Chapter 19 - The Woman of the House

After Brian suggested I see a doctor, I spent the week feeling untethered. Like a boat bobbing on the lake without a buoy, I floated through the days.

Each morning after Brian would leave for work, I’d escape to the boathouse. The sun would rise in one window and set in the other. Occasionally, I’d rummage through one of the cardboard boxes or check my phone to see if Frances had responded to any of my texts. It had been almost nine days since she left me outside the Lake House Home. I’ve replayed our last exchange in my head countless times, dissecting what I said and how I said it, wondering what I did to make her so upset with me. My chance at having a real friend, and I blew it. When I couldn’t sit still any longer, I’d go for a run on the twisted path along the lake. With my breath heavy, my back drenched with sweat, and my feet full of blisters, I’d try to outrun the question rattling around in my head: Was I going crazy?

At night, I’d peel myself off the floor and make my way back to the house. The days were long, but the nights were longer. I could fall apart when Brian wasn’t home, but when he was, I had to pretend everything was normal. I was determined to act the part of Brian’s wife no matter the circumstances, which meant homemade dinners on the table by the time his headlights appeared in the driveway.

While we ate, I made conversation. When he told me about his work, I asked questions with feigned interest. If he asked me about my day, I’d lie and tell him I spent it at antique furniture stores or helping Vick in the garden. He seemed pleased, so I was pleased. I had hoped Brian would come to his senses over the course of the week and cancel the appointment on his own. After all, I made dinner every night and laughed when he told a joke. I didn’t bring up Angela or shatter any glass. I didn’t need to go to a doctor. I was fine. But the days ticked by and the appointment remained on the calendar. Now it was only a few days away. I was running out of time.

I’m sitting in the boathouse in the middle of the day when I hear a knock at the door.

“Rose?” Frances says from outside. “Are you in there?” I open the door and I see Frances standing over me. Her eyes look eager as she shifts her weight from her right foot to her left. “There you are! How did it go at Angela’s boutique?”

My mouth hangs open, still in shock from seeing Frances at my doorstep. “Where—where have you been?” I manage to ask. “I’ve been texting you.” I hold up my phone to show all my texts to Frances, unanswered.

“I never check that thing. The government uses it to track us, you know.” Frances shuffles past me and plops down into one of the wicker chairs in the corner of the boathouse. She’s wearing a version of the outfit she always wears—baggy jeans and an oversized coat—but her hair looks frizzier than normal. “God, how do you stand it in here? I’m boiling.” She takes off her black puffer coat, revealing an oversized knit sweater underneath. Once she’s seated she uses her hand to try to smooth her hair out, but as soon as her fingers pass through, it springs right back to its original state, standing on end. Frances sighs. She seems flustered.

“I needed you and you just disappeared,” I say. My voice is small and pleading as I stand in the doorway of the boathouse with my hands at my sides. Confessing this out loud makes me feel naked and exposed in a way that I’ve never been before.

“I swung by a few times this week. I rang the doorbell, but nobody answered.”

“You did?” I ask, surprised. It never occurred to me that Frances was trying to get ahold of me just as much as I was trying to get ahold of her.

“I should have thought to check back here,” she says, looking around the boathouse. It feels smaller with her in it. The sharpness of her nose and jaw looks softer in the afternoon light that seeps in through the window.

“It’s okay,” I say after a moment. I realize there’s no sense in staying mad at one of the only people who’s ever shown any real interest in me. This whole friendship thing is new for both of us. It’s something we’ll have to figure out together.

“So what happened at the boutique?” Frances asks.

“It was good, I think,” I say, returning to my spot on the floor. So much had happened since the boutique, it was hard to keep it all straight. “I met Angela’s friends, Heather and Krisha.”

“What did they say?” Frances watches me through narrow eyes as I tell her about our conversation.

“There’s something else.” I tell Frances about my encounter with Sara. How I saw her on the beach and followed her into town, only to find her in my bedroom later that night. Frances keeps nodding long after I’ve finished talking. I fiddle with a corner of a cardboard box while I wait for her to respond, knowing what I have to say next, but dreading it.

“Is there something else?” Frances asks.

There’s no point in lying to Frances; she’d be able to tell. I take a deep breath before I say the words I know will make me sound crazy. “I saw someone in the house.”

“Sara?”

I shake my head. “Earlier that day, Brian and I were in the kitchen having coffee when I saw a woman in my reflection. I couldn’t see her face, but I don’t think it was Sara.”

“Why not?” Frances shifts her weight in her chair. Her eyes are on me, waiting for my answer.

“I don’t know, just a feeling. Now Brian wants me to see a doctor.”

Frances sighs. “Well, a doctor is the last thing you need. Listen,” she says, excited. She leans in close. “I think it’s time you talked to Jonathan Walsh.”

“Jonathan?”

Frances nods, her eyes wide. “He lived here, maybe he knows something. What if whatever’s going on with the house had something to do with Angela’s disappearance?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek. “Or…”

“Or what?”

“Or what if it’s Angela? What if she isn’t missing? What if she’s dead and she’s trying to tell me something?”

“All the more reason to go and talk to Jonathan.” Frances’s voice is certain as she gets up from the chair. “Besides, no one knows a woman better than her husband, right?” Frances looks down on me expectantly.

“Right,” I say, unable to meet her gaze.

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No, but I know who does.”

—

The Realtor’s office is next to the only coffee shop in town. Frances and I stand in front of a grid of house listings that covers the bay window facing the sidewalk.

“I’m going to have a cigarette,” Frances says as she lingers outside the car.

A bell rings overhead when I open it. The front desk is empty, just as it was when Brian and I signed the papers a few months ago. Piles of paper are scattered on top of a vacant front desk, a phone is ringing somewhere in the back office, and old gossip magazines are thrown haphazardly next to a lone reception chair. Specks of dust dance in front of me as rays of sunlight shine through the gaps of the listings taped to the window. Eventually, Sonja appears from behind a door.

“Can I help you?” she asks. A pair of glasses dangles from a beaded chain wrapped around her neck and thumps against her bosom as she approaches me. Sonja’s dyed black hair is cut at a sharp angle just above her soft chin. Like most women her age, her torso has grown to resemble the shape of a square, but unlike most older women, her legs are two thin sticks beneath her, holding up her geometric shape.

“Hi, yes,” I say as I shift my weight between my feet. Sonja raises the glasses to her eyes but says nothing. “I’m Rose Crawley.” Sonja looks at me without recognition, leaning her hands on one of the piles of paper on the desk. “My husband Brian and I bought the house over on Edgerton Drive.”

“Oh yes!” she exclaims. “Four bedrooms, three and a half baths. Are you just loving it?” She smiles expectantly, showing her yellow, coffee-stained teeth.

“Yeah, we are.” I wonder if coming here was a mistake.

“How could you not? Newly remodeled, right? And if I remember correctly, I got you a steal of a price. Those types of houses don’t come around too often, you know.” Sonja’s head is nodding like a bobblehead. I picture myself putting my hands on either side of her head and holding it so it stops moving. “Anyway, what can I do for you?” She looks around as if the answer is somewhere under one of the piles of paper stacked on the desk.

“The previous owners left some boxes in the boathouse,” I say.

“Oh?” Sonja asks with one eyebrow raised.

“I was hoping you could give me their address so I can drop them off.”

“I’m sure you can just toss them.” Sonja looks at me from over her thick, round glasses. My chest feels hot.

“I would, except I found some family pictures that seem sentimental. I’d hate to throw those out.”

Sonja’s eyes narrow with suspicion. Whoever talks first will be the one to give in. I tighten my jaw, knowing it won’t be me.

“All right,” Sonja says at last. “I think I have it here somewhere.” She disappears behind one of the doors lining the hallway while I let out a sigh of relief and bury my head in my hands.

It feels like an hour passes before Sonja reappears with a piece of paper in hand. “Here you go,” she says, handing it over to me.

“Thanks so much,” I say with a too-big smile. She starts talking again, but before she can finish her thought, the bell on the door dings above me and I head to my car without looking back.

—

The next day, Frances and I drive up Highway 20. I had offered to pick her up, but she said her cabin in the woods was out of the way and that it would be easier if we met at my house.

“Remember,” Frances says as cornfields flank us on either side of the car, “you just have to make him like you, and then he’ll tell you everything he knows.”

I nod. Thinking about our visit with Jonathan is a welcome distraction from obsessing over my impending doctor’s appointment.

It’s not long before I spot the mailbox with the name Walsh painted in thick black ink.

“Okay, ready?” Frances asks as I put the car in park.

I swallow hard and I look out the driver’s-side window. Jonathan’s house is situated in the awkward place between the town and the farmland that surrounds it. It doesn’t feel like it’s part of Lake Moss even though it’s within the limits of the small town. His house matches all the others on the winding block: two stories, with a small porch and white shutters.

I open the driver’s-side door, but Frances is still.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. Her mouth is in the same tight line it always is and her eyes give nothing away.

“I think it’s better if you go in there alone,” she says at last.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m not going in with you.”

“But it was your idea to come here,” I say, sinking back in the driver’s seat. Frances nods like she’s considering my words, but I know she’s not. Her mind is made up. I wonder if it has been for a while. First, she didn’t want to go inside Angela’s boutique in town, and now she doesn’t want to see Jonathan. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Frances sighs. Her gaze breaks from mine and lands somewhere out in the cornfields, far away from the confines of this car. “I told you I don’t have a lot of friends around here, right?” I nod. “Well, it wasn’t always like that. I did have one friend.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Angela.”

“Angela was your friend? Why didn’t you tell me?” My temples throb and the muscles along my neck tighten. Frances let me go on and on about Angela’s disappearance while she hid the fact that they were friends. If she lied about this, what else is she lying about?

“When I first told you about her disappearance, it didn’t seem to matter that she and I were friends. But then the closer you and I became, the harder it was to tell you. I knew you’d think I was lying, but I wasn’t, not on purpose anyway. I was just trying to find the right time to tell you. I got to know Angela at the Lake House Home. I went in there one day and she was so nice to me. She helped me pick out a pillow for my couch.” Frances’s usually stoic eyes look soft, tender even, as she talks about her missing friend. “After that, I’d stop by every once in a while and we’d talk. She’d tell me about her kids and her husband. It was all innocent stuff, nothing out of the norm.”

“What happened?”

Frances shrugs. “I don’t know. One day, I stopped by the store like I always did and she slipped in the back. It was like she didn’t want to see me or something.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Maybe I said the wrong thing, but after that it seemed like she went out of her way to avoid me. She even switched shifts with those women.”

“Krisha and Heather?”

Frances’s jaw tightens. “You know, I bet those two got wind of me and Angela being friends and put a stop to it. Yeah, the more I think about it, the more I think they were jealous of our friendship.”

“I’m sorry, Frances.”

“Anyway, Angela disappeared before I could make things right with her. That’s why I didn’t go in the store the other day, why I can’t go in and talk to Jonathan with you now. The people in Angela’s life don’t like me. The last time I went to the Lake House Home, Krisha and Heather told me I wasn’t welcome there anymore. I could just tell by the way they looked at me that they didn’t think I was good enough to be friends with someone like Angela.”

There’s a twinge of sympathy between my ribs. I know that feeling all too well.

“Trust me,” Frances continues. “It’s best I keep my distance.”

“I understand.” Frances’s words wash over me like a wave. “Did Angela ever say anything about the house? Any weird stuff that happened there?”

“I wish she had, but all she told me was that she was having trouble sleeping. That’s it.” Frances shrugs. “I understand if you don’t want to go talk to Jonathan anymore,” Frances says after a moment, motioning toward his house.

“Oh,” I say, looking at the small two-story house waiting for me on the other side of the street. “No, I’ll go in.”

“You will?” Frances says, her dark eyes brightening for the first time today.

“We still need some answers, right?” I try to sound more sure than I feel.

“Right. Okay, good. I’ll wait here, then.” Frances intertwines her hands on her lap and I take that as my cue to get out of the car.

I push my door open, afraid that if I spend any more time in the car I’ll lose whatever courage I have stored up, and walk down the cement path to Jonathan Walsh’s front door. I try to picture Frances and Angela grabbing a drink at the bar or sitting on the beach taking in the last rays of summer sun, but I can’t. Angela’s girl-next-door beauty, complete with natural blonde hair and a bright white smile, was a harsh contrast to Frances’s too-tall stature, frizzy hair, and straight-mouthed demeanor. But opposites attract. And maybe they had more in common than I think. Either way, Frances’s loyalty to Angela, despite being ditched by her, is touching. Anyone would be lucky to have a friend like that.

Once I reach Jonathan’s door I knock and wait. Nothing. I knock again, ready to run back the way I came, but then there are footsteps on the other side. Before I can turn around, the door begins to open. My heart is fast in my chest when I realize it could be Sara. I feel stupid for not considering the fact that she might be here. My stomach sinks. Her hollow laugh, glossed lips, and fleeting wink were all burned into my brain. I knew I would lie about finding her in my house, but would she?

“Hi,” a small voice says from below. I look down and see the little boy I’ve seen in pictures from Jonathan’s social media accounts. Teddy Walsh.

“Hi,” I say with a smile. “Is your dad home?” He nods his blond head of hair before disappearing back into the house, leaving the door cracked open. Relief washes over me. I walk to the edge of the porch and take a deep breath. Sara could still be somewhere in the house, but for now I don’t have to see her.

Hesitant footsteps make their way toward the front door. It doesn’t open right away. Instead, I get the distinct feeling that I’m standing on one side while someone else is standing on the other, both of us deciding what to do next.

The front door swings open, revealing a tall, bearded man on the other side. Jonathan Walsh is bigger than I expected. His shoulders are slumped over, but if he stood up straight he’d be two inches taller. His body is shaped like an upside-down letter A. A red flannel shirt is tight across his chest but loose at the waist. Dark patches of hair are scattered across his chin, but it’s not enough to look intentional. His eyes are so brown, I wonder if they look black in the dark. They move around my face, but it doesn’t seem like he sees me.

“Hi,” I say as I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry to bother you—”

“We’re not interested in whatever you’re selling,” Jonathan says. His voice is low and weathered.

“Oh, I’m not selling anything. My name is Rose. Rose Crawley.” I wait for some form of recognition to wash across his face, but it remains unchanged. “I live in your house. Well, now it’s my house, so I guess I live in your old house.” I rush to get the words out before he closes the door in my face. “I was wondering if maybe we could talk?”

He stands still while he decides what to do next. I’m ready to run back to the car and tell Frances this was all a waste of time when the door opens just enough for me to pass through.

Jonathan leads me to a living room to the right of the front door. Cartoons are playing on the TV, but Teddy is nowhere in sight. Jonathan turns it off and motions for me to have a seat on the couch before sitting across from me in a well-used leather chair.

“What’d you want to talk about?” Jonathan asks.

It’s the question I’ve been dreading since Frances brought up the idea of coming here. Angela’s disappearance, the other mysterious deaths at the house, how it’s all related and what it means for me. By the look of Jonathan’s sunken eyes, it might be too much for him to take.

“I’m sorry to just show up like this,” I say to buy myself time. Landscape oil paintings line the walls of the living room. They look like they’re good enough to be sold, but there are too many of them here for that to be the case. “These are beautiful.” I motion toward the paintings. Jonathan doesn’t look at them. He just nods.

“Thank you,” he says at last. “My wife, she paints…um, painted…in her free time.” We both notice the correction but try our best to ignore it and continue on.

“I’m sorry to hear about her disappearance,” I say. Silence. Jonathan’s eyes flicker over to the empty leather chair next to him, the companion to the one he’s sitting in.

Ask him about the house.

“That’s actually the reason I’m here,” I say. Jonathan’s gaze meets mine. Small, deep wrinkles line his forehead. His face is expressionless, but when I look into his brown eyes, I see pain. “Did something happen there? At the house?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, tightening his jaw.

I pick at the skin on the side of my fingernail.

Tell him why you’re here.

“My husband and I, we’re thinking of starting a family.”

Liar. Liar. Liar.

“And I just, I don’t know, if something bad happened there, I think we have a right to know. Don’t you?”

Jonathan sighs. He looks up at a painting of the lake. The point of view is from above, like the painter was sitting up on a hill looking down. The deep blue water and bright green seaweed sprinkling the surface look familiar, but there’s also something about it that’s foreign to me. For the first time since I got to Jonathan’s house, I realize that from out here you can’t hear or smell the lake.

“Everything was fine at first,” Jonathan says. I hold my breath, afraid that any sound, any movement will stop him from talking. “We moved into the house and started fixing it up. It was abandoned before that. I’m pretty handy, so me and some friends did most of the work ourselves. A couple months into living there, Angela started to change. Nothing sudden. It happened over time. She would sleep in and forget to do certain things around the house. Stuff like that. I could tell she wasn’t motivated, but I didn’t think it was a big deal, you know?” He looks at me for reassurance. I nod like I understand. “She was depressed, I guess. Then one day, she dropped the kids off at school, went back to the house, and a few hours later she walked out the back door. That was two years ago.”

“Did anyone see her leave?”

“We had a Ring doorbell. The camera footage showed her leaving—no bags, no purse. Nothing. Before they checked the footage, the police thought I did something to her, but I was at work. People saw me. But like I said, the doorbell cleared all that up. The cops did what they could—put her picture up on the news, organized search parties that went out into the forest. They even sent scuba divers into the lake. Nothing.”

“Are the police…are they still looking?”

“She’s still a missing person, but if someone doesn’t want to be found, there are ways to stay missing.” His eyes drift over to the painting again. This time, they seem wet. He shrugs. “The truth is, she wasn’t happy here with me, so she left. And it doesn’t really matter where she went.”

The room feels smaller than it did a few minutes ago. A coffee table is the only thing separating me and Jonathan. I could reach out and put my hand on his knee to comfort him, but I don’t. No wonder he didn’t bother to clean out the boathouse when they moved. He probably didn’t want to go back to the place where Angela had left him. I glance to my side. The front door is only about ten or so steps away. I resist the urge to get up and run out of the house without looking back, leaving behind the pain I’ve summoned up from the man sitting in front of me. Then, I remember the woman looming in my reflection.

Go ahead and tell him what you saw. He won’t believe you.

“Mr. Walsh,” I start, my voice cautious and even. “I know this is going to sound strange, but I think I’ve seen someone inside the house.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, squinting his eyes like he’s trying to understand better.

“Well, I saw a woman standing behind me in my reflection.”

“A woman?”

I give a small nod while I brace for his response.

“You’ve been here, what, a month? And already you’re drinking the town’s Kool-Aid?”

“I don’t know what you mean—”

“People around here have been saying that place is haunted for years.”

“Haunted?”

“I guess a couple people died there back in the day.”

“Charles Schwartz and Margo Williams.”

“Yeah, that sounds right. Anyway, back when it was abandoned, teenagers used to sneak in and hold séances or whatever. They said there was some sort of spirit or something living in that house.” He shakes his head. “But it’s all bullshit. Those people who died? They were accidents.” He waves a beefy hand in the air, but I don’t believe what he’s saying, and I have a feeling he doesn’t either.

“Did you ever see anything that made you think they weren’t accidents?” I ask. A piece of raw skin dangles off the edge of my thumb. When I pull it off, I feel the small surge of blood bubble to the surface.

“No. Never,” he says, almost with a laugh.

“Did Angela?”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re on about, but—”

“Did Angela believe it was haunted?”

“Listen, lady—”

There’s a loud bang on the window next to us. Something hit the glass, but it didn’t shatter. I jump at the noise. Jonathan’s anger changes to concern and he stands up. He towers over me and makes the room look even smaller now that he’s standing inside of it.

“Teddy’s playing basketball outside,” he says. “I better go check on him.”

I nod as I get up from the couch and follow him into the hallway. We say shallow goodbyes before I descend the stairs of the porch and walk back down the cement path.

The bouncing basketball follows behind me as I walk back to the car. When I stop walking, the bouncing stops. I take another step forward, and the ball bounces. I turn around quickly to see the giggling little boy holding the ball to his chest.

“I’m Teddy,” he says.

“Teddy. That’s a cool name.”

“Who are you?” he asks, getting straight to the point in a way only kids can get away with.

“My name is Rose. I live in your old house.” Teddy starts bouncing the ball again. He watches it closely as he moves it from one hand to the other. “Did you like living there?” I ask, trying to sound friendly.

Teddy shakes his shaggy head of blond hair.

“No?”

He stops bouncing the ball. “It was scary there,” he says. His blue eyes are wide, like he’s remembering something he’d rather forget.

“Scary?”

“Teddy!” Jonathan yells. His voice, suddenly booming, is coming from the open front door. “Time to come inside.”

Teddy turns and runs back toward the house, abandoning the basketball at my feet.