Page 11 of The Woman By the Lake

Definitely not music, laughter and voices.

Which meant, right then, it was after three in the morning, and I’d not yet been able to fall asleep.

It had been two weeks since I’d moved in, and I hadn’t seen (nor heard) Doc in all that time after our first, unsuccessful meeting.

It was Dave who showed me how to use the generator, coming over with Brenda after she called to set an appointment to walk me through keeping her flowers watered and healthy.

At that time, I learned Brenda was a woman much like her husband. That being of indeterminate age (I’d peg her at anywhere between mid-fifties and mid-seventies). She had a mad cap of thin, wispy hair that was dyed an unbecoming, unnatural blonde (not being offensive, there was no other way to say it). She wore glasses, no makeup, was pleasingly plump, sported oversize shorts that went to her knees and an equally oversized T-shirt that had a trio of graphic kittens on it sniffing flowers.

She also had a kind smile that lit her eyes behind her glasses and a patient demeanor.

However, she refused to tell me her taco meat secret, something I had a desperate need to know, because when I’d opened the container, it looked just like seasoned ground beef, but when I ate it, it was flavorful and so tender, it was a minor miracle.

Though, she did say she’d bring more by when she made another batch, which I thought was really sweet.

Other than Dave and Brenda, and the people I ignored the two times I’d gone into town to hit the dread grocery store, I hadn’t seen a single soul.

I’d unpacked all my boxes.

I’d programmed the TV with all my streaming services.

I’d kept the plants watered and healthy.

I’d binged more television than I allowed myself to keep track of.

I’d read five books.

I’d shopped online, because, although Brenda had outfitted the cabin splendidly, she didn’t have cloth napkins, the placemats on offer weren’t as cute as the ones I’d found when I’d discovered the napkins, and her pretty, antique wineglasses and tumblers didn’t hold near enough liquid (and she didn’t have martini glasses at all). She also hadn’t provided plastic ones for outside should I, say, want a glass of wine while sitting on the pier (which I did). Nor did she provide a marble wine cooler should I, say, drink a whole bottle of wine while sitting and reading on the porch (which I also did).

And other stuff.

I’d also semi-kinda met my postman, who drove packages all the way up the lane to my front door.

What I did not do was journal my innermost thoughts and fears and feelings about all that had happened four months ago (not to mention, seven years prior) in any of the five matching, silk-covered, cherry blossom embossed journals I’d sent to the cabin in my boxes.

I didn’t meditate in an effort to achieve a higher consciousness.

I didn’t do any research to see if Misted Pines offered a thoughtful and supportive counselor I could make a standing appointment with to go and hash out all that was clogging my brain and make a plan on how to open the drain and let it slip away.

No, I did none of that.

It seemed the only thing I learned about myself was that I became so unmotivated as to be nearly incapacitated by days of having nothing to do and no one I was responsible for.

Namely, around twenty-five munchkins, who filled my days with alternating bouts of extreme pride and sheer frustration who counted on me.

Sure, I texted my friends, sent emails and had a couple of phone conversations, but I was social media-ing it through all of that, even if I wasn’t doing it on social media.

That being faking it.

The cabin and the lake made it easy. A picturesque cottage in the pines on a lake with me smiling through a selfie, looking honey-tanned and healthy, because me and my wineglass would head to the pier at around two each day. Along with the fact there were a lot of pots of plants to water, and they were all outside (a tan was all about faking the healthy bit).

All my friends took one look at these photos and told me to invite them out ASAP.

I didn’t invite a single one of them.

I was wallowing and drinking too much. And it got worse, because every day, I’d wake up, determined that would be the day when I’d grab my imaginary staff and head down the path to battle my demons and figure it all out, and then I’d go to bed, beating myself up because that was not the day I’d done anything.

Now…this.

---