𝑨𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒚𝒍𝒆𝒔

     As soon as Dr. Hassan is gone, I lock my door and put the keys under the doormat. As I step down the short staircase to the house, a cold breeze blows across the porch. My dress clings, and I let out a sigh. It’s a beautiful morning. The sun is slightly up, and the trees lined up across the street are swaying rhythmically to the gentle wind.

     I look at the tree I saw the man hiding behind yesterday from my window. Immediately, I feel a burning sensation in my hands and feet. They get numb suddenly, and I’m unable to move.

     Swallowing hard, I snap myself out of the trance. I’ll be waiting tonight by my window for the man. This time he isn’t going to elude me. I’ll be looking very closely, perhaps with binoculars. Later, I’ll go into town and get one. If this man thinks he’s going to drive me crazy, then he’s wrong.

     Taking my eyes away from that tree, I shift them to where I’m going. Ms. Gillian’s house. Her house is similar to ours, just that it has an old-fashioned charm. There’s a wide porch, a swing bed, and a rocking chair. Her front porch is decorated with potted plants, giving it a welcoming aura. She doesn’t have a garden that I know of, but there are one or two shrubs. I know she can’t sustain a garden like mine because of her age, and she’s such a loner to hire someone to help her.

     I veer toward her house, make my way past her lawn to the porch, and knock on the brown door. Movements echo in the interior, followed by shuffles, then the door creaks open. Ms. Gillian shows up, wearing a brown cardigan over a loose blouse and black slacks.

     She wears a warm smile, and it widens when she sees me. Her wrinkles are visible, but she still looks beautiful. Her dark hair tumbles down her shoulders with streaks of gray strands.

     “Hi, Adrienne. It’s nice of you to check on me. How’re you doing?”

     “I’m fine.”

     She opens the door wider, and I step into the house. After she closes it, we walk across the short hallway to the living room chatting. She asks me about Jeff, and I tell her he’s fine. She says she hasn’t seen him lately and is worried that he might be overworking. I agree with her on that.

     When we near the living room, I take in the view of the house. Everything here is antique, and I like the feel of it. Unlike my house which is full of state-of-the-art equipment, this house has a quaint aura. Partly the reason I come to visit her. I like the sharp contrast between our houses.

     We walk past a doily-covered couch and I move my hand across it. The only thing that doesn’t give an old-fashioned vibe is the flat-screen television sitting across the room. I doubt she even watches it. In the center of the room sits a flower vase on a walnut table. Petals of red roses are glistening in the rays of the light seeping into the room through the half-open windows. A silhouette of a woman hangs across the wall. As I study it, it dawns on me that the outline looks very similar to the portrait of Ms. Gillian in her youth that is sitting across the stool at the far end.

     “You look good this morning,” she says, and I quickly pull a face to her.

     She’s not the first to tell me this, so it leads me to believe that perhaps I’m getting better. If that’s the case, then it’s a clear sign there’s hope for the future. Somehow I feel I want to live and not throw myself from my room.

     “Thank you.”

     She acknowledges it with a nod. She has a mischievous smile on her face, and it makes me curious.

     “I’ve got something for you.” She reaches into her pocket.

     My face fills with surprise, and I wonder what she has for me. I hear something crinkling, then she brings out a photograph. She pushes it forward and says, “This was taken some months ago. We were doing communal labor in the neighborhood.”

     I stare at the picture. It’s me and Ms. Gillian in front of her house. I’m wearing denim jeans topped with a white blouse, feet encased in insulated boots, hair dishevelled, and smudges on my face and hands. I don’t doubt we took it during one of the neighbourhood’s communal labor we hold every first day of a new month. But I don’t remember taking this picture with her, and I definitely don’t remember when we took it.

     She harbors a smile as we stare at the picture together. Then she gingerly threads her fingers across the photo. “Isn’t it beautiful? You were so happy when we took it.” She looks up at me with a dazzling smile. “You even insisted we take it in front of my house.”

     Really? I did that? I don’t remember any of what she’s saying. And I know she wouldn’t lie for any reason. She looks happy staring at the picture and reminiscing. It’ll be awful if I tell her I have no memory of what she’s talking about, so I play along instead, as though this is a charade.

     “It’s beautiful,” I say, and she nods. She has no idea I’m just saying it to please her and not that I remember taking this picture with her.

     We continue staring in awkward silence. While she finds this amusing, I see it to be very uncomfortable. Here I am, looking at someone who’s supposed to be me, but I can’t recall feeling like the person in the picture on the day it was taken.

     Ms. Gillian continues to ogle. Romeo gets up from the rug and struts across the hardwood floor toward us. I’m glad he did that because immediately he comes close, I pull apart from Ms. Gillian, crouch over the Labrador, and stroke his fur. I giggle as he licks my hand while I gently rub his back. He’s been longing for a rub for a while now.

     With my love for pets, I don’t know why I still don’t have one yet. The thought has never crossed my mind. It’s high time I told Jeff to get me one. Ms. Gillian finally puts the picture away, and I sigh in relief that I don’t have to pretend anymore.

     She looks at us with a small grin. “Have you had breakfast already?”

     I shake my head, my full attention on Romeo.

     “All right, Adrienne. I haven’t had mine too.”

     That works best for me. I would benefit from sharing breakfast with her since I dread loneliness. I pat Romeo as I look at Ms. Gillian.

     “What do plan to make?”

     “Omelet with creamy hot tea.”

     “Terrific,” I say. “Let’s get started.”

     She takes the lead to the kitchen, and I follow, Romeo trailing behind. Her kitchen isn’t big, but it’s comfortable and it accommodates the three of us. The walls are made of lath and the hues blend perfectly with the environment. It’s neither too garish nor too dull. Just like the living room, the kitchen floor is covered in hardwood. The cabinets and tables are made from mahogany, and the lacquered surface gives a slow glow as she opens the blinds.

     She walks to the refrigerator, which I notice isn’t state-of-the-art like mine. I like her house. It’s so serene and welcoming. I watch as she takes out a crate of five eggs and hands it over to me. I carry it to the kitchen table. While she brings the necessary ingredients, I near the sink and thoroughly wash my hands, then slip into an apron.

     She’s taken out all the ingredients we’ll need to bring our omelet to life and has artfully arranged them across the table. She limps to the sink, and that’s when it occurs to me she’s been limping all this while. I haven’t noticed earlier because I’ve been keeping up with her slow speed. She’s aging gracefully, but I think she needs help. She can’t be going around the house cooking and tidying the place. I only imagine how she lays her bed.

     She joins me at the table after wearing an apron similar to mine and sits on a stool. We wash the vegetables we’ll be using as the topping, and I say in the process, “Why don’t you get someone to help you?”

     She starts chopping the coriander. “I’m fine, Adrienne. I don’t need any help.” She offers me an assuring smile, but I’m not convinced.

     It’s either she’s afraid of something, or she can’t afford a live-in househelp. If her reason is the latter, then it’s no big deal. I can pay for all the expenses. I made lots of money when I was commuting. My parents left Liana and me a fortune. We own a restaurant in Upstate New York, currently being run by Liana. But of course, I don’t remember any of these. Liana told me and so I believe I’m rich. Plus, Jeff has been made a named partner. All I have to do is tell him Ms. Gillian needs a housemaid, and he’d be very happy to help.

     I don’t want Ms. Gillian to feel bad about not having money to get a househelp; that is if money is her reason for not hiring one. I say, “Don’t hesitate to ask me anything,” without attributing my help to financial aid.

     I want her to be happy. She’s kept me company ever since my accident. When I was discharged from the hospital and remembered absolutely nothing, she used to visit me all the time, telling me we were good friends, and that I sometimes called her grandma. And of course, she showed me tons of pictures to prove her point, although I remembered none of them—not even one, and I find that very weird. At some point, I felt so terrible I had to pretend I remembered her so she wouldn’t feel dejected. But now with or without my memories, she’ll always be my friend and grandma. Such a nice old lady. I smile as I watch her cut the vegetables. When she’s done, I break the eggs into a bowl.

     She’s about to get up, and I quickly ask, “What do you need?”

     “I’m going to get the frying pan.”

     “I’ve got it. You sit down,” I instruct, and she smiles at me like a child to her mother.

     “Thank you, Adrienne.”

     I smile back as I get up, walk to the stove, and search for the frying pan. She notices that I can’t find it because she says, “It’s in that cabinet. On your left.”

     I feel slightly embarrassed that I’ve offered to help when I have no idea where she stores her utensils. I open the cabinet. Metals clink as I take out the frying pan. Once it’s out, I wash it and let it dry, then I turn on the stove and place the pan on it.

     When it’s hot, I pour olive oil into the pan. I don’t know when she got up, but when I turn to my left, she’s standing beside me with the bowl of eggs. There’s no way this woman knows rest. I wonder what she used to do in her youth. Since she’s already assisting, I don’t tell her to go and sit down. If she wants to help, then it’s fine.

     I add cinnamon spice, salt and pepper spice, then she whisks the eggs. She hands the bowl over, and I gently pour the eggs into the pan. A sizzling sound fills the kitchen, followed by the aroma of spices mixed with egg.

     While the eggs are cooking, I cover the pan. She brings two mugs from the cabinet and washes them under the tap. I turn to the eggs a minute later as she fixes the tea. I flip them over and cover the pan again. When both sides are cooked, I add the chopped vegetables and fold the eggs into a semi-circle, then turn off the stove.

     Ms. Gillian is done making the tea, and I’m already salivating.