Sarah looked up, frowning, blinking, feeling odd. The hand holding the photograph dropped to her side. How long had she been standing there, lost in featureless daydream? It was late in the day—the light from the leaf-shrouded windows seemed different, thinner, than it had when she had last noticed. She saw by her watch that it was nearly five o’clock.
She tucked the photograph away in her purse. Time to get moving: Pete and Beverly were expecting her for dinner. She walked slowly towards the back door, feeling as slow and confused as if she had been asleep all afternoon. On the back porch she paused, frowning. What was she forgetting? Was there something else she had to do? The house, around her, was silent, yet Sarah had the uncanny feeling that she was not alone. Someone was waiting for her, waiting for her to speak. She shrugged off the feeling as best she could, annoyed with herself for her befuddlement, and went out to her car.
Chapter Two
After the break-up, Sarah had gone to stay with Peter and Beverly Marchant, her closest friends. They were supportive and undemanding, and it was a comfortable place to stay, but nevertheless Sarah was anxious to find a place of her own. Until she did, she knew she would feel displaced and uneasy, in limbo. Once she was settled, she could start to work out the details of her new life. Maybe she would find she didn’t miss Brian quite so desperately, in a room of her own.
Going back to the Marchants’ apartment, Sarah drove down Speedway—and swore at her subconscious for being so predictable. There were other routes, just as simple and just as fast, for getting to 45th Street, but every day Sarah found herself making the same turn and driving down Speedway as if the route were pre-programmed and she could not deviate from it. In her mind it was “the way home.” Even though it was not her home anymore.
Driving down Speedway, Sarah had only to glance to the right as she passed East 33rd Street, to catch a glimpse of the building at the corner of Helms and 33rd and the driveway there. One look was enough to tell her if Brian’s beat-up old blue pickup truck was parked there—and if it was parked alone or with Melanie’s brown Datsun.
No matter what she saw—if the truck was there alone, or with the car, or absent altogether—Sarah felt the same dull despair, followed by a flush of shame. Why did she put herself through this silly ordeal, day after day? It was better not to know if Brian was in or out, with Melanie or alone. It was nothing to do with her.
Her hands tightened on the wheel and her foot pressed harder on the gas as she glimpsed the blue and the brown together in the driveway. “I hope they drive each other crazy in that little rat-hole,” she muttered, a hot, murderous wave of jealousy passing through her.
A few minutes later she had parked her car in the large parking lot of the complex where the Marchants lived. Engine off, Sarah remained seated in the car for a few minutes, her head against the steering wheel. She breathed slowly and deeply, consciously relaxing herself, flushing the jealousy and anger out of her system. She had cried and raged and cursed and confessed all sorts of secrets within the comfortable confessional of the Marchants’ home, but it was time for a change. It was time to stop talking and thinking so incessantly about Brian and the relationship that had not worked out, time to embark on something new.
And today was a good day to begin, she reminded herself as she got out of the car. She forced up feelings of pleasure in herself like an adult coaxing a sulky child. A house! A whole, wonderful, cheap house all for her very own! Pete and Beverly would be pleased for her. Walking along the concrete path that wound between the apartment blocks, Sarah imagined Beverly’s enthusiasm, and managed a smile herself. Sweet Beverly could always be counted on.
