“Amaryllis Logan,” she says in a breathy whisper as she hands it over. “From Thirty Three. I hope I’m not too late?”
“Not at all, Amaryllis. Come right in.”
She hands over the bottle.
“Elderflower wine,” she says. “I make it myself. It’s alcoholic, just a little.”
“Amazing! Can I pour you some?”
She nods, and exclaims over my apartment and my lamps, so I ask her what colors she likes and promise to make her one. Everything about Amaryllis is tiny, but her joy is unmistakable.
“There’s nothing like a handmade gift, is there?” she says, and we toast the thought. Her wine is slightly fizzy, not too sweet and not too sour. It’s delicately delicious.
Over the next hour, I learn more about Brighton Court, and about her. A popular book reviewer, Amaryllisplays a small Celtic harp and sings along – ancient songs. She even composes new ones, with her own lyrics.
“Please don’t take it personally I arrived so late,” she says, her voice quiet. “I usually don’t turn up until a party is almost over. I’m an introvert. Too much company upsets me for days, but a quiet conversation is lovely, don’t you think?”
She clams up as she studies my décor, nodding with conviction.
“I love what you’ve done in here,” she says.
“How long have you lived at Brighton Court, Amaryllis?”
“All my life,” she says.
Before I can ask her about who lived here before me, and how it was decorated, she questions me again.
“What brought you to Brighton Court, Lucy, a stylish woman like you?”
I laugh and thank her for the compliment and shake my head.
“I’m no model. I started taking more care of my appearance when I became invisible,” I say.
“Invisible?”
The alcohol and Amaryllis’s earnest, agreeable company loosen my tongue. Donna knows me through and through, knows everything, but Amaryllis is a neighbor, maybe a new friend. I hope so. It’s the first time I’ve voiced my experience like this, put words around my losses.
“I just got divorced, Amaryllis. This is my fresh start. I love it here. I’m just renting, but if I could, I’d buy this place. I absolutely love it.”
“Brighton Court is special. You said you felt invisible?”
She’s listening, waiting. Do I share my story with this kind stranger? She’s a gentle person. I begin.
“I became invisible somewhere between the birth of my daughter, Phoebe and her graduation. She and Bart were always out, Phoebe with school and friends, and Bart with who knew who, his suit bag on the hanger and briefcase at the door, or not.”
Phoebe had always been so happy to sit in my lap for a story, or to have her hair done, or to go try on dresses with me and test them for twirl, or make chocolate cakes with me and lick the bowl.
Then Phoebe’s eyes became hard, in high school, and she’d rather be anywhere than at home with me.
“One night when neither Bart nor Phoebe was home, I was so beyond sad, I got angry with myself. I’d been so busy making their lives easy, my own life had disappeared. I was an endless support system for my husband and child. If I’d been a heroine in a novel, nobody would have bothered to read it. What a waste of a beautiful life!
“I’d once had dreams. I just couldn’t remember what they were. I ran on auto all day in a blur of chores, then zoned out on pay tv. No wonder Bart and Phoebe were bored with me. I bored myself.
“Meal times once anchored us. Around our table, we’d swap news of challenges and triumphs and laughter and tears. But those times became erratic. I’d have to guess at their news from their accusations and demands.”
“Demands?”
“Like ‘We’re out of eggs, Mom,’ or ‘Who ate the last of the peanut butter?’ or ‘I’ll need four shirts for this trip.’”
