the housemate

by Anna DiMartino

A YEAR AFTER COLLEGE, I’m twenty-three and nursing a broken heart, so I pack everything I own into my ‘67 Volvo and drive from Ukiah, California, back to Santa Cruz—the last place I was happy. I make it into town by 9:30 a.m. and spend the better part of the morning looking for rooms to rent: a grim prospect because everything in my budget is either in a sketchy area or in a house that should be condemned by the health department.

When I pull up in front of the two-story craftsman duplex, I double check the address. It seems too good to be true. The neighborhood feels safe. The exterior of the house is a cheery green, trimmed in white, with dahlias out front. I have a good feeling about this place. I ring the bell and a large woman pulls open the door. Her broad figure nearly fills the door frame, and her warm smile and outstretched hand make me feel instantly welcome.

“Sandy?” I ask. I try to mask my surprise at her size. She towers over my five foot, three inch frame like a redwood over a delicate fern. She’s wearing a loose-fitting blouse and elastic-waist pants and looks like she weighs nearly 300 pounds. We are a study in opposites: she, with her flawless porcelain skin, framed by long, straight hair and bangs, and me, with my olive skin and thick, curly hair haloed in frizz, thanks to the damp Santa Cruz air.

“Come in,” she says.

She shows me the house, making cordial small talk. The common spaces are all on the south side of the house, flooded with natural light. If you were to stand at the front door, you could roll a bowling ball straight through the living room, past the dining room, and into the kitchen. To the left of the dining room is a narrow hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Sandy’s bedroom shares a wall with the living room, then there’s the bathroom, and on the northernmost wall, the room for rent. The hallway is plenty wide for me, but Sandy stands with her back to the wall like a cork in my passage. I politely edge by. The bedroom is strangely long and narrow, like a sliver sliced from the house’s core. It would be tight, but I could fit my bed under the windows of the front wall, and there’d be just enough room for my nightstand on one side and a bookshelf across the door. Aside from its odd shape, there’s a lot to like about the space. The painted wood floors give it a beach-cottage vibe, and the shared bathroom, complete with clawfoot tub, creates a welcome separation between our rooms. I feel comfortable, and that’s exactly what I need right now.

We wrap up the tour of the house, and Sandy goes over some “house rules,” detailing rent, deposit, and utilities.

“Who lives upstairs?” I ask.

“Oh, Ellen? She’s great! She’s my landlord and my boss. We work together at the veterinary clinic. I’ll introduce you.”

“Cool. I love it! When can I move in?”

“How about tomorrow?” she says.

I sit at her little round table and sign over the deposit and first month’s rent, nearly my entire savings, my pen scratching across the check. Sandy hands me a key—silver with a blue, rubbery cover—and it feels like a little anchor in my hand, a new beginning.

By noon that Sunday, all my stuff is in. My belongings consist of clothing, a few random art pieces and garage-sale finds, a funky old watering can with a blue-green patina, and boxes and boxes of books. I make a low bookshelf with some cinder blocks wrapped in handmade paper and long wooden planks. I’m navigating the raw edges of heartbreak, unsure of whether I’ve made the right decision, but I’m ready to build myself a new life, one heavy block at a time.

After several hours holed up in my room unpacking and arranging, I venture out to the living room for a break. Sandy looks up from her magazine and smiles. She takes up a good section of the couch—the cushions flatten under her weight—but she pats the spot next to her and invites me to sit. She asks lots of questions, but doesn’t share much about herself except that she loves animals.

Then, Sandy pauses and her tone changes and gets serious. “Anna, I need to talk to you about something.” My brain starts running through ways I may have annoyed or disturbed her, but the only thing I can think of is that maybe I'd been too loud. I hadn’t really left my room. Maybe I’d said something to offend her?

“I wasn’t sure if I should say anything, but I thought you should know,” she says. “I’ve been getting these anonymous letters for the past few weeks.” She fans out a few letters on the coffee table. “I’m pretty sure they’re from my co-worker, Cammie. She’s obsessed with my boyfriend, Ved. She wants me out of the picture. I’ve also been getting threatening phone calls.”

The letters are handwritten, each a page or two in length. The paper is light, like airmail paper, and the cursive is feminine and practiced. The postmark reads “Felton,” the town where Sandy works, about 20 minutes from Santa Cruz.

“So this person knows where you live and has your phone number,” I state.

“Yeah, that’s why I think it’s Cammie,” she replies.

“Have you called the police?”

“No. I don’t think she’d actually hurt me,” she says. “I think she just wants to scare me.”

Sandy tries her best to reassure me that I’m not in any danger, but my face gives away that I am now terrified. I explain that I need to get some rest and excuse myself to my tiny room.

I hardly sleep that night. My brain replays every word of our conversation on a loop. Sandy has stirred up a panic in me that I haven’t felt in some time, not to mention, I’m pissed: she never once mentioned anything about a potential stalker before I handed over my rent check and moved my whole life into her place.

The next day, on less than two hours of sleep, I go see the director of the preschool where I’d worked before I moved to Ukiah. She’s thrilled to see me and says there’s an opening in the two-year-old class, my favorite age group. I can start the next day. I’m relieved to find a job so quickly. It feels like Santa Cruz is exhaling with me, welcoming me home.

After the preschool, I stop at the art supply store downtown and splurge on some oil paints and a canvas. Art supplies always cheer me up. By the time I get home, Sandy’s still at work, so I have the whole place to myself. I unpack some more and call my mom to catch up, then I call a friend and make plans to meet for an early dinner at the taco shop. When I return home by 7:30, Sandy’s on the sofa, so we chat for a bit. After a while, I head to my room, determined to get a good night’s sleep.

On Tuesday, I wake up refreshed and ready to meet my class of two-year-olds. When I arrive at the preschool, the children swarm me, excited to show me snails and roly poly bugs and paintings they’ve made. Two of the kids ask to sit on my lap at circle time, and I realize it’s nearly impossible to brood when you’re surrounded by small children. By the end of my first shift, my heart is full.

When I get home, Sandy’s eager to hear about my first day at work. She offers me a glass of iced tea, and I proceed to gush about the kids and tell her all the funny things they did and said. She listens attentively and laughs, her eyes forming crow’s feet. After a few minutes, she excuses herself because she’s working the late shift.

The next morning, the phone startles me awake, but I feel uncomfortable answering because I’ve just moved in and I am pretty sure it’s not for me. My hand hovers over the receiver. I pick up after the second ring, not wanting it to wake Sandy if she’s still asleep.

“Hello?” I say, my first word of the morning, still a little scratchy.

“This is Mrs. Shuster, Sandy’s mom. I heard on the news that there was a stabbing last night, and they said the victim’s name was Sandy Shuster. Did Sandy come home?” The voice on the other end of the line sounds absolutely frantic.

“Hold on. I’ll check.” I drop the receiver, run to Sandy’s room, and knock on her door. No answer. My stomach tangles, and my brain races back to our conversation on Sunday: the letters, the phone calls. I grab the phone to tell Sandy’s mom that she’s not home, but before I can speak, I hear her repeating, “Are you there? Are you there?”

“I don’t think she’s here,” I say. “Did the news report say who did it?”

“They just said that the injuries were serious, but not life-threatening,” she says. “Please let me know when you hear from Sandy.”

I set the receiver back in its cradle and feel like I’m going to be sick.

I call my brother, who tells me I shouldn’t stay at the house alone, but I feel I owe it to Sandy’s mom to wait and let her know. I double-check that all the doors are locked and I pull the curtains shut. Every time a car slows in front of the house, I peek through the gap in the curtains to see who it is.

Sandy finally returns home just past noon. The second I hear the deadbolt turn, I race to the front door.

Sandy comes in, throws her keys on the coffee table, and sinks into the couch. Her hoodie is unzipped, and I see a bulge on her stomach from the bandage, and her left hand is wrapped in gauze.

“What happened? Are you ok?” I ask.

She tells me all about the attack with an unnerving calm, so casual, as if she’d just returned from the grocery store or from a day at the beach. It feels like I’m more shaken up than she is.

“Last night, when I left work, someone was waiting by my car. They had a knife,” she says.

“Was it Cammie?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. It was dark and I couldn’t really get a good look because they were wearing a hoodie and a mask. Do you want to see where I was stabbed?” she asks.

There’s an air of nonchalance in her voice with almost a hint of excitement, as if she’s showing me a new tattoo or the delicate clasp of a bracelet. She peels back each bandage, revealing two neat wounds. On the pale white of her palm, a clean, stark line bisects the skin where precise stitches—a delicate, almost decorative seam—hold it closed. The wound on the fleshy part of her stomach resembles a ripe plum, cleanly sliced with a sharp knife, its edges smooth with barely a trace of blood. It’s not jagged like I’d imagined.

“Are you okay?” I ask again.

“I’m just a little shaken up, but at least it’s my left hand,” she jokes. “I’m exhausted,” she says, and disappears into her room.

I anxiously call several friends and recount the crazy story. They all offer me a place to crash, but I decline. I don’t want to put anyone out. Besides, Sandy is pretty confident the attacker won’t come to the house.

I barely sleep the nights following the stabbing. Every creak, every tiny noise, makes me jump. My brain is foggy, and I’m extra-jittery from all the caffeine I’ve been pounding to try to stay awake. I’m a wreck. I have to take naps in the afternoons because I’m completely exhausted and somehow, daytime feels safer. But Sandy seems unfazed. She’s sleeping just fine and looks completely refreshed, her hair washed and dried and brushed out smooth. She even puts on lipstick and heads off to work as if nothing happened.

A few weeks pass, and one morning, as Sandy is leaving for work, she pauses in the doorway, keys in one hand and a tote bag over her shoulder. She’s in her vet scrubs; sunglasses on top of her head hold her hair back.

“I’m going out to Corralitos to vaccinate a dog. I have kind of a bad feeling about it,” she says.

“Can’t someone go with you?” I ask.

“No, they need everyone else at the office.”

“Well, be careful,” I say.

A couple hours later, she calls and tells me she’s at the hospital—she’s been attacked again.

The second I hang up with Sandy, I call my brother and tell him everything. He sounds skeptical. I explain that she said she had a bad feeling about going out to Corralitos.

“It sounds like she planned this whole thing out,” he says.

“Why do you say that?” I ask. “Why would she make this up? I saw her wounds with my own eyes!”

“Maybe she’s looking for attention,” he says. “It all seems suspicious, too convenient. She made a point of announcing to you that she had to go to a remote place and had a bad feeling?”

He wonders why her wound was on her left hand. Why would she fend off a knife with her non-dominant hand? Not to mention, if someone was trying to stab her, she could put up a decent fight. She wouldn’t have a nice, neat slice. She works at a vet clinic and has access to anesthetics and scalpels. It’s not that far-fetched. She could easily ‘wound’ herself and it wouldn’t hurt at all.

“You should call the police,” he says, “and see what they think.”

I think about the wound on her hand, so neat and precise, more like a surgical incision than a stabbing, and the threatening calls that never once came when I was home. I hang up and call the police to see if there’s any possibility she could have done this to herself. They assure me that she is very credible. I don’t know what to believe.

I decide to go upstairs to talk to Ellen, our landlord, who’s also Sandy’s supervisor at the clinic. Ellen’s in her late 30s and, like me, an artist. Her place is eclectic, furnished with thrifted items; lamps with fringed shades and houseplants on almost every surface. I take a seat on one of the purple velvet chairs and the fabric is smooth and cool against my bare legs. While Ellen makes tea, I admire a section of the wood flooring she painted to look like an ornate rug. Ellen brings the tea out, and I tell her everything that’s happened, including what Sandy had told me about Cammie and Ved, plus the calls, the letters, the attacks. Ellen looks absolutely shocked.

“Anna, I hate to tell you this, but Ved isn’t Sandy’s boyfriend. He’s been engaged to Cammie for almost a year. Sandy and Ved are just co-workers.”

My jaw goes slack.

“You are kidding me,” I say.

“I wish I was kidding,” Ellen says. “Not only that but for the past few months, money’s been missing from the cash box. Sandy told me she suspected Cammie. Now I’m wondering if it was Sandy all along, trying to set Cammie up,” she adds.

“This is crazy,” I say. “She’s freakin’ nuts!”

After I calm down, I call my friends, Tom and Jen, and ask if I can stay with them for a few days. I’d babysat their kids over the years and had always felt very at-home with them. Tom doesn’t hesitate to offer up their semi-finished attic space, mattress and all. I’m still not positive Sandy’s making it all up, but I figure if there is a stalker, I’m in danger, and if Sandy’s mentally ill, I could also be in danger.

The next afternoon, I head back to the duplex to collect some of my things, and when I walk through the door, the living room is filled with people I don’t know, except for Sandy and Ellen. Everyone’s seated in a circle, intervention style. The air is tense. I nod hello and quickly walk through to my bedroom. I start packing a week’s worth of clothes and toiletries, along with some books and my knitting. As I pack, I wonder what made my brother suspect that Sandy could have stabbed herself. In my gut, I know he’s right, and probably has been all along, but the thought hasn’t even entered my mind because I’ve always been too trusting and gullible.

After about twenty minutes, there’s a knock on my bedroom door.

“Anna, can you come out for a minute?” asks a man I don’t recognize.

“Sure,” I say.

Every muscle in my body is clenched, and my shoulders are practically touching my ears. Someone pulls a chair over for me. Everyone goes around the circle and says their names, and I finally put faces to Ved and Cammie. After the brief introductions, a guy, whose name I’ve already forgotten, speaks.

“Anna, can you tell us what Sandy told you about her relationship with Ved?” the man asks.

“Yeah, she said Ved was her boyfriend and Cammie was trying to break them up,” I say. I feel like I’m being cross-examined on a witness stand.

Sandy’s face flushes crimson. Ved shakes his head in disbelief, and Cammie pulls in closer to Ved, snaking her arm through his. The room is quiet.

“Sandy.” The guy's voice cuts through the silence, sharp and direct. “Did you stab yourself?”

Sandy’s flustered and stammers. “Well, the first time I was actually stabbed, but the second time, I did stab myself.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. So she liked the first stabbing so much she thought she’d do it again? I can’t make sense of any of it. I think I actually gasp. My expressions have always had a way of betraying any possible attempt of concealing my true feelings.

The questions continue.

“And did you also steal the money from the cash box?” the guy asks.

“No, I’d never do that,” she says.

Of course she would deny it, I think. This woman is pathological. I no longer believe a word she says.

Ellen speaks up. “Sandy, we’re all here to help you, but we can’t help you if you’re not honest with us.”

Sandy just sits there staring at the floor. I can’t tell if she feels remorse or if she’s trying to figure a way out of all these lies.

After an uncomfortably long pause, the guy turns to me and excuses me from the intervention. I’m dying to hear the rest, but I withdraw to my room. After a while, I hear chairs shuffling. The front door opens and shuts again. Everyone has left. I slip into the kitchen, pretending I want to make something to eat, but really, I want to talk to Sandy.

“Anna, I’m really sorry about what happened,” she says. She seems genuinely remorseful, but now I’m not sure I can believe her.

“Yeah, well, that’s nice, but it doesn’t help,” I say, my words crisp. “I’m pissed. You lied to me, Sandy. You lied to everyone.” My voice resonates in the small kitchen. Each word a hurled stone. “I’ve been totally stressed out since I moved in. I’ve barely slept for weeks and now I don’t feel safe living under the same roof as you. You know how hard it is to find a place in Santa Cruz, and now I have to leave because of your lies. That’s fucked up,” I say, my voice almost a shout.

Sandy just keeps apologizing. She seems so meek at that moment, but I am too angry to have any compassion for her. All I can think about is how hard it’s going to be to find a new place to live.

That night, I sleep at Tom and Jen’s house. As luck would have it, another friend tells me that the attic room across from hers is for rent, so I move in a few days later.

For the first month or so after the incident, I worry I might run into Sandy, but somehow, I never do. Santa Cruz is such a small town, and I’m always running into people I know, and I’m not sure how our paths never cross again.

Thirty years have passed, but Sandy still surfaces in my thoughts. Recently, after binge-watching a Netflix series titled Baby Reindeer, an unsettling portrayal of obsession, I Google Sandy’s name, find her Facebook page, and scroll through hundreds of her photos, mostly of cats and dogs. On the whole page, there's only one photo of Sandy, from about fifteen years ago. She's holding a cat and has a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Looking back, I think she was lonely even when we were housemates; I think she felt invisible, a feeling I later came to understand after packing on nearly fifty pounds myself. I wish I could tell Sandy, “I get it now,” but a thread of apprehension holds me back. On Facebook, her About section states that she still lives in Santa Cruz, still works at the same vet clinic. Beside the heart icon, it states, no relationship information. I wonder if she’s still lonely. I wonder if she ever found love.

About the author:

Anna DiMartino is a writer, artist, teacher, and editor of Jackdaw Press. Her poetry has been published in Atlanta Review, Whale Road Review, Lake Effect, Slipstream, The Dewdrop, and other literary journals. Her website is www.annadimartino.com