PART 5 — The return to Lindelaan
That evening I did not let the taxi return to the care home. I gave the driver the address of Lindelaan. My heart pounded in my throat as the car drove through the familiar streets. The streetlights shone through the wet windows and cast long shadows over the sidewalks where I had so often walked with the stroller.
When the taxi stopped in front of our old house, I saw that the living room light was on. The curtains were not fully closed; I could see the silhouettes of Mark and his wife Sarah moving. They were already busy unpacking their own things, as if they wanted to celebrate that the old woman had permanently vanished from their sight.
I paid the driver, stepped out into the drizzling rain, and walked with a straight back to the front door. I had left the suitcase in the trunk of the taxi; I didn't need luggage to show who I was. I stood on the familiar sidewalk, raised my hand, and pressed the doorbell.
The doorbell chime, that clear two-tone tune we had had for thirty years, echoed through the hallway. Inside I heard shuffling. Footsteps drew closer, heavy and annoyed. The door was jerked open.
Mark stood in the opening, his shirt collar unbuttoned, a glass of wine in his hand. His face dropped immediately when he saw me standing there. The color drained from his cheeks and his mouth fell half open in surprise.
“Mom? What... what on earth are you doing here?” he stammered, while looking back in a panic at Sarah, who was walking up from the hallway.
“Good evening, Mark,” I said with a calmness that visibly frightened him. “I forgot something. And I think it's time to set a few things straight.”
