Chapter 10
I didn't mean to stand by the window at first. I'd gone to the living room because the kitchen felt too small with both of them in it.
They were back by the sink, talking low. I could hear the woman's voice and the man's voice under it, neither one loud enough to make out. A cabinet clicked shut. Water ran for a second and stopped. I stayed near the gray sofa and tried not to move the rug with my socks.
The front window was right there. The curtains were open a few inches, the way they'd been all day. Outside, the streetlight had come on and the air had gone that dusky blue that happens before it's really dark. Our house faced the sidewalk and the house across from us had its porch light on, a warm yellow circle spilling onto the steps and the little patch of grass.
She was out there. Mrs. Jensen from across the street. I recognized her coat, the dark puffy one she wore when she walked her dog, and the way she held a grocery bag against her hip while she fished for her keys. She was maybe thirty feet away. Close enough that I could see the color of her bag.
I felt my breath catch before I decided to do anything. My hands were cold. I pressed them together once, then let go.
The kitchen talk continued, still quiet. The woman said something that ended with a short laugh that wasn't really a laugh. The man answered, his words flat. I didn't turn to look. I took one small step closer to the window and put my fingertips against the glass. The glass was cool.
Mrs. Jensen had gotten her keys out. She was standing under the porch light, light hitting her hair and the top of her shoulders. She wasn't looking our way.
I tapped. Not hard. I used my knuckles, twice, light enough that the sound didn't carry to the kitchen. Tap tap. The glass vibrated under my hand. I held my hand there and waited.
She didn't hear it, or she heard something but didn't know where it came from. She shifted the grocery bag and looked down at her steps. Then she glanced up, just a quick check across the street, the way people do when they feel someone looking. Her eyes passed over our window.
I lifted my hand a little higher and tapped again, three times this time, still soft. My heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my ears. I tried to make my face do something that would make sense if she saw me. I didn't wave. I didn't want the woman in the kitchen to see a wave. I just kept my palm flat against the glass and let my eyes stay on her.
Mrs. Jensen squinted. The porch light made it harder for her to see into our darker living room. She tilted her head. For a half second I thought she saw me — actually saw me — and her mouth started to open like she might say hi or ask if I was okay.
Then she gave a small, confused smile, the kind you give when you're not sure if a kid is waving or just standing there. She lifted her grocery bag a little, like a hello, and turned back to her door. Her keys jingled. She wasn't being unkind. She just didn't understand. Through the window, with the curtains mostly closed and the light behind me, I must have looked like a pale shape. Not a call for help.
I should have tapped harder. I should have made a sound. But the kitchen was six feet behind me and I couldn't.
I heard the curtain rod slide.
The woman came up beside me without hurrying. I didn't hear her footsteps on the dark wood until she was already there. She smelled faintly like hand lotion. She didn't grab me. She just reached past me with her other hand, the one without the red nails showing, and took the edge of the curtain between her thumb and finger.
"You're letting the cold in," she said, quiet and even.
She pulled the curtain across the rest of the window in one smooth motion. The fabric was heavy, beige, and it blocked the porch light completely. The yellow circle, Mrs. Jensen, the sidewalk — all gone. The living room got dimmer. The window was still there behind the cloth, but you couldn't see out anymore.
She let go of the curtain and rested her hand briefly on my shoulder. Not a squeeze. Just a weight.
"Come away from there, honey," she said. "Go sit down."
I did. I went back to the gray sofa and curled my legs up the way I had that morning, pink pajamas bunching at my knees. The sofa still had the dip where I'd been sitting all day. The rug was still there, the door was still white and closed. Up on the ceiling, the smoke detector's little white housing was still in place, too high to reach without a chair.
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Outside, I could hear a car go by, then nothing. The neighbor's porch light was still on, I knew, but I couldn't see it anymore. I kept my hands together in my lap so they wouldn't shake. I understood then that the window wasn't a way out. Not by tapping. Not by hoping someone would guess right through glass and curtains.
I needed a different channel. Something she couldn't close with one hand.
