Mary-Louise
It was around three in the afternoon when the last car pulled out of the driveway. All that remained was
a tray of leftover sandwiches, a half-eaten fruit salad, and a cup of ranch dip. I waved to the car from my
bay window and I saw Mary-Louise standing in hers. I wondered why she didn’t come. Regardless of the
fact that she and my mother never spoke, it just seemed like the proper thing to do when your neighbor
of forty five years passes.
Mary-Louise started down her driveway. She made her way across the rough street and I noticed she
had on no shoes. That should’ve been a sign. You only put on shoes when you feel like a person. And
sometimes you need to be more grounded and connected anyway. I met her at the door.
“Mary-Louise. How’re you doing?”
She tried to speak. She tried to apologize for not coming. For not paying her respects. But when she
opened her mouth, words suddenly weren’t possible. Speaking wasn’t possible. She looked at me with
an open mouth. As if she was asking for help.
“Would you like to come in for some water?”
And as a foreigner in a strange country is calmed when they hear a familiar word, she nodded her head
in relief.
I closed the door behind us and went into the kitchen. I was halfway to the sink when I looked back to
ask if she wanted ice. She was gone. I called out her name and went back to the foyer.
“Mary-Louise?”
I opened the door to see if she went home. I looked down and saw dirty footprints in the hallway that
led to my mother’s room from where I saw Mary-Louise standing last. I followed them. The footprints
went inside. I got nervous. To go inside the room of a recently deceased person is no small feat. It’s a big
responsibility. I was rarely ever allowed to go inside when I was a child and felt like I would be breaking a
rule by going in now. I walked up to the doorframe.
“Mary-Louise?”
She was laying face down on my mother’s unmade bed. Face buried in the duvet. I’ve been avoiding this
room. She stretched her arms out and pulled the bedding and pillows and anything she could embrace
close to her face and breathed in deep. The sort of deep breath that is about survival. And not a physical
survival.
“Your mother and I were in love.”
Mary-Louise slowly sat up in bed. She looked at me, inviting me over. I came inside the room. All sorts of
rules had obviously been broken. I sat down next to her.
“We never had an affair. Nothing like that. But we were. You could feel it. One boring afternoon
when you were at school I walked past my window and saw her sitting there. And when I appeared she
sat up and smiled. And waved. That happened more and more. I moved my sewing and knitting from the
living room to the front room and so did she. We would spend hours knitting together. In our homes.
Across the street. I would look up and see her. Smiling at me. Quickly looking down. Embarrassed I saw.
Love can feel embarrassing sometimes. I’m not sure why. I loved her.”
Mary-Louise took my hand into hers.
“I’m just so sad I never had to the chance to touch her. To hug her. To see what her life was like.
To see what her house was like. To meet you. We had this whole other life and no one had any idea.
Maybe that’s love. Maybe this is love.”
Mary-Louise got quiet. I found myself playing with a loose thread on the pillow. Trying to reimagine a
new narrative for the life of my mother.
“May I take a nap?”
I nodded my head yes and asked if she needed anything.
“Just some quiet”
I slowly left the room and closed the door behind me as Mary-Louise crawled underneath my mother’s
covers and pulled them over her head. Either to keep the world outside, or to keep her world inside.
Like some sort of cocoon.