no reason for me to be standing in the middle of what was now, after all, her place. And I was on my way out—I really was—when I saw it.
Her journal.
It was lying open on the top of the white wicker dresser, as if waiting to be read, almost as if Alison had left it that way deliberately, as if she’d been expecting me to drop by. I tried not to notice it, tried to walk by it without stopping to look, without
stooping
to look, I should probably say, but the damn thing drew me like a magnet.Almost against my will, I found my eyes dipping through the dramatic swirls and loops of Alison’s elaborate scrawl, as if on some wild, visual roller-coaster ride.
Sunday, November 4: Well, I did it. I’m actually here
.
I stopped, slammed the journal shut, then realized it had been open when I found it and quickly rifled through the pages looking for the last entry.
Thursday, October 11: Lance says I’m crazy. He says to remember what happened last time
.
Friday, October 26: I’m getting nervous. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all
.
Sunday, October 28: Lance keeps warning me against getting too attached. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this whole plan is just too crazy
.
Back to the last entry without allowing my eyes to settle, the words to sink in.
Sunday, November 4: Well, I did it. I’m actually here. I’m living in the cottage behind her house, and she’s even invited me over for dinner. She seems nice, if not exactly what I was expecting
.
What did that mean?
What had she been expecting?
We’d spoken for less than a minute on the phone, scarcely enough time to form any impressions at all.
Lance says I’m crazy. He says to remember what happened last time
.
Were these entries somehow related?
“I’m doing it again,” I said out loud. Letting my imagination get the better of me. The snatches I’d read in Alison’s journal could mean anything. Or nothing. The discomfort I was feeling had more to do with my own guilt for snooping through Alison’s personal belongings than it did with her innocent scribblings. I pulled away from the diary as if it were a hissing snake.
And I did nothing. Not then, not later, not even after I returned home at the end of my shift and stopped by to see how Alison was doing, and she told me that, aside from a brief walk around the block, she’d spent pretty much the whole day in bed.
I left her with the Imitrex, a list of doctors in the area, and some homemade chicken soup, deciding to be pleasant, but to keep my distance—
not allow myself to get too attached
, as the mysterious Lance would undoubtedly advise—and somehow I managed to convince myself that as long as Alison paid her rent on time and followed my rules, everything would be fine.
F IVE
B y Friday, I had all but forgotten the diary. One of the other nurses was sick with a nasty flu, so I’d volunteered to take her shift as well as my own on both Wednesday and Thursday, and as a result, I didn’t see Alison at all. I
did
receive a lovely note from her, thanking me for dinner and apologizing profusely for being such a nuisance. She assured me she was feeling much better and suggested going to a movie on the weekend, if I had any free time. I didn’t respond, deciding to plead exhaustion if and when we actually connected. If I turned down enough such overtures, I reasoned, Alison would get the message, and our
Except no one was there. There was only me and my overactive imagination. Not to mention my guilt for being where I didn’t belong. I stood in the closet, wobbling in those outrageous three-inch heels, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal. Some criminal I’d make, I thought, kicking off the shoes and returning them to their place beside the tired-looking sneakers.
At that point, I should have gotten the hell out of there. Alison was obviously feeling better. There was no need to be concerned. Certainly no reason for me to be standing in the middle of what was now, after all, her place. And I was on my way out—I really was—when I saw it.
Her journal.
It was lying open on the top of the white wicker dresser, as if waiting to be read, almost as if Alison had left it that way deliberately, as if she’d been expecting me to drop by. I tried not to notice it, tried to walk by it without stopping to look, without
stooping
to look, I should probably say, but the damn thing drew me like a magnet.Almost against my will, I found my eyes dipping through the dramatic swirls and loops of Alison’s elaborate scrawl, as if on some wild, visual roller-coaster ride.
Sunday, November 4: Well, I did it. I’m actually here
.
I stopped, slammed the journal shut, then realized it had been open when I found it and quickly rifled through the pages looking for the last entry.
Thursday, October 11: Lance says I’m crazy. He says to remember what happened last time
.
Friday, October 26: I’m getting nervous. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all
.
Sunday, October 28: Lance keeps warning me against getting too attached. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this whole plan is just too crazy
.
Back to the last entry without allowing my eyes to settle, the words to sink in.
Sunday, November 4: Well, I did it. I’m actually here. I’m living in the cottage behind her house, and she’s even invited me over for dinner. She seems nice, if not exactly what I was expecting
.
What did that mean?
What had she been expecting?
We’d spoken for less than a minute on the phone, scarcely enough time to form any impressions at all.
Lance says I’m crazy. He says to remember what happened last time
.
Were these entries somehow related?
“I’m doing it again,” I said out loud. Letting my imagination get the better of me. The snatches I’d read in Alison’s journal could mean anything. Or nothing. The discomfort I was feeling had more to do with my own guilt for snooping through Alison’s personal belongings than it did with her innocent scribblings. I pulled away from the diary as if it were a hissing snake.
And I did nothing. Not then, not later, not even after I returned home at the end of my shift and stopped by to see how Alison was doing, and she told me that, aside from a brief walk around the block, she’d spent pretty much the whole day in bed.
I left her with the Imitrex, a list of doctors in the area, and some homemade chicken soup, deciding to be pleasant, but to keep my distance—
not allow myself to get too attached
, as the mysterious Lance would undoubtedly advise—and somehow I managed to convince myself that as long as Alison paid her rent on time and followed my rules, everything would be fine.
F IVE
B y Friday, I had all but forgotten the diary. One of the other nurses was sick with a nasty flu, so I’d volunteered to take her shift as well as my own on both Wednesday and Thursday, and as a result, I didn’t see Alison at all. I
did
receive a lovely note from her, thanking me for dinner and apologizing profusely for being such a nuisance. She assured me she was feeling much better and suggested going to a movie on the weekend, if I had any free time. I didn’t respond, deciding to plead exhaustion if and when we actually connected. If I turned down enough such overtures, I reasoned, Alison would get the message, and our
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