The Woman in the Window

by A.J. Finn

He takes better care of his shoes than his face.

I’ve started to relax. For a moment I think it’s Ethan’s company—he’s soft-spoken and easy; even the cat approves—but then I realize that I’m reverting to analyst mode, to the seesaw give-and-take of Q&A. Curiosity and compassion: the tools of my trade.

“Thanks.” He clears his throat, coughs. “Sorry,” he says, sipping his water. “I’m allergic to cats.” I stare at him. “Why didn’t you say so?” I glare at the cat. “He’s so friendly. I didn’t want to offend him.”

mine. I think of him tonight as I stare at the ceiling, feeling dead myself. Dead but not gone, watching life surge forward around me, powerless to intervene.

This is classic therapist argot: It sounds to me. What I’m hearing. I think you’re saying. We’re interpreters. We’re translators.

“Sometimes I’ve got too many thoughts at once. It’s like there’s a four-way intersection in my brain where everyone’s trying to go at the same time.”

“My dear girl, you cannot keep bumping your head against reality and saying it is not there.”

“I may do some good before I am dead.”

She’s always done that: asked rather than ordered. Unusual in a child. Unusual in anyone, I sometimes think.

Isn’t it amazing how according to the Internet, some people might as well not exist?

I haven’t felt this in so long. I haven’t felt in so long. I want to feel this. I want to feel. I am so sick of shadows.

If I dream things when I’m awake, I’m going out of my mind.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my time working with children, if I could whittle those years down to a single revelation, it’s this: They are extraordinarily resilient. They can withstand neglect; they can survive abuse; they can endure, even thrive, where adults would collapse like umbrellas.

I’ve waited for my family to return; they won’t. I’ve waited for my depression to lift; it wouldn’t, not without my help. I’ve waited to rejoin the world. Now is the time.