Chapter 2: The Face in the Window

The most liberating moment in life is when you realize that the persona you've created for others is far less interesting than the person you truly are.

The figure of a man appears in Vera’s window | IMAGE BY Dall-E 3

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The kitchen faucet gave a death rattle, then vomited up a geyser of rust-colored gunk directly into Vera’s face. The stench got to her first: rot and earth and something else that probably had no business being in municipal water pipes. 

She reeled back, choking, foot catching the rim of a Home Depot bucket as the spray of foul water arced through the air like arterial spray. Catching herself against the opposite wall, she blinked furiously, half gagging, trying to clear her vision.

“Fuck!”

Two days. For two goddamned days, she engaged in mortal combat with this godforsaken dump. And what did she have to show for it? A flooded kitchen, muscles that felt someone tenderized them with a meat mallet, and the sneaking suspicion that This Old House had misinformed her about the joys of home renovation.

The war began the moment she’d stepped through the front door. A whole day lost to arachnid warfare, armed with nothing but her windshield scraper from her car, scraping away cobwebs that could’ve doubled as circus tents. The spiders had been so thick, so relentless, she’d retreated to her car for the night, feeling like the loser in some twisted Charlotte’s Web reboot. This morning’s victory had been getting the power turned on, though it had cost her an hour of phone gymnastics with the electric company and her last nerve.

And Dominic? Radio silence. His “golf outing” — likely another rendezvous with his floozy — had turned into a black hole. Part of her was glad for the reprieve, but she knew the bill for leaving him would eventually come due. For now, though, she had bigger fish to fry — or rather, pipes to fix.

She snatched up the bucket by her feet, dumped its contents of cleaning supplies, and lunged towards the sink, slamming the bucket’s business end over Goodnow Road’s very own Old Faithful. Mystery liquid cascaded down the insides of the bucket and formed rivulets at the bottom of the antique porcelain sink, congregating into a whirlpool around the drain before disappearing with a steady gurgle. It ran brown for a minute before finally turning the normal translucency of plain water.

“Ha! Decrepit piece of crap!”

Looking around, she brushed her auburn hair out of her hazel-green eyes and tightened her bandana. Dirty water spattered the countertop and backsplash, leaving trails of grit in their wake. She had to grin, however. In just a minute, the broken faucet cut through years of dust on the faded yellow wallpaper that hadn’t seen a decent scrubbing since the Clinton administration.

She caught her reflection in the grimy mirror by the door and froze. The woman staring back at her wasn’t the Boston socialite with the hundred-dollar haircut and the smile that could charm the checkbook right out of a philanthropist’s pocket. No, this was someone else entirely.

This woman looked like she’d gone ten rounds with a mud wrestler and lost. Her hair hung in limp, rust-colored strands around a face streaked with grime. The once-white Mountain Barn Bar & Grill tee clung to her body like a second skin, painted with patterns of filth that would make a Rorschach test blush.

She could’ve sworn she saw her two selves superimposed, like a double exposure. Polished society wife, meet blue-collar plumber.

And she liked what she saw.

A grin spread across her face, slow and genuine, like sunrise breaking over the hills. This version of herself — raw, real, unvarnished as a backcountry barn — felt more like home than all the Gucci and Prada she’d ever worn.

She thought about how much Dominic would have appreciated the sight of her in a wet t-shirt. But the unbidden image of his leering Cheshire Cat grin flashed through her mind, and a hot surge of fury instantly staunched the thought.

No. She would not think about him. Not now. Not ever again if she could help it.

She wiped a grimy hand across her forehead, leaving another streak of rust-colored war paint. The woman in the reflection did the same, a co-conspirator in this messy rebirth.

“Enough,” she said, her voice firm enough to hammer nails. “I’m done thinking about him. Done with all of it.”

As she turned away from her reflection, she felt something shift inside her. It wasn’t the house settling or pipes groaning. It was her own foundation, realigning itself. She was done being Dominic’s porcelain doll. It was time to get her hands dirty, to rebuild herself from the ground up.

And damned if she didn’t feel more alive than she had in years.

She refocused on the task at hand. The upside-down bucket trembled over the faucet as the water reverberated off the plastic walls with a sound like angry hornets trapped in a tin can. It was a high-pitched, almost keening noise that set her teeth on edge. This needed to get shut off before the meter outside spun itself into oblivion.

She dropped to her knees, ignoring the icy puddle of filth soaking through her jeans, and squinted into the murky space beneath the sink for the shut-off valve. A tangle of rusted pipes greeted her, looking like the Super Mario Bros. version of Pick-up sticks.

Tracing her fingers through the maze, she found the right knob and gripped it with both hands. It didn’t budge. She then twisted her weight into it, but the valve remained stubbornly immobile and left her hands with gritty powder coating her palms.

Wiping her hands on her jeans, she paused. She thought she heard something. The house creaked around her, settling into itself like an old dog finding a comfortable spot. Cocking her head, she sat back on her heels, feeling every one of her forty-eight years in her bones.

Vera deals with home improvement | IMAGE BY Dall-E 3

The smell hit her then — not just the smell of the putrid water, but something deeper. The ghost of her mother’s pot roast, maybe, or her father’s pipe tobacco. But memories, rising like groundwater after a hard rain.

She thought of her mother, standing in this very kitchen, hips cocked, wooden spoon in hand. “Vera Jean,” she’d say, “you can’t strong-arm the world into being what you want it to be.”

Vera had tried, though. Lord knows, she’d tried. Scrubbed herself clean of Goodnow Road’s dirt, polished herself until she shone like a new penny in Dominic’s world. For what? To end up right back where she started, kneeling on a grimy floor, trying to strong-arm a caked-up valve into submission.

She glanced around the room. Peeling wallpaper, ancient appliances that belonged in a museum — she didn’t see a functioning house. But there was honesty in its decay. Unlike the life she’d crafted in Boston — all gleaming surfaces hiding rot underneath — this place wore its age openly and unashamed.

She pushed herself to her feet when the noise came again. She held her breath, straining to hear past the constant drone of water hitting plastic. There — a faint, rhythmic creaking. Her heart suddenly did a double back flip against her ribs.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

It sounded for all the world like footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving across the ceiling above her head like a jailer making his rounds.

Pipes. Had to be. Unless — 

(Don’t be ridiculous.)

— it was something else entirely.

Heart rabbiting in her chest, she eased through the kitchen door. The creaking grew louder as she approached the stairs and reached for the banister.

Up one step.

Two.

The creaking stopped.

She held her breath. The silence pressed against her eardrums.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three — 

WHAM WHAM WHAM!

Her scream caught in her throat, erupting as a strangled gasp. She stumbled, nearly pitching headfirst down the stairs.

BAM BAM BAM!

“Veraaaa?! Open uuup!” came a muffled voice from the kitchen door.

The voice was familiar, but her fright had scrambled her brain. She couldn’t place it. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

(run hide fight)

The knocking continued, each impact like a gunshot. Her muscles locked, fight-or-flight short-circuiting into paralysis.

No, not knocking. Pounding. The kind of pounding that rattles windows in their frames and sets dogs to barking three blocks away. The kind of pounding that says, I know you’re in there, and I’m not leaving until you open up.

She felt she should know that pound, too. Had heard it in her nightmares, in the spaces between breaths, when she dared to imagine she escaped her old life with a complete break.

Dominic.

She crept toward the kitchen door, soaked shoes squelching with each step. The yellowed gingham curtain covering the door’s window fluttered with each impact. She glanced down at herself, her mind’s eye suddenly seeing the place as Dominic might: a flood of putrid water transforming the linoleum into a muddy pond, rusty streaks staining the once-pristine cabinets, and her — a bedraggled girl barely recognizable as the woman who once shimmered in cocktail dresses at his side. A flicker of shame shot through her.

With filthy fingers that felt thick and clumsy…

(Christ, what will he say when he sees the creature from the Rust Lagoon?)

…she peeled back the edge of the curtain. She squinted against the harsh light, her eyes struggling to adjust. All she could see were indistinct shapes, dark against the glare. Then, like a photograph developing in a tray of chemicals, the image sharpened.

Not Dominic.

The relief hit her like a shot of whiskey. On her back stoop stood two figures, as familiar to her as her own reflection, yet changed by the years. Annie, round-faced and grinning like she had a firecracker in her pocket and a match in her hand. And Sara, willowy and serene, a hippie counterpoint to Annie’s barely contained energy. For a second, Vera wondered if this was all a dream. One of those cruelly hopeful dreams that leave you feeling hollow when you wake.

“Well?!” Annie’s voice boomed through the door. “Open up before I break down this door with my Häagen-Dazs-toned ass!”

Vera hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. Panic gripped her. What would they think of her now? The polished Boston socialite reduced to this sodden mess? With a deep breath, she opened the door, mustering a weak smile that felt foreign on her face.

“Ann? Sar?” Vera heard herself say, the old names feeling strange on her tongue after years of carefully enunciated speech. “How did you know I was here?” She cringed inwardly at how formal she sounded.

“Mother. Who else? That old bitch notices everything.,” Annie said, her Worcester accent as thick as molasses in January. “Said she saw a car parked out front. I figured the prodigal daughter has returned.” Her eyes darted down to Vera’s chest, one eyebrow arching in amusement. Vera felt her cheeks flush as she remembered her soaked shirt. She tugged at the fabric, unsticking it from her skin in a futile attempt to preserve her modesty.

Annie’s grin widened. “Well, well,” she drawled. “Looks like someone’s having a wet t-shirt contest without us.”

The old Vera would have laughed it off, maybe even struck a pose. But years of Dominic’s subtle criticisms about “ladylike behavior” made her want to shrink away. She forced herself to stand straight, ignoring the voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her husband’s.

“Why’d you come to the back door? There’s a perfectly good doorbell out front, you know.”

Sara, who had been hovering behind Annie like a dandelion seed, stepped forward.

“Oh, we tried the front first, “but the doorbell’s bust,” she said, pointing behind Vera at the sink. “Kinda like everything else in this place?”

Annie snorted, a sound that reminded Vera of their high school gym teacher, old Mrs. Belcher. “Busted, my aunt’s patootie. We could hear you in there, bashing around like a bull in a china shop. Thought maybe you were redecorating with a sledgehammer.”

“I, uh… I was just…”

“Having a wet t-shirt contest. We got that part,” Annie finished for her, eyes twinkling. “Now, are you gonna invite us in, or do we have to stand out here getting eaten alive by mosquitoes?”

This time, without hesitation, Vera stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in,” she said, managing a smile that felt only slightly rusty. “But I warn you, it’s a bit of a mess. And by ‘a bit,’ I mean, ‘remember that time we tried to make moonshine in Sara’s bathtub?’”

Annie cackled. “Oh honey,” she said, patting Vera’s cheek as she passed, “if you think that’s a mess, wait’ll you hear what happened at last year’s Founder’s Day festivities. Now that was a disaster.”

Sara stepped forward, arms outstretched. “Oh, come here, you. It’s been so long!” She wrapped Vera in a hug, filling her sinuses with the scent of lavender soap mingled with craft fair pumpkin spice candles.

Annie rolled her eyes, but smirked, unable to contain her natural ebullience. “Alright, alright. Reunion’s over,” she shouted over the roar of the bucket. She slipped a little on the wet floor. “First, we plug this leak. Then we talk about why you ghosted us.” She surveyed the scene with the critical eye of a general planning a siege.

“Right,” she said, rolling up her sleeves. “Sara, find us some towels and start cleaning all this up. Vera, where’s the toolbox?”

Vera blinked. “Toolbox?”

Without waiting for an answer, Annie dropped to her hands and knees, peering under the sink. She let out a low whistle. “Well… Your shut-off valve’s more crusted up than Ma’s cooch.”

Sara groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Ugh, Ann. That’s a picture I don’t need. Honestly, you’re like school in the summertime…”

She caught Vera’s eye. Together, they finished the punchline: “No class.”

Vera blinked, surprised by the easy banter. She felt a flicker of her seventeen-year-old self, the girl who snuck out to meet her best friends at the quarry, sharing stolen wine and wilder dreams. But the feeling was quickly overshadowed by years of carefully cultivated restraint. She bit her lip, uncertain how to bridge the gap between who she was and who she’d become.

Annie glanced up with a grunt. “Oh, stuff it, you two.” She eyed Vera. “Where’s your vinegar?”

Vera blinked, her mind struggling to shift gears. “Vinegar? I… I don’t think I have any.”

Annie let out a sigh. “Of course you don’t.” She turned to Sara, who was hovering in the doorway like a hummingbird, unsure which flower to land on. “Sara, honey, run next door and grab the old towels from the closet downstairs. And see if Ma still keeps that gallon jug of vinegar under the sink. Tell her it’s a plumbing emergency, if she bitches.”

Sara nodded, her bracelets jingling like wind chimes in a hurricane as she turned to go.

“Your mom’s still next door?” Vera asked, feeling like she’d stepped into a time warp.

“You mean ‘your mom’s still living?’ right? Ayuh,” Annie said, peering back under the sink. “That old bat’s gonna outlive us all. I moved back in a few years ago to help.” She grunted as she pushed herself back to her feet, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Lord, I need a smokey treat.”

Vera’s eyebrows disappeared beneath her damp bangs. “Christ, I haven’t done that in ages,” she said.

Annie chuckled. “No time like the present to pick it back up. Come on.” Vera nodded, following Annie out back out the back door.

The faucet’s buzz faded behind them as they stepped out into the backyard. The noonday sun hung high in a clear blue sky, its warmth a welcome respite from the chaos inside. Golden light danced across the grass, making even the unkempt yard seem inviting. Vera leaned against the peeling railing, feeling the old wood groan beneath her weight.

Annie fished around in her pocket, producing a slightly crumpled joint with the practiced ease of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.

“I guess some things never change,” Vera said.

Annie grinned. “What can I say? I’m a creature of habit.” She lit up, the sweet-skunk smell mingling with the crisp fallen leaves. Then, with a wink that was pure Wachusett Class of ’95, she passed the joint to Vera. The ember glowed, a tiny red eye in the bright light, and Vera felt a familiar thrill of anticipation coil in her gut. Some rituals, it seemed, your body never quite forgot.

Annie planted her hands on her hips, cocking her head to one side. Her short, messy red hair caught the sunlight, giving her a halo of fire. “Alright, spill it, Ver. What in God’s name dragged you back to this paradise?”

Vera lifted the joint to her lips. She took a long drag, holding the smoke in her lungs until her vision warbled. When she exhaled, the words came with it.

“It’s… complicated. Dominic and I, we’re… well, I left him a Dear John letter.”

Annie’s head popped back, eyebrows raised. “Shit, Ver. That’s cold… I like it.”

Vera managed a small smile. “Yeah, well, he’s got no idea I still have this place. I figured it’ll buy me some time to plan my next move after he gets home and finds the letter.”

“Smart. I always knew you had it in you. That guy always gave me the creeps. Like a used car salesman and a shark had a baby.”

Vera snorted. “Yeah, well, you and my mom were on the same page. It took me long enough to see it.”

The conversation lulled, filled only by the distant call of a whippoorwill and the creak of the tall oak next to the house. Annie broke the silence.

“Heard about your folks. I’m sorry, Ver. Your mom was always good to us.”

“Yeah. Dad went first, you know. Heart attack, just like yours. Then Mom… the Alzheimer’s. ”

Annie reached out, her cool hand finding Vera’s. “That must have been awful.”

Vera nodded, not trusting her voice. The joint made another round, the smoke slowly filling the hollow places inside her.

Annie squinted at the house. “Glad you did, but why’d you keep this old money pit? Could’ve sold it, started fresh somewhere.”

Vera shrugged, her gaze fixed on some distant point across the lake beyond the backyard. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought I could fix it up, sell it for a profit. Or maybe…” she trailed off, the words sticking in her throat like thistles.

“Maybe… what?”.

“Maybe I thought I could fix myself up while I was at it.” The admission hung in the air.

Annie nodded. “Well, looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you. On both counts.” She paused, then added, “Like I said, I moved back in with Mom. Brought the husband along too.”

“Really? How’d he take that?”

“Oh, he bitched and moaned at first. But then he saw Dad’s old workshop in the barn. Now you can’t drag him out of there. Men and their toys, you know?”

Vera nodded, then hesitated before asking, “What about kids? Did you and Jack ever…?”

The sudden tightness around Annie’s eyes made Vera wish she could take back the question. Annie opened her mouth to respond, but just then, like a glittering guardian angel bearing the gifts, Sara reappeared around the corner laden with enough towels to house the entire Ringling Bros. Circus and a jug of vinegar big enough to pickle the elephants.

“Little help here!” Sara squeaked from behind her terrycloth mountain. “And Annie, your mother’s on the warpath. She demanded a full Congressional hearing about why we needed her vinegar. I half expected her to make me swear on a Bible.”

Annie scoffed. “Christ, that woman. I only need a couple tablespoons. What does she think we’re doing, starting a salad dressing empire?”

As Annie whisked the jug inside like a moonshiner with his last bottle of hooch, Vera held out the freshly lit joint to Sara.

Sara has something better | IMAGE BY Dall-E 3

Sara’s face brightened, filled with the mischief of a church organist with a flask in her hymnal. She glanced around furtively, then dipped into her pocket and produced a glass pipe that looked like Willy Wonka himself had blown it.

“Oh honey,” Sara said, her voice honey-sweet and twice as sticky, “I’ve got something that’ll make you forget your own name.” The pipe caught the sunlight, winking like it knew secrets the joint could only dream of.

Vera’s eyes widened, a grin spreading across her face. “Well, well, Miss Sara. Why are you acting like it’s contraband? Isn’t it legal here now?”

Sara rolled her eyes, but her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “It is, but don’t tell Chip, okay? He can’t partake, given his job and all.”

“Chip?”

“Oh, right,” Sara said, realization dawning. “You wouldn’t know. He’s my… well, I guess you could say he’s my squeeze.”

“Your squeeze? And why can’t he ‘partake’?”

Sara’s grin widened. “Chip’s a cop.”

Vera nearly choked on her inhale. “A cop? You’re dating a cop?”

“More than dating. I traded in Brad the Cad for Chip the… well, Chip.” Sara’s eyes twinkled. “And let me tell you, it’s an upgrade. Chip’s got shoulders wide enough to measure doors with.”

Vera’s mind tried to reconcile this information with her memories. “Wait, Chip… not Chip Hardin? From homeroom?”

Sara nodded, a smug smile playing on her lips.

“But he was… I mean, he always…” Vera fumbled for words, remembering a scrawny kid with birth control glasses who always sat alone at lunch, hunched over a sci-fi paperback.

“Puberty’s a hell of a thing,” Sara said with a wink. “Add a couple years on the force, and presto! You’ve got yourself a beefcake. Let’s just say he fills out a uniform real nice these days.”

Vera shook her head, feeling like she’d stepped into an alternate universe. Sara sparked up the pipe, which sparkled in the sun, a reminder that even in this sleepy town, nothing was quite as it seemed. She wondered what other surprises might lurk in the shadows of their past, waiting to emerge.

A crash from inside snapped them both to attention. “Shit,” Vera muttered. “We should probably go help Hurricane Ann.”

They sloshed into the kitchen, old towels clutched in their fists like battle-worn standards of a ragtag cleaning militia. Annie’s legs stuck out from under the sink, kicking occasionally like a swimmer doing the backstroke through linoleum. Without a word, Vera and Sara threw down the towels and started mopping up the mess.

It began with a shuffle, then a twist. Soon they were dancing full-out, scooting the rags with their feet and soaking up the flood with every hip swivel and shoulder shake. Their feet slapped against the wet linoleum, kicked up tiny sprays that caught the kitchen light like fireflies. Vera let out a whoop that was half-laugh, half-war cry.

Sara’s eyes blazed with a fire Vera hadn’t seen in years. She thrust her fists into the air and bellowed, “Towanda!” The word ricocheted off the kitchen walls.

Once again, the years fell away. Vera wasn’t a woman pushing fifty, standing in her dead parents’ kitchen. She was a teenager, sprawled on Sara’s ratty couch, howling with laughter as Kathy Bates rammed a Cadillac into a Volkswagen over and over again. She tasted popcorn and the illicit sips of Boone’s Farm they’d snuck from Annie’s mom’s stash. The memory was so vivid she could almost smell the cloying strawberry sweetness. Sara’s weed amplified everything, making the colors brighter, the sounds sharper, the memories so real she could almost touch them. The linoleum beneath her feet felt like it was pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

“Towanda” was their battle cry back then, a call to arms against the petty injustices of high school life, parental expectations, and small-town ennui. It was more than just a word; it was a talisman of their shared dreams, their fierce loyalty to each other, their unspoken promise to never let life dull their spirits.

“Pass the Dutchie to the left-hand side,” Annie’s muffled voice drifted from up from the floor, snapping Vera back to the present. “Quit Boggartin’.” A hand appeared from under the sink, fingers snapping impatiently. Vera crouched down and passed the roach to Annie’s waiting hand, which disappeared back under the sink. A second later, a cloud of smoke billowed out, followed by a satisfied sigh.

“You’re lucky I’m married to a plumber,” Annie said. “Even if the only pipe he’s interested in fixing these days is his own.”

There was another grunt, more cursing, and then, suddenly, blessed silence. The kitchen was now silent as a mime convention.

Annie emerged, soaked but victorious, a grin splitting her face, hair plastered to her forehead, and a smudge of something Vera didn’t want to identify on her cheek. “And that, ladies, is how it’s done.”

“You’re the best,” Vera said, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. It was like the last decade had never happened, as Annie, once again, averted disaster.

“You know me, always here to save the day!” Annie said, wiping her hands on an offered towel. “Now, I don’t know about you two, but I could use a drink.”

Vera’s heart sank. “I have nothing… I haven’t got to the store…”

“Oh!” Sara exclaimed, her face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. She dove into her oversized purse, which looked suspiciously like the same one she’d carried since their first year of high school. “I totally forgot! I brought wine!” With a flourish, she produced a bottle. “Ta-da! Cab.”

Vera’s eyebrows shot up. “Where’d you get that?”

“Let’s just hope Ma won’t miss it.” She fished out three slightly crushed Solo cups.

Vera shook her head. “Leave it to Sara and her magical Mary Poppins backpack.”

Annie laughed. “Sara, you beautiful, brilliant lush. I knew we kept you around for a reason.”

As Sara uncorked the bottle, Vera sank into a rickety kitchen chair. “I can’t believe you guys are here,” she said. “After everything…”

Annie perched on the edge of the counter, accepting a cup from Sara. “Honey, you may have married a controlling asshat who thought he could keep you from your friends, but we never forgot you. Now spill. What finally made you say ‘au revoir’ to Mr. Wonderful?”

“I caught him.”

Sarah winced. “Shit, Vera. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Vera said, surprised at the steel in her own voice. “I’m done being sorry.”

Annie nodded approvingly, her hair bouncing. “Damn straight. My mama always said a man who cheats once will cheat again.”

“Wish I’d listened before I married the Cad,” said Sara.

“I never thought he’d…” Vera trailed off. “I guess you never really know someone, do you?”

“True,” said Sara. “Two kids and an ex-husband cured me of any illusions about the male species.”

“Well, I didn’t actually catch him. It was a receipt,” Vera continued. “For condoms. We’ve never used them.”

Sara’s hand found Vera’s shoulder. “You know what, though?” she said, refilling their cups. “You’re here. You left. That takes guts, kiddo.”

“Does it?” Vera asked, suddenly unsure. She gestured around the kitchen as the ancient fridge hiccuped its geriatric song. “I feel like I’m just… running away.”

Sara fixed her with the same look she’d given Tommy Wilkins in ’93 when he tried to cop a feel behind the gym. “Listen to me, Vera Jean. You’re not running away. You’re running towards something. Yourself, maybe. The You that got lost somewhere between your daddy’s death and Dominic’s ‘I do’s.’”

“That’s right,” Annie chimed in. “This isn’t defeat. It’s a fresh start.”

“I just… I don’t know who I am without him.”

Annie got down from the counter and squeezed Vera’s hand. Her palm was rough from years of gardening. “Then it’s time to find out. And hey, we’ll be right here to help you remember. Life’s gonna throw you more curveballs than a drunk pitcher at a Little League game. But here’s the thing: you don’t gotta catch ’em all. Sometimes you duck, sometimes you swing, and sometimes you just let ’em whiz by and laugh.

“Me? Life has dealt me more blows than I can count. Infertility, Ma’s whatever, Jack’s… well… Jack. But I’m still standing, ain’t I? ’Cause all that matters is that you’re true to yourself. So Vera, honey, forget about that Boston Brahmin bullshit. Just be you — warts and all. ’Cause that’s who we love.”

Sara lifted her cup. “To rediscovering our cosmic selves,” she intoned, her jangly peace-sign earrings swaying like tie-dyed pendulums. “May the universe guide us to our destinies, and may our chakras always be aligned. Peace, love, and wine, sisters!”

Annie rolled her eyes and raised her own cup with all the reverence of a longshoreman at last call. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. To kicking ass, taking names, and not letting any man — living or dead — give us the runaround. Bottoms up, you crazy broads!”

“Ayuh!” Vera said, the old New England affirmation slipping out as natural as breathing. It was like shedding a second skin, that polished Boston accent falling away to reveal the central Massachusetts patina she’d buried beneath years of high-society pretense.

That’s when they heard it: a series of distinct thuds from above, like someone wearing steel-toed Red Wings was pacing across the floor.

Vera’s eyes widened, the cup frozen halfway to her lips. “There it is again! I heard that earlier, before you two got here. Hand to God.”

“I heard it, too,” Sara said, setting down her cup with a plastic click.

As if on cue, the footfalls resumed, this time seeming to move towards the center of the house, stopping just shy of the hallway by Vera’s old bedroom.

Annie’s brow furrowed, her freckles standing out like constellations on suddenly pale skin. “Well, ain’t that a corker.”

“I know old houses make noise, but…” Vera trailed off, feeling like a grade-A chowderhead even as gooseflesh prickled along her arms.

“But that sounds like honest-to-Christ footsteps,” Annie finished for her.

They exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them like they used to do in high school, plotting how to sneak past old man Corcoran at the package store.

They filed out of the kitchen and approached the stairs. Sara called out, her voice wavering like a drunk walking a straight line, “Hello? Anybody up there?”

The silence that followed took on a weight of its own, pressing down on them like a lead blanket at the dentist’s. Vera swallowed hard, tasting the metallic tang of fear at the back of her throat. It reminded her of sucking on pennies as a kid.

“Let’s just… check it out,” she said, her voice sounding strange and distant, like it was coming from the bottom of a well.

They ascended, each step a conscious act of collective will. The wood creaked and groaned under their feet, sounds as innocuous as their own names but suddenly as ominous as a rattlesnake’s warning.

At the top, they paused, listening. The upstairs hallway stretched before them, full of shadows that shifted and moved when you weren’t looking directly at them. The kind of shadows that might hide anything. Or nothing at all.

The floorboards whispered warnings beneath their feet as they crept down the hallway. Vera felt it in her bones — the wrongness of it all. This place that had once been home now felt like a mouth waiting to snap shut.

They searched the rooms upstairs, but found only undisturbed dust. Vera’s old bedroom door loomed at the end of the hall, and they circled it like sailors skirting a whirlpool. The footsteps came again, a dull thud-thud-thud. As before, it wasn’t the tentative patter of some stray animal; it was the purposeful tread of something that knew exactly where it was going.

“We gotta,” Annie said, her voice cracking like thin ice as she reached out for the doorknob. “We gotta…”

Vera wanted to tell her no, to run down those stairs and never look back. But the words died in her throat, stillborn.

Annie’s hand was on the doorknob when the footsteps pivoted and changed direction coming directly towards them.

Thud. Thud! THUD!

Vera’s mind flashed to a Stephen Gammell illustration she’d seen as a child — The Thing at the Top of the Stairs. She knew with almost sickening certainty what waited on the other side.

The door exploded open.

Nothing.

The emptiness of the room pulsed as if finally taking a breath. Sunlight streamed through the partially open curtains, illuminating a room stripped bare. The walls were blank, save for a few nail holes and faded patches where posters once hung. Vera’s open suitcase lay on the floor, clothes spilling out haphazardly. The bed unmade, sheets tangled.

Sara suddenly laughed. “Aw! It’s a kitty cat!”

An orange tabby makes himself at home | IMAGE BY Dall-E 3

Annie and Vera glanced at where Sara was pointing. Sure enough, there it was. An orange tabby, big as life, sprawled across Vera’s clothes like it was auditioning for the cover of Cat Fancy magazine. Its eyes, yellow as a taxi and about as welcoming, regarded them with the mild interest you might give a boring documentary on ‘GBH.

Annie’s face screwed up. “Christ on a bicycle, Vera. You didn’t tell us you had a fucking cat.”

Vera blinked, feeling as if she’d missed a step going downstairs. “I didn’t… I don’t have a cat.”

“Well, “ Annie said. “You do now.”

The cat’s presence stirred something in Vera, a memory rising like silt. The feral cats of Goodnow Road had been as much a part of her childhood as skinned knees and popsicle-stained tongues. They’d prowled the edges of her world, wild things that lived in the shadows between streetlights and civility.

“Christ. I’d almost forgotten about the ferals.”

Sara’s face lit up like a kid promised ice cream for dinner. “Oh, they’re still around, all right. More of ’em now, if you ask me. I’ve been looking after a few, y’know. There was this little calico last month, had a cut on her paw, something fierce. I fixed her up , good as new. Now she hangs out with me all the time.”

Annie made a sound like a plug being pulled from a drain. “Yeah, and now the whole damn town thinks you’re running some kind of underground railroad for fleabags. I can’t take two steps in my backyard without stepping in cat shit.”

Vera smiled. “Remember how Dad used to say they were the best unpaid employees he ever had? Always kept the mice down.”

“Yeah, well,” Annie grumbled, “your dad didn’t have to listen to my mother pitching a fit about them killing off all her precious songbirds. She’s been on a one-woman crusade against ’em for years.”

The tabby, as if sensing it was the topic of conversation, stood up and arched its back in a long, leisurely stretch. It turned in a circle once, twice, then settled into a telltale crouch on Vera’s bed, its tail twitching ominously.

Annie’s eyes widened. “Oh no, not on the bed!” She moved forward quickly, waving her arms. “Shoo! Get down from there!”

With a yowl that sounded like a rusty hinge given voice, it shot across the room. The orange blur streaked past Annie’s grasping hands, and in a blink, it was out the open window.

Sara had pushed past Annie, practically throwing herself at the window, half her body hanging out as she scanned the yard below.

“Where’d it go?” she asked, voice tinged with worry.

Annie huffed, pulled Sara inside, and closed the window with the finality of a coffin lid.

Sara turned on Annie, her face a perfect picture of reproach. “Annie Driscoll! That poor little guy was just looking for a place to sleep. You didn’t have to scare it half to death!”

Vera stood there, staring at her pile of clothes like it might start sprouting cattails any second. A chill crept up her spine, raising goosebumps along her arms. “Um. Guys?” she said, her voice distant as a radio station fading out on a long drive. “I didn’t open that window. Couldn’t get the damn thing to budge earlier.”

Annie’s eyebrows did a little dance. “What are you talking about? We just saw the cat go out.”

Vera felt a flicker of irritation. It was the same tone Annie had used back in school when Vera insisted she hadn’t copied off her for the trig final. “I’m serious. Tried to air out the room earlier. No dice.”

Annie, ever the problem-solver, strode over to the window. Her hand gripped the peeling white paint of the frame, and she gave it a tug. The window slid up smooth as silk, without so much as a whisper of resistance. She turned back, triumph and doubt warring on her face. “Seems fine to me.”

Vera felt the world tilt slightly. She opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. “That’s… that’s not right.”

You’re losing it, Vera old girl, a snide little voice in her head chimed in. Just a couple days back and already the place is getting to you. But another part of her, the part that still remembered every creak and groan of this old house, knew better. She straightened her spine. “Then why was it open when we came in?”

The three women shared a look, the kind of look you might exchange if you’d all just seen a UFO and were silently agreeing to never, ever speak of it again. The cat was gone, but it had left something behind. Not just hair or the imprint of paws on paisley polyester, but a question. A question that hung in the air like the scent of burnt popcorn, impossible to ignore and harder still to explain away.

Sara broke first, her voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t think… I mean, it couldn’t be a…”

“Don’t,” Annie cut her off, but there was a tremor in her voice that hadn’t been there before. “Don’t even say it.”

Ghost. Of course, that’s where Sara’s mind would go. Good old Sara, who’d drag them to every half-baked psychic and palm reader within a fifty-mile radius.

But the laugh died in her throat as she looked at the window again. Open. Closed. Open. Like a joke where she couldn’t quite grasp the punchline.

“I need more wine,” she said finally.

Annie’s laugh came out sharp, with edges. “Now that,” she said, “is the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

Sara sputtered, words tumbling out of her mouth like marbles from a torn bag. “Hold your horses! We can’t just ignore this!” She scrambled after Annie and Vera, her bracelets and necklaces jingling in a frantic tune. “Ver might have herself a bonafide ghost! We oughta come back with my Ouija board, or at least burn some sage. You know, cleanse the place?”

Vera and Annie exchanged a look, eyebrows rising in perfect synchronization like a well-rehearsed act.

“And, there it is.” Annie’s laugh echoed up the stairwell like a cuckoo clock. “Come on, Sar. It was just one of those damn ferals.”

As they descended the stairs, Vera felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty old house. She realized that the ghosts that haunt us aren’t always supernatural; sometimes they’re the versions of ourselves we’ve left behind. And this house was full of those ghosts.

Back down in the kitchen, Sara dove into her Mary Poppins purse like a prospector panning for gold and produced another bottle of wine, this one a Pinot Grigio. “It’s not cold, but who gives a shit, right?”

“Let’s take this shindig outside,” Vera suggested, snagging a few spare towels. “The sunset over the lake is too good to miss, and I need some air that don’t smell like eau de basement.”

They traipsed out to the backyard, where the old fire pit squatted like a sleeping troll. As if by unspoken agreement, they fell into their old roles: Annie gathering kindling with the focus of a squirrel prepping for nuclear winter, Sara fussing over the towels like they belonged to the Shroud of Turin, and Vera coaxing flames to life with the determination of a caveman discovering fire.

As the sky painted itself across the sky, the three women hunkered down around the crackling fire. The wine flowed , loosening tongues further and softening the edges of old hurts and fresh worries.

They traded stories like some men collected broken hearts, each tale more worn and valuable than the last: Annie’s tango with the fertility clinic (“Ayuh, it turns out my eggs are about as fresh as month-old bread.”), Sara’s divorce (“That louse had the nerve to ask for the dog. The dog!”), Vera’s slow-mo car crash of a marriage (“I was so busy being the perfect Stepford wife, I forgot how to be me.”).

As the stars winked to life overhead, twinkling like Christmas lights in October, Vera marveled at how easy it all was. Like slipping on an old flannel shirt, warm and familiar, with all its frayed edges and worn-soft places.

Sara leaned back, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames. “You ever wonder if we’re just playing at being adults? Like we’re kids wearing our parents’ clothes, pretending we know what we’re doing?”

Vera nodded with a rueful smile. “God, all the time. Especially in Boston. I’d be at these fancy galas, and suddenly I’d feel like a little girl playing dress-up, terrified someone would see through the act.”

Sara snorted, taking a swig from her cup. “Hell, I still feel that way when I’m trying to figure out my taxes or why the hell my kids need three different types of calculators for school.”

“You know,” Vera said, her voice barely louder than the fire’s contented crackle, “I spent so long trying to be someone else — Dominic’s arm candy, Martha Stewart’s evil twin, the gal who had it all figured out.”

Annie chuckled. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It was. I forgot who I was without all that fancy gift wrap. When I left for Boston, I thought I was heading towards my future. Turns out, I was running away from myself.”

“How so?” Sara asked, leaning in.

“I became this… this plastic version of Vera. All polished and proper and hollow inside. And the worst part? I didn’t even realize how much I’d lost until I came back here.”

Annie raised an eyebrow. “To this dump?”

“To this house, to this town, to you two. It’s like… it’s like I’ve been holding my breath for years, and I’m finally learning how to breathe again. You know, I’ve realized something. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is admit you’ve been living someone else’s life. And that’s exactly what I was doing with Dominic.”

“So what now?” Sara asked gently.

“I don’t know who I am anymore without Dominic, without all those fancy parties and designer labels. But being here, with you both, I’m remembering. The girl who used to skinny dip in the quarry, who dreamed of seeing the world… And you know what? I’m starting to see that the most liberating moment in life is when you realize that the persona you’ve created for others is far less interesting than the person you truly are.”

“Who wasn’t afraid to laugh too loud or love too hard?” Annie finished for her.

Vera smiled, tears in her eyes. “Yeah. That girl. I don’t know if I can be her again, but… but I want to try.”

Sara raised her cup, the wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “I get it, Ver. During my divorce, I felt lost, too. Tried everything to find myself: yoga, meditation, even those weird sound baths.” She chuckled softly. “But you know what really helped? This. Connections. Sometimes we get tangled up in life, but true connections don’t break. We just need to reach out.” She raised up her cup. “So here’s to us, to finding our way back to each other, and to remembering that no matter how lost we feel, we’re never truly alone in this big, weird universe.”

As they clinked their cups together, red Solo meeting red Solo with all the gravitas of fine crystal, Vera felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire, the weed, or the wine. It was the warmth of connection, of being seen — really seen — warts and all. She realized coming back to Goodnow Road wasn’t just about running from Dominic and his wandering libido. It was about finding the old, younger Vera she’d left behind, the one who laughed too loud and cursed like a sailor with a stubbed toe.

The fire had dwindled to the color of dying fireflies when Annie finally creaked to her feet. She stretched, bones popping like the world’s least appetizing bowl of Rice Krispies. “Well, ladies, as much as I’d love to stay and solve all the world’s problems, I’ve got a cranky old bat at home who probably needs a fresh nappy.”

Sara giggled, the sound light as dandelion fluff in the night air. “And I’ve got two teenagers who’ve probably turned my living room into something outta Lord of the Flies.”

As they gathered their things, making plans to meet again (“I’ll bring sage and Tarot cards!” Sara chirped. “And I’ll drag Jack over to fix that faucet,” Annie added. “Plus enough cleaning supplies to drown the dust bunnies.”), Vera felt the flannel of friendship transmute into a warm quilt. The house behind her might be full of memories, but here, with her friends, she was home. And that was worth all the tea in China, or at least all the wine in Sara’s magic purse.

She walked her friends to the edge of the overgrown lawn, her bare city feet relishing the forgotten feel of cool grass between her toes, when Sara turned to her.

“Just remember, you’re not alone. We’re only a phone call away. Day or night, doesn’t matter.”

Vera watched her friends stumble down Goodnow Road, their laughter fading like the last echoes of a forgotten song. For now, the weight of everything — Dom, the house, her future — felt a little lighter. These women, this friendship, were a forgotten lifeline, but as vital and surprising as finding a twenty in last winter’s coat pocket.

Vera felt an ache of nostalgia. Time had worked its inexorable magic; they weren’t the carefree girls of yesteryear with futures bright and unblemished. Life had etched its story on their faces, in the crow’s feet and worry lines that no amount of department store cream could erase.

And yet.

Standing there on the overgrown lawn, she felt a spark kindle in her chest. Was hope finally settling in? Or was it the slow awakening of a part of herself long dormant? Whatever it was, it felt right. It felt like coming home.

She smiled to herself, a private quirk of the lips, and turned back toward the house. Friendship, she mused, was like this old house. It could weather years of neglect, stand strong against the battering of life’s storms, and still offer shelter when you needed it most. All it took was a little care, a dash of laughter, and the courage to sweep out the cobwebs — even if you had to use a windshield scraper to do it.

The house stood silhouetted against the ink-dark sky, its weathered clapboards softened by moonlight and shadow. Warm light spilled from a few windows, painting rectangles of gold on the lawn. In that moment, the old place looked almost regal, as if it too were welcoming her home.

She raised her plastic cup in a toast to the house.

“Towanda.”

The word had barely left her lips when movement caught her eye. Just the barest of movements in the upstairs corner bedroom — her room.

The curtain shifted, as if brushed by an unseen hand. And there, framed in the window, backlit by the interior lights, stood a man.

Her breath hitched. The Solo cup slipped from her suddenly numb fingers.

She blinked hard, certain her eyes were playing tricks. But when she looked again, the figure was still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

At first, she thought it was Dominic, come to drag her back to Boston. As adrenaline dissolved the wine fog, she knew it couldn’t be him — the silhouette was too tall, too thin. The figure stood frozen, like a photograph come to life. As she watched, it slowly turned its head toward her. She couldn’t make out a face, but she felt its gaze lock onto hers. And in that second, she knew two things with absolute certainty:

Someone was in her house.

And whoever — or whatever — it was, they’d been there all along.

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