Acts of Love

“You forget your key, hon?” There it was: the first thing Nancy ever said to me.

That evening, I came home from work to discover that I had locked myself out of the apartment. Nancy, who lived next door and often sat on the porch we shared, looked on in quiet anticipation as I rummaged through my backpack in search of the key.

She was really something, Nancy. I had met her a few days earlier, right after moving in. When I first saw her, she was rocking in her chair, elbow on the armrest, cigarette in hand. I greeted her. She nodded at me almost mockingly, and blowing smoke through her nose, turned away. It’s as if she’d figured me out completely and refused to spend another second on someone of so little consequence.

I usually saw her in the evenings when I came home from work. She was either smoking or knitting. I would acknowledge her with a half-smile, and she’d nod my way before casting her eyes down to count the stitches on the ever-growing heap of brown and beige that lay on her lap.

“You forget your key, hon?”

“Yes,” I sighed. “I guess I need to find a locksmith.”

“I know a guy,” she said. “He changed my lock once. He’s pretty cheap. Lemme give you his number.”

“Sure,” I said after a pause, “that would be really helpful. Thank you.”

“Come sit over here.” She pulled out the second chair.

That evening, Nancy and I finally got the neighbourly small talk out of the way while the locksmith worked on getting me out of the predicament that I had so stupidly found myself in.

And so it began. Over the following days, Nancy and I would talk every evening after I’d get home from work. Gradually, the small talk grew larger and larger until it turned into big talk that left no room for shallowness.

She spoke about the laundromat she’d been working at for the past sixteen years. Her back was starting to hurt. She sometimes thought about going back to school and getting a college certificate, but she was almost forty, and well, we all knew how it was. Besides, they were gonna make her manager soon so what was the point?

“It makes no sense, you know?” The creases on her upper lip deepened as she took a drag on her cigarette.

I didn’t know, but I gave her a tight-lipped smile and watched her pick up a pair of needles and some yarn from a basket under the table. It was hard to believe she was only seven years older than me. Her dry, sallow complexion spoke of tortuous paths life had taken her down.

I enjoyed watching her knit. There was something so calming, almost hypnotic about the repetitive movements. The needles twirled around like a pair of lifelong dance partners, complementary and in sync. Left, right, back-and-forth their steady tango went.

Nancy looked different when she knitted. Her perpetual smirk would disappear, and her face would take on a kind of loving serenity. Those were the only times she wasn’t tapping her foot or shifting in her seat. I wondered about the places she went to in those moments.

We got into the habit of having coffee together on weekends - always on the porch, for as long as the weather would allow.

Red leaves rustled in the wind. An old man was walking down the street. He would occasionally stop to look around in the manner of someone who had just walked into a room and forgotten the reason.

“He looks lost,” I said.

"I think he may be a bit -" Nancy pointed to her temple.

I didn’t tell her that I felt like that man most of the time.

“I forgot to show you.” She darted towards the door and came back beaming as she held up a brown-and-beige sweater.

“See? Finished!”

“Wow, it looks really good. You’re so talented! It’ll really suit you.”

“It’s not for me. It’s for my daughter, for her birthday.” She smiled while inspecting the fabric for knots and loose threads.

“Oh. I didn’t know you had a daughter. I haven’t seen her around.”

“She doesn’t live with me.” Nancy removed a piece of lint from one of the sleeves.

I waited for her to explain, but she just kept examining the sweater.

“You sure it’s not too big for her? It seems a little big for a kid.”

“She’s taller than me,” Nancy said with a hint of envy. “She’s turning eighteen.”

“Oh wow. You got started early.”

I felt stupid for pointing out the obvious.

“What’s her name?”

“Sarah.”

“Oh, I’ve always liked that name.”

“It means “princess” in Hebrew. She was the wife of Abraham.”

“I didn’t know that. Are you Jewish?”

“No. My family were strict Catholics. My dad would make me read the Bible every night and grill me at the end of each book.”

“Sounds intense.”

“It was. He was really concerned for my soul, my father. Really tried to set me straight. And then I went and got pregnant at twenty-one, out of wedlock.” Nancy snorted.

“Well, he did rub off on you a little. You gave your daughter a biblical name.”

“Yeah, the name of a woman who had her first child at ninety. The polar opposite of me.”

There was something akin to penitence in her eyes. It’s almost like she thought that if she scolded herself out loud, I wouldn’t do it silently in my mind.

“Well, I’m sure she’ll like it. I love the colours. They’re warm and earthy,” I said.

“Yeah, they’re actually not my favourite, but she’s always liked them. Even as a little kid. Imagine. I mean, what four-year-old likes white, beige and brown?

I laughed. “Yes, it’s typically pink or purple with little girls. Maybe green if you’re lucky.”

“It’s ‘cause she liked owls. Go figure. Most little girls, it’s unicorns or mermaids. But not my Sarah. Every Halloween, she wanted to be a barn owl. I would paint her face and everything.”

I smiled.

“You’ll see when you have kids. They get hung up on things. They obsess. They’ll ask for the same story every night. They’ll repeat the same joke seventeen times.”

“Not sure I could handle it,” I laughed. Not sure I want kids, Nancy. Not sure I’m fit, is what I really wanted to say.

“You kind of just block them out sometimes.” She waved her hand by way of assurance.

Yeah, that’s the sort of thing James used to say. Before he got tired of saying it and left. I was robbing him of posterity with all my misgivings. And it’s not that I was afraid of being a bad mother. I knew that I would cuddle my kids, and play with them and read them bedtime stories every night. I was afraid of not loving them. People say all parents love their kids, but that’s not true. Because if it were, they wouldn’t disown them for being gay or leaving the religion. The Internet wouldn’t be swamped with stories of parental regret. Youth protection services wouldn’t exist. There would be no honour killings.

But of course, like most people, that’s not something James ever thought about. He wanted a cute little clone to horse around with and mold into a Pink Floyd fan and ruffle his hair before handing him over to me to wash and feed and do homework with while he focused on closing that deal or watching the game.

He didn't seem to wonder: how do you show a child that you love them? With a kiss on the forehead? By building a snowman together? By answering their million whys? Or knitting a sweater in their favourite colours that probably stopped being their favourite colours years ago? And after all is said and done, is love even enough? Maybe James was right; maybe I overthink things.

I missed him terribly. Now and then I would check my phone to see if he had texted me or called. I didn’t have the courage to call him.

As I walked home from the coffee shop, I wondered when the leaves had fallen off. How did I not notice the transition? A couple was walking in my direction pushing a stroller. There was a dog inside. On the other side of the street, a boy was shooting hoops in the driveway while a man mowed the lawn. Everything seemed to be in order; life flowed as usual, as surely as a river, and I hadn’t noticed that the leaves had fallen off.

As I turned the corner, I saw them standing on the porch: Nancy and a green haired girl dressed in black. A car was parked by the sidewalk. The girl stood motionless with her arms crossed while Nancy spoke. She walked up to her and stroked her hair but the girl slapped her hand away. I thought I heard Nancy say, “I’m trying. I’m trying,” as she threw her hands up. The girl pushed a big cardboard box away with her foot.

I felt like turning around to avoid whatever I was about to walk into, but they had already seen me. As I approached, the girl came down the stairs and almost bumped into me as we passed each other. For a split second, she looked me dead in the eye and on her face I saw bitterness and hatred. It’s as if she’d been fighting with me instead of Nancy. But what did it matter, anyway? Nancy, me, the woman across the street - there was no room for any of us in a world that was being flooded with her anger. She walked up to the car without looking back. The young man in the driver’s seat said something to her as she slammed the door shut. I watched them drive off.

I was scared to ask what happened. With trembling hands, Nancy pulled out a pack of smokes and a lighter out of her back pocket and sat down, overcome with listlessness. She wiped her eyes with her right ring finger as she lit a cigarette.

“My Sarah.”

...

“It’s her birthday today.”

I didn’t know what to say so I stood there waiting for her to continue. She stared into space.

“Ok, well I guess I’ll…” I motioned to the door, “unless you want me to… do you need me to stay?”

“No, that’s ok, hon. I’m getting a headache.”

I was about to turn the key in the lock when she called out to me again.

“Actually, can you please bring that inside?” she motioned to the box. “My back hurts.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You can leave it in the guest room. Just past the entryway, right next to the bathroom.”

I had never been inside Nancy’s apartment. It was dark. The blinds were drawn even though it was the middle of the day. Dishes had piled up in the sink. Takeout boxes littered the kitchen counter. A faint smell of mildew lingered in the air. Who was this woman I talked to almost every day? Who were the people I saw mowing their lawns and sitting on porches, who lived lives full of purpose and noticed when trees dropped their leaves?

The door of what appeared to be Nancy’s bedroom was ajar. I felt the invisible rope of morbid curiosity pulling me inside. It was as dark as the rest of the apartment. A half-empty bottle of wine stood next to an ashtray on the nightstand. Tissues and mugs cluttered the surface. The bed was unmade. I went up to the wall to take a closer look at the pictures.

A younger Nancy was holding Sarah on her lap. She must have been about four. She was wearing an owl hat. A young man with spiky hair sat next to them with his arm around Nancy, smiling with vacant eyes.

The next picture was only of Nancy and a slightly older Sarah. She was seated while her mom stood hugging her from behind, her chin resting against the girl’s head. Nancy was smiling absent-mindedly as little Sarah stared straight into the camera, with a hint of that coldness I saw earlier in her eyes.

As I scanned the gallery wall further, I saw older versions of Sarah with people I didn’t recognize, adults and teens. There was pre-teen Sarah leaning against a couch. A slightly older boy stood next to her. On the couch sat a couple who looked to be in their mid-thirties. They were holding an infant. Next to them sat two teen boys. A Christmas tree shimmered in the corner.

The last picture was taken probably four to five years later. Sarah had short blue hair. She was standing with her arms crossed surrounded by a group of bored-looking girls. On either side of the group there stood an adult woman. One of them wore a grey T-shirt with a logo that read “J.R. Walker Youth Home.”

My palms turned clammy. I felt ashamed of myself, as though I had desecrated a temple. I hurried back out of the room.

I walked into the second room, the guest room. As I leaned down to put the box on the floor, the bottom came undone. On the floor lay a pile of sweaters. There must have been around ten, of various sizes, all different shades of brown and beige. A plush owl stared at me with one eye from underneath the pile.

I scrambled to put everything back in the box and sloppily fixed the bottom.

When I stepped out onto the porch again, Nancy looked like she hadn’t moved.

“Took you a while.”

“Yeah, I used the bathroom. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, hon.”

I picked up my phone: zero missed calls. I went into my contacts, scrolled down to J and called him. It kept ringing. I noticed the trees again. Stripped of their leaves, the twigs and boughs looked like widening cracks spreading from the trees’ hearts outward toward the world.