The Widows Carer
Its been a month, they said. Only a month since they hired her to look after Margaret Woodhousea woman struck down by a stroke and left whittled to her bed. For thirty dreamlike days and nights, Janet would turn her every two hours, change the sheets, monitor gentle drips of morphine and the hum of machines that only made sense in shadow.
And then, three nights ago, Margaret was gonesilent, as if carried off in sleep by an invisible procession. The doctor had a piece of paperanother strokeno one to blame, as though it had been ordained by the clockwork of nightmares.
No one, at least, except the carer. Or so Margarets daughter believed.
Janet ran her thumb over the old, pale scar on her wristonly a thin vein of memory now, a trace of a burn from her first job at the clinic. Young then, careless, a different reality. Now, just past thirty-eight, divorced, her son at her ex-husbands home, and a reputation resting on bruised glassabout to shatter from a single whisper.
Youve got some nerve, coming here.
Christine seemed to appear from nowhere, as if the ground itself had produced her. Her hair was pulled so tightly back it looked painful at the temples; eyes red, sleepless; for the first time, she looked older than her years.
I wanted to say goodbye, Janet said, voice quiet, floating.
Goodbye? Christine let her words fall to a hiss. I know what you did. Everyone will.
And she drifted offto the coffin, to her father, who stood still as a memorial with his right hand buried in his jacket pocket.
Janet didnt move, didnt chase, didnt argue. Already the logic of this place was clear: whatever happened, she would always be the one punished by the dream.
Christines post bloomed across the internet two days later.
My mother passed away in mysterious circumstances. The carer, whom we employed to look after her, may have hurried her end. The police refuse to open an inquiry. But I will have justice.
Three thousand shares. The commentsa murmur of sympathy and, here and there, a clutch of hissing demands to find that monster.
Janets hands trembled over her phone on the number 72 busreturning not from her job, but from the place where her job had ceased to be.
Janet Palmer, you know how it is, said Dr. Beckett, unable to meet her eye. This sort of uproar Patients are worried, the staff too. Temporarily, just until things settle down.
Temporarily. Janet knew this languageknew it meant never.
Her small flat, with its kitchen cubby and joint bath, held nothing but silence. Her kingdom after the splittwenty-eight square metres up three flights with no lift. Enough to survive. Never quite enough to live.
Her phone started up just as she reached for the kettle.
Janet Palmer? Its William Woodhouse.
She nearly lost grip on the kettle. His voice was deep, raspya soft echo. Over the month, words from him had been rare, but each remained with her.
Im listening.
I need your help. Margarets things I cant deal with them. Christine certainly cant. Youre the only one who knows where everything is.
Janet paused. Then, steady, Your daughter blames me for killing your wife. Did you know?
A pause as long and weighted as a cathedral.
I know.
And youre still ringing?
Im still ringing.
Logic said declineanyone sensible wouldbut some note in his voice, not quite begging but trembling toward it, meant her answer was:
Tomorrow at two.
The Woodhouse home floated at the edge of towna two-storey thing, too broad and too empty. Janet recalled it alive with nurses, beeping machines, Margarets TV always blathering. Now, only the hush: silence draping every stair and corridor like dust.
William answered the door himself. Just under fifty, grey at the corners, shoulders broad but bentbentness that hadn’t existed a month ago. Right hand in his pocket, gripping something with a metallic edge; a key perhaps.
Thank you, for coming.
No thanks needed. Im not doing this for you.
He raised an eyebrow. Then for whom?
For myself, she thought. To untangle all of this, to know whats truewhy youre silent, why you wont shield me, knowing Im blameless.
Aloud, she said, For orders sake. Where are the keys?
Margarets room still stank of liliesthick, sickly-sweet, and cloying. Perfume in the walls.
Janet worked like a gentle automaton: opening wardrobes, boxing up clothes, sorting tired paperwork. William stayed below. She heard him moving, always circling and circling.
A faded photograph sat on the bedside table. She picked it up, intending to pack it awaythen froze. William, young, about twenty-five. Smiling next to a womanpale-haired. Not Margaret.
She turned the picture. In faded biro: Billy and Anne. 1998.
Strange. Why would Margaret keep a picture of her husband and another woman, right by her pillow?
She slipped the photograph into her bag and pressed on. Kneeling by the bed, reaching for a box, her fingers brushed something wooden.
A little casket, without a lock. She flipped the lid.
Inside, letters. Dozens, stacked in careful hands. One swirling, feminine handwriting. Every one neatly opened, then resealed.
Janet picked up the topmost envelope. Address: William A. Woodhouse. Sender: A. Melrose, York.
Date: November 2024. Just last month.
She riffled through the others. The earliest marked 2004. Twenty years. Twenty years of letters, all to Williamgathered and intercepted by Margaret.
And keptnot thrown out, just sheltered away. For what purpose?
Janet lifted a letter to her nosethe same heavy lily scent. Margaret had held them, read and reread, worn them on their folds.
She left the box on the bed and sat beside it, hands unsteady.
This changed everything.
William.
He looked up. Sitting at the kitchen table, untouched tea cooling beside him.
Finished?
Not quite. She slid the envelope across. Who is Anne Melrose?
His face altered. Not paled, but grew set and hollow. His hand clenched around whatever hid in his pocket.
Whered you get that?
Box under the bed. Hundreds in there. Twenty years worth. All opened and resealed. All hidden by your wife.
Silencelong, nearly unbearable. Then he rose and faced the window, back turned.
You knew? Janet asked softly.
Found out. Three days ago. After the funeral, clearing her drawersthought I could manage. Found the box.
And you keep quiet?
What can I say? He turned, fast. My wife stole my post for twenty yearsletters from the woman I loved before her. Kept themtrophies, or self-punishments, who knows. And now whatam I to tell Christine? Christine, who worshipped her mum?
Janet stood.
Your daughter blames me for Margarets death. Ive lost my job. My names being spat at all over the internet. And you say nothingbecause youre scared of the truth?
He stepped toward her; his eyes were dark, exhausted.
I say nothing because I dont know how to bear it. Twenty years, Janet. Twenty years Anne wrote to meI thought shed forgotten. Moved on, married, had children. But she
He did not finish.
Janet lifted the envelope. She lives in York. Ill go.
Why?
Because someone needs to know the truth. If not you, then me.
Anne Melrose lived in a modest flat on the edge of York. Ground floor, geraniums in the window, a cat staring with ancient patience. Janet rang the bell, uncertain which language she would need.
A woman answeredabout Williams age, silver-blonde hair knotted loosely, fine lines around the eyes, a look both weary and kind.
Youre Anne Melrose?
I am. And you are?
Janet held out the envelope.
I found your letters. Every one. Opened, read, and hidden.
Anne stared at the envelope as if it might bite, then looked deep into Janets face.
Come in, please.
They sat opposite each other in a narrow kitchen, mugs of tea collecting dust.
Twenty years I wrote to him, Anne faltered. Every month. Sometimes more. Never a reply. I thoughthe must hate me, for letting him go.
Letting him go?
Anne gripped her cup.
We were together three years university onward. He wanted marriage. I panicked. I was only twenty-two. Life seemed so vastI thought, why rush?
Told him to wait. He did, half a year. Then she arrivedMargaret. Striking, certain. I lost.
Janet gazed at her shoes.
When they married, I left for York to live with my aunt. Thought it would pass. It didnt. After five years I started writing again. Not to win him backjust so hed know I was still here, still thinking of him.
And he never replied?
Anne gave a sour smile. Now I see why.
Janet pulled out the photograph.
This was on Margarets table. Billy & Anne, 1998.
Anne took it, trembling.
She had that beside her own bed?
Yes.
For a while, only the clock ticked.
You know, Anne said at last, all these years I despised Margaret. She took what I loved most. NowI pity her.
To spend twenty-five years with a man, never certain hes fully yours To read another womans letters every day, then hide them, burn with jealousy, fear Thats hell. Her own, homemade hell.
Janet stood to leave.
Thank you for telling me all this.
Waitwhy are you doing this? Youre not family, not a friend.
Janet hesitated.
Theyre accusing me of her death. Williams daughter. She thinks I wanted to take her mothers place.
You want to prove your innocence?
Janet shook her head.
I just want to know the truth. The rest will follow.
On the journey back, she phoned William. He waited on the steps as the sun was folding behind trees, long shadows lying like silk ribbons on the grass.
You were right, Janet told him as she approached. She wrote for twenty years. Never married, waited for you.
He didnt answer, his pocketed hand flexed and unflexed.
Youve got something locked up at home, Janet ventured. You keep checking that keylike youre afraid of losing it.
He was silent.
Come with me.
The safe in the dark study was old, heavya relic from another century. William opened it and produced a letter. This time, the handwriting was differentspikier, jagged. Margarets hand.
She wrote this two days before she died. I found it while sorting through her papers after the funeral.
Janet took the letter. Inside, every bit of space was covered in writing:
William, if youre reading this, Im gone and youve found the box. I always knew youd discover it. I knewbut I couldnt stop. I started intercepting her letters in 2004, five years after our wedding. You grew distant, withdrawn. I thought youd stopped loving me. Then I found her first letter. And I knew. She never let you go.
I ought to have shown you that lettershould have asked you. But I was afraid youd leave. Choose her. So I hid it, and then the next, and the next.
For twenty years I stole your post. For twenty years I read love not meant for me. And I hated myselfevery day. Still, I couldnt stop. I loved you so much, I destroyed everything: your choice, her hope, my conscience.
Forgive me, if you can. I shouldnt ask. I ask anyway.
Margaret.
Janet set the letter down.
Does Christine know?
No.
She needs to. You know that, dont you?
William turned away.
She adored her mother. This will crush her.
Shes crushed already, Janet whispered. She’s lost her mother and is terrified of losing yougrappling for someone to blame.
Shes striking at me. She wants an enemy, because the real enemy is grief. And you cant fight grief.
William said nothing.
When you tell her the truth, she might hate youmaybe for a while. But shell understand, in time. Leave it silent, and shell never forgive you. Not you. Not herself.
He turned back, eyes wet.
I dont know how to speak to her. After Margarets illness, we stopped talking.
Learn. Start today.
Christine arrived in an hour. Janet watched her from the windowhow she climbed out of her car, snapped off her ponytail. How she paused, seeing her father waiting.
Their voices drifted through the wallsraised, then broken, then quiet sobs.
When Christine reappeared, Margarets letter in hand, her face was swollen with tears, her eyes not angry anymore, just lost.
She stopped before Janet, who braced herself for anything.
I deleted the post, Christine murmured. Wrote a correction. And Im sorry. I was wrong.
Janet nodded.
I understand. Grief is cruel.
Christine shook her head gently.
Not grief. Fear. I was terrified of ending up alone. Mother left, Dad was a stranger. You were there; you saw her at the end. Knew her differently. I thought you wanted to take her placesteal Dad from us.
I have nothing to steal.
I get that now. I do.
She offered her hand, awkward as if shed forgotten how. Janet squeezed it and let go.
Mum she was miserable, wasnt she? All her life?
Janet pictured the letterthe two decades of fear, jealousy, love become a cage.
She loved your dad. In her own way. It wasnt the right way, but it was love.
Christine nodded, then folded onto the steps and weptsilent, crystalline tears.
Janet joined her, not to consolejust to share the space.
Two weeks passed.
Janet was reinstated at work, after Christine phoned the clinic herself. Reputation, she thought, was breakable, yet sometimes you could glue its pieces back together.
William rang her in the evening, just as he had at the beginning.
Janet Palmer. I wanted to thank you.
For what?
For the truth. For not letting me hide.
Silence.
Im travelling to York tomorrowto Anne. I dont know what Ill say, nor if shell want to see me. But I have to try. Twenty years is too long for silence.
Janet smiled. He couldnt see her, but perhaps he heard it.
Good luck, William.
Just William.
A month passed. He returned. Not alone.
Janet found out by accident: on a foggy Saturday at the farmers market, she saw William carrying bags, Anne inspecting tomatoes, two shapes moving in synchrony, something lighter in the way they stood together.
William noticed her. He waved, with his right handnow free from its pocket.
Janet waved back and stepped on.
That evening, she opened her window to the warm May dusklilac and a whiff of petrol rising up from the street. Ordinary air, but alive.
She thought for a while about Margarether lilies, her casket of letters, love that became a prison. She thought of Anneher twenty years of waiting, hope sustained letter by letter. She thought of Williamhis silence, his pocketed key, a man who had, at last, chosen.
Then she stopped thinking. She just sat at the window, listening to the city, waiting for something she couldnt name.
The phone rang.
Janet Palmer? Its William. Just William. Were having supper here. Anne’s made a pie. Would you come?
Janet glanced around her flatall twenty-eight square metres of silence. Then again, at the open window.
Ill be there in an hour.
She hung up, took her keys, and stepped out into the descending dusk.
The door whispered shut behind her. Above the street, the sun was finishing its descentburnt gold, gentle, a promise of quiet tomorrow.
