Secrets Never Die

Chapter 2

While my friends and neighbors gathered to mourn my departure, one was noticeably absent. Two houses down from my own, Trudy Sheehan went about her day. She woke up at 5:30 am sharp, with no alarm clock necessary. She made the bed and threw open the curtains to the morning sun. Then, as she always did, she did her hair and applied her makeup before heading to the kitchen to make her breakfast. Trudy Sheehan was nothing if not predictable.

As Trudy Sheehan entered her kitchen, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, soon to mingle with the faint scent of toast. The sound of her favorite radio show played softly in the background, providing a familiar melody to her morning routine. The warm sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, casting a gentle glow on the countertops and illuminating the vibrant colors of the fruit bowl.

Trudy moved with practiced grace, effortlessly preparing her breakfast - a perfectly poached egg on a slice of buttered toast, accompanied by a side of sliced avocado and a sprinkle of salt and pepper. As she toasted her wheat toast with a butter knife in hand, her eyes lingered on the perfectly ripe red tomatoes that sat in a bowl on her kitchen island. But in her gaze, I knew she was not thinking of slicing them for a sandwich or even her award-winning tomato tart recipe. Trudy could feel the walls closing in on her, and those tomatoes were the reminder of what happened when you were on the wrong side of time.

The pop of her toast startled her, and just like that, Trudy was back to her day. She buttered her toast and ate it while sipping her coffee and working on the day's crossword. The clinking of cutlery against porcelain filled the room as she savored each bite, sipping her coffee in between. The rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall marked the passing minutes, a steady reminder of the outside world.

Outside, the neighborhood buzzed with life. Children laughed and played, their voices carrying on the breeze that gently rustled the leaves of the trees. The distant sound of a lawnmower hummed, blending with the occasional chirping of birds perched on nearby branches. The familiar sights and sounds of the neighborhood formed the backdrop to Trudy's daily routine, a comforting symphony of familiarity. But, unlike her neighbors, Trudy was not donning her funeral dress. Trudy was washing her breakfast dishes and setting to the day's chores. The kitchen floors were swept, the carpets vacuumed, and the bathroom scrubbed.

While my departure was mourned by many, Trudy Sheehan remained steadfast in her routine, seemingly untouched by the emotions that filled the air. Her predictable nature offered a sense of stability amidst the chaos of change, a reminder that life carried on even when the world shifted. And as I left, I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to embrace that unwavering predictability, finding solace in each day's simplicity.

Only after her chores were completed and the town had long returned to their homes, did Trudy Sheehan pause. She again let her eyes fall on the tomatoes, my prize-winning tomatoes.

Trudy and I were among the original trio of the ladies of Caldwell Cove, and just like the current group, we shared our own secrets. From my vantage point, I watch my old friend stand quietly in her kitchen. This was the same kitchen that Trudy and I had sighed at the turmoil of our teenaged sons, overcome becoming empty-nesters, and mourned the loss of our dear husbands. As I looked at my old friend standing silently in her kitchen, I was sure of one thing: Trudy was happy to see me gone.

Slowly and deliberately, Trudy began to pluck up the plump, red tomatoes that I had given her only days earlier and began to squeeze them viciously over her sink. The pulp of the fruit oozed between her fingers, and the red juice dripped down the back of her hand. As soon as one was sufficiently massacred, she would pluck up another and begin the process again. Over and over, Trudy squished and squeezed until the carcasses of my once pristine tomatoes filled her sink. With each squeeze, a squelching sound echoed in the kitchen, accompanied by the gentle splatter of tomato remnants hitting the sink's surface. The pungent aroma of the freshly crushed tomatoes filled the air, a mix of sweetness and acidity. Trudy's hands, now stained with the vibrant red juice, felt sticky and slimy, a sensation she couldn't shake off even after washing them.