The Neighbour

Perhaps it’s because I have been so starved for comfort lately, but whatever the reason, I often find myself reflecting on the past, and it’s always the memories that touch my heart that stand out and bring me the solace I so desperately need.

Many years ago I lived in a half-duplex with my two young boys. This was subsidized housing, helpful to someone in my situation – a single mother struggling to house, feed and clothe my children.

The first weekend after moving in, I glanced out the window and noticed that the grass in our backyard had not been cut in some time. Our neighbour in the other side of the duplex happened to be outside mowing her lawn. When she took a break, I approached and introduced myself. Immediately I sensed that our personalities were very different. She hardly spoke, and could not make eye contact with me.  Her pin-straight shoulder-length dark hair was pulled severely back and fastened with an elastic band. Her eyes darted nervously in every direction from behind plain, black-framed eye glasses. To compensate for the awkwardness, I probably smiled wider and talked longer than I should have. Glancing down at her push mower, I was struck with a great, neighbourly idea.

“Could I borrow your lawn mower to cut my side of the yard?” I asked, “I will fill it up with gas when I’m done.”

She looked as if I’d just asked her to cut off a finger for me.

“Oh no,” she mumbled, “That lawn mower is on its last legs. I wouldn’t want to lend it to you and then have it break down on you.”

Well alright, then. Thanks anyway.

The landlord told me that her name was Flora, and she had lived there for many years with her only son. She was quiet. Extremely quiet. No kidding.

We lived in that half-duplex for about six years, and in all that time my only contact with our eccentric neighbour would occur when I would pass her on the sidewalk. I would smile and say, “Hello, Flora!” She would look away and rarely respond. My insecurities crept in. Maybe she didn’t like me. Maybe my kids were too noisy.

In spite of the obvious differences between us, I gradually came to realize that I had developed a strange, one-sided connection with this woman. Most days around noon I would listen to hear her son’s truck start up.  He always let it “warm up” for at least ten minutes, even in summer. The engine noise would rumble through the whole house. Then he would leave for the Chinese food restaurant in the strip mall out on the highway. I never followed him there, but I knew that’s where he was going, because now and then I would happen by and see his truck there, always at the same time. And on days when I was home upon his return, always at the same time, I would see him carry bags of Chinese take-out into the house. They were having lunch together. Always the same lunch. If an unfamiliar car pulled up outside the house, I would pull back the curtain and glance out, feeling some odd responsibility to ensure that Flora was okay. Soon I came to know that this same car would appear at regular intervals throughout the week, and its driver, an older woman, always the same woman, would take Flora somewhere. Perhaps a doctor’s appointment, maybe to pick up a few groceries. Good. Flora had a friend. Or family. Good. I felt better. Strangely. Why did I worry? Why did I care about a woman who barely acknowledged my existence?

When the day came for us to move from our little home, I felt an obligation to inform Flora. After all, I wouldn’t want someone else moving in and having her think that every noise, every laugh, every toilet flush, was ours. We would be gone from her life. Would she know? Somehow, I wanted her to.

I found a tasteful card, nondescript, some woodland scene with deer or rabbits. Who knew if she even liked wildlife? I wrote a few lines to re-introduce myself. “I’m your neighbour, Rebecca. My kids, Zander and Carter and I have lived next door to you and your son for the past six years. I just wanted to let you know that we will be moving soon. You have been a good neighbour. I hope we haven’t been too noisy or disruptive.”

I dropped it in her mailbox, assuming this would be the end, but at least I had done my part. I could not leave someone’s life without reminding them that I had been there. Even if they hadn’t liked me very much.

A couple of days later I opened my own mailbox to find a huge white envelope addressed to me and my boys. Inside was a beautiful, sparkly card, all trees and stars and happiness. A burst of excitement in my day. I eagerly opened the card to find the words, “Rebecca…I am so sorry to hear you are leaving. You and your boys were so quiet, I hardly knew you were there. For years there were druggies and partiers and terrible people living there. When you moved in, I was so worried that you would be like all the rest. But you have been the best neighbours we have had in fifteen years. We will miss you. Flora.”

I am sure my jaw dropped to kitchen floor. In fact I think I felt it hit the linoleum. My eyes misted over. She liked us. She really liked us. I still have Flora’s card, and will always have it.

Sometimes there are people in your life, and you don’t even know they’re there. Perhaps Flora was watching whenever a car pulled up to my side of the house as well. Perhaps we were each looking out for each other, and neither one of us realized it. I like to think we all have secret guardians watching over us. Take heart. In your loneliest hour, on your saddest day, I believe that someone is watching. Someone cares for you. It’s just that sometimes, it’s the last person you’d expect.