Invisible Woman

Cecilia doesn't think of herself as a hoarder. After all, the collections are organized, alphabetized, colour-coded and sorted into bins. Even cataloged on her computer.

No junk. Interesting items like law enforcement badges and pins collected from cities worldwide. Work colleagues bring her back souvenir pins from their vacations. Others, she requests by email since she's never travelled out of Ontario.

Instead of staring mindlessly at a television screen, Cecilia selects a bin at random, studying and appreciating the contents. The badge bin takes all evening to pore over, especially if she pins them onto her fuzzy, blue wool jacket. The wool is self-healing, never shows the holes.

Sometimes she only fastens on the badge that says “Invisible Woman” since she imagines that's her superpower. She's tall and thin. Willowy is how she thinks of herself. Long, brown mousy hair like a woodland fairy.

The bin containing wooden spools of brightly coloured thread is sorted by shades of the rainbow. Another bin holds her father's trophies and silver-plated objects. In her opinion, the tarnish adds patina and character to the pieces. The most captivating item in the entire collection is a set of four miniature, ornately carved chalices. Nestled in an ebony leather box lined with crimson satin resembling a coffin. He won them at a shooting competition back in the 1950s.

Sharpshooter.

Perfectionist.

She holds one up to the light closing an eye like she's sighting in a rifle and examines the swirling patterns of stems and leaves. The intricate hollows are like eye sockets and concave bellies. Sometimes she drinks from these tiny chalices.

Water only. No calories.

The dainty leaves represent growth. Her father believed you should always be learning, flourishing.

“Stagnation is destructive,” he had said, although her body often feels that way.

Lifeless.

As if her heart and organs have slowed down.

When she presses the cool metal to her cheek, the petal imprint remains on her skin. Another chalice is adorned with an angel wing pattern, and she imagines floating out of her physical body, composed and serene, unlike the high-speed bullet shot with focus and precision from her father's rifle.

Lightheaded, she lies flat on the patterned carpet. She's been fainting these days.

A nagging hammering sound disturbs the silence.

Relentless.

Must be her new neighbour from the adjoining duplex who insisted she come over for a glass of wine. Cecilia wraps her wool coat around her and stands on wobbly legs like a newborn lamb.

Peering through the brass eye hole, Marc is standing outside her door with a windblown hairstyle. He lifts his fist to bang again. She likes him already.

Persistent to see her, the invisible woman.

Sliding the chain out of the locking mechanism, she calls out, “hold your horses,” and opens the door slowly clutching her coat tight against her body.

“Are you going out?” Marc holds out a dark green bottle of wine. “I got impatient waiting for you.”

She doesn't respond so he steps inside without an invitation.

“Moving?” He's staring at the stacked bins on the carpet.

“My inheritance. I'm not sure what to do with it all.” Cecilia gulps regaining composure.

“Oh look, we can drink from these. His strong thigh muscles are visible through his tight straight-leg black jeans as he strides over and picks up a chalice.

“Take off your coat and stay awhile,” he says as if he's the one living there. His laugh warms the space as he plunks the wine bottle onto the counter along with two of the chalices. “They're so small we'll lose track of how much we're drinking.”

He unscrews the cap. “No corks anymore. At least not the bottles I can afford.”

The wine is rosy against the silver and Cecilia thinks of a self-inflicted bullet hole.

Oozing blood.

“Hey, are you okay? Marc asks lifting his chalice like a priest behind the pulpit.

“To new neighbours,” Cecilia says in a voice an octave higher than usual.

They clink, downing the contents in one gulp.

“Like swigging shots of tequila.” He wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “I can help you deal with this stuff if you want. I'm good at selling on E-Bay.”

“I'm not sure I'm ready.”

“Of course. When did your father pass?”

Cecilia reaches for the bottle and pours, unsure how to answer that. She counts in her mind, 3 years and some.

“Your kitchen is immaculate. Do you even cook in it?”

“Cleanliness and organization. My obsessions.”

Why didn't she go to his apartment so her life wouldn't be on display? She couldn't remember the last time she cooked or ate a full meal.

“It's so quiet in here. I hope the walls aren't wafer-thin or you'll hear my loud music.” Marc pours more wine. “Will my music bother you?”

“I'm not sure,” Cecilia says feeling shaky.

“Let's sit.” She pulls the wool coat tighter, noticing the Invisible Woman badge pinned at her chest.

Marc brings the wine bottle to the coffee table and perches on the paisley chair next to the open bin that contained the chalices. He extracts a small silver tray.

“Oh look, there's a numbered sticker on it. Your dad was organized too.” He places it on the table and reaches to the back of the bin taking out a bubble-wrapped object.

Cecilia crosses her arms over her chest rubbing her hands up and down her upper arms like she's cold.

Marc unrolls the wrap revealing a black flare pistol.

“Have you seen this before?” The excitement in his voice is like Christmas morning.

“This might be worth some money.”

“There are two flares for it,” she says almost in a whisper. “In a small wooden crate on the bottom. From World War 2.”

“Get out.” He crouches in front of the bin rummaging around not caring if things get out of order.

She envisions her small pistol in the nightstand beside her bed. Is it loaded? She can't remember.

Marc haphazardly pulls out several items as she stands. “I'll be right back.”

She scurries down the hallway, sure that he doesn't notice. She's invisible now that he's fixated on her collection. Why did she let him in?

In the bathroom, she fumbles in the medicine cabinet for the bottle of Percocet, shaking a couple into her hand and downing them without water. Feeling faint again, she heads for the bedroom and settles on the edge of the ivory quilt. Sliding open the drawer of her nightstand, she extracts a white terry-cloth bundle. Inside is an all-white “Hedy Jane” double-tap pocket pistol. She's panting as if she's run a marathon.

The salesman called it I-phone white. The sale included a matching pearl bracelet. Her wrist is so small, she slides it over her hand without undoing the clasp.

“Hey,” Marc says from the doorway, “I wondered where you disappeared to.” His eyes fixate on the handgun. “What are you planning to do, shoot me?” A worried look crosses his face as he strides over and sits beside her on the bed.

“Isn't it sexy?” She buffs the finish with the towel and points it at the side of her head. “Could be over in a second.”

“Don't do that.” Marc's voice is stern. “Hey, you're really not okay. Do you want to talk about it?”

Cecilia totters to her feet, turning and aiming the pistol at her pillow. Such power. Unsure if it's loaded, she pulls the trigger anyway. The pillow explodes in a cloud of feather dust.

Her dead father is frowning down on her. Irresponsible people shouldn't own weapons. His words echo through her brain. As if his actions were responsible.

Marc's firm grasp on her wrist almost causes her to release her grip on the pistol. She squeezes with all her strength and the second bullet plummets into the side of the mattress, a dark gaping hole visible in the bone-white quilt.

“That's it, the show's over.” Laughing hysterically, her coat billows around her thin body.

Marc knows he's in over his head but recognizes Cecilia's need for professional help. Instead of leaving, he grounds her by placing his hands on her shoulders holding tight. Her coconut-scented hair reminds him of suntan lotion on a carefree beach day.

“You're not invisible. I see you.”

She likes how firmly he's holding her. They're swaying back and forth and when she thinks she's falling, he steadies her. “I think you're worried I might shoot through the wall when you're playing your music too loud.”

It's Marc's turn to laugh. The uncontrollable kind of laughter that emanates after a stressful experience that you know will leave an imprint on your life.