I Shoulda Paid More Attention

I SHOULDA PAID MORE ATTENTION

The first time I saw him, I didn’t even realize it. You know how you glaze over faces when you’re walking, or looking at stuff in stores? You’re concentrating on the task at hand, and even though there are people all around, you don’t actually consciously register anything about them—they’re just the people around you.

But then I started seeing him in other places. He wasn’t too noticeable, maybe a bit taller than most, but not basketball-player-tall. Dark hair, dark clothes. Maybe that’s why I noticed him—everything about him was dark and foreboding—his clothes, his hair, his aura.

What drew my attention to him was the fact that I caught him looking at me. I’d just be scanning my surroundings—you know, letting my gaze wander—and I would catch him watching me. But the minute that I made eye contact with him, he’d pause, then his eyes would slide away. The first time it happened was a bit unnerving—you know, almost embarrassing because what do you do when you make accidental eye contact with a complete stranger? An oopsie moment—no big deal. But then I kept seeing him everywhere I went, and every time I did, he’d be staring at me. But he never looked embarrassed. He’d hold my gaze for a second then just smoothly glance away.

After five or six days of this guy turning up everywhere I went, I was equal parts pissed-off and creeped-out.

I told my husband about the guy watching me. I have no illusions—he was not trying to come on to me. I’m an old lady—not Grandma Moses-old, more like retired senior-old. Which is still old, trust me. More days behind me than in front. This guy was not looking to make any moves on me. So, then, what did he want and why was he always staring at me?

When I told Winn, my husband of about a million years, he just sort of grunted. I asked him if I should be worried.

He looked up from his device and made that stupid face that is supposed to make me think he’s considering what I said. “I dunno? Has he said anything to you?”

I shook my head. “No. But he’s everywhere I am and he’s always staring at me.”

”Is he following you?” he asked, looking back down at his iPad. I sighed. He was worse than a teenager with his devices.

”Probably,” I said. “He’s always just wherever I am.”

Winn looked up at me, dragging his eyes away from his screen. “Belle, are you stalking this guy?”

I gave him the face—the one that says you’re an idiot. “No, I am not stalking the guy. We’re always just at the same places as me—at the store, outside of yoga, at the library, across the street from the doctor’s office.” I paused. “It’s weird. And creepy.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. If you don’t know him, maybe it’s just a coincidence.” He just shrugged. Again. And returned to his doomscrolling. Again.

I just sat there, frustration growing, annoyed at Winn’s lack of concern. “Once or twice is a coincidence. A dozen times is a pattern” I said as I walked out of the room.

Take last Tuesday. I’d been out for a walk. I try to walk every day. Most days I turn left at the corner. On Tuesday, I turned right, and walked a different route. I was walking down the street, past the local pub. When I looked up, there he was, sitting in the coffee shop. Our eyes met, and then his eyes moved past my gaze. There had been no recognition on his face. But I recognized him. It was the second time that day. The memory was unsettling.

I walked to the living room window and scanned the street. All quiet. No strange cars or strange people. Just the usual midday quiet of a Tuesday.

I walked back into the family room. “Come on, let’s go!” I said to Winn, pointing at the front door. “Let’s go for a walk.”

So we did—Winn very reluctantly. We walked the same route I had walked last Tuesday. As we passed the pub, Winn suggested we stop for a “rest.” I snorted. An obvious euphemism for a pint of ale. But I figured, why not? Maybe my creeper would show up, and Winn would finally see him and know I wasn’t making this up.

We settled at a table by the window. After the server had taken our order—a local brew on tap for Winn, a tea for me (I’m not a fan of day-drinking)—Winn excused himself to use the facilities. The drinks came, and I sat there stirring my tea, gazing out the window. Then, when there was a break in the traffic, I saw him, across the street, just staring. I startled, a little unnerved. I grabbed my phone to take a photo. Then traffic closed around him. I waited for the next break, but he was gone.

Of course he was.

I told Winn when he made it back to the table. He, as usual, just shrugged. A man of very few words, my Winn. Lots of shoulder action, but few words.

”I tried to take his picture, but he just disappeared,” I said.

”Uh-huh.” He was now looking at me skeptically.

”He was right there!” I said, pointing across the street.

Nothing, just the look that said he was getting tired of whatever game this was.

”Fine,” I said. “Don’t believe me. But they find my dismembered remains in a forty-gallon drum, just remember this conversation.” I got up and left, leaving Winn to drink his beer in peace.

*****

Winn paced back and forth across the kitchen floor, his left hand nervously pushing his hair back off his face.

”When was the last time you saw your wife, Mr. Foster?” the police officer asked, writing in his notebook.

Winn stopped his pacing. “About three o’clock this afternoon. We’d stopped for a drink at The Brewhouse on Concord Street.”

”You and your wife were drinking?”

Winn shook his head. “No. Yes. I had a beer but Belle only had tea.” He stopped pacing and sat at the table across from the police officer.

The officer looked at Winn quizzically. “You didn’t leave together?”

”No. Belle’s been a little on edge recently. She claimed that she’s being stalked. I didn’t believe her. She got huffy, and left. That was the last time I saw her.”

The police officer tensed. “She thought she was being stalked?”

”Yeah. Some guy kept showing up everywhere she was, watching her. It was kind off freaking her out.”

”How long has this been going on?”

Winn shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe a week, or a little longer?”

”Did she describe the man?

Winn shrugged again. “Maybe?” He paused. “She probably did, but I wasn’t listening.”

Winn placed his clenched right fist on the table and slowly unfurled his fingers, letting the pill bottle plink onto the tabletop. He slid the bottle towards the officer. “Belle’s antipsychotics.”

The officer looked from the pills to Winn. ”These are your wife’s medications?”

Winn nodded. “Clozapine. She has schizophrenia.”

”Was she taking her meds?”

Winn shrugged. “I dunnno. Maybe. She always takes her meds … I think.” Winn shook his head and looked out the back window, his gaze travelling across the backyard into the wooded area beyond the back fence. “I shoulda paid more attention.”