The paradox of growth

“My name is Rachel Allen and I work as a marketing researcher for May’s childcare. It’s currently 3 am and I’m so sick of pretending to be someone I’m not” Scowling at my reflection, I fling the cue cards away, sinking into the lumpy armchair heavily. The friendly demeanour isn’t working, I will blow my cover if I keep adding in random sentences. I think of my boss, Katie, lounging in the sumptuous sitting area, flirting awkwardly with my male colleagues and the sudden rage hits me. I bet she doesn’t give a damn about the poor people she sends out to wake up at 3 am to “scout the area”. So you see, my anger is perfectly justified.

My alarm beeps, reminding me of my tight schedule today. Glancing around my small rental room, a wave of homesickness washes over me. It has only been a few days, yet it feels like a lifetime. I head out with my file and pen, the light drizzle landing on my face, propelled by the autumn breeze. Piles of leaves form on the tiled rooftops: Each embedded on flat white concrete, the terraced houses line up in a straight line, stretching from the playground to the rusty barn conversion that I’m staying in.

It’s a quiet neighbourhood; with only 3 houses occupied. Katie never makes mistakes; this place is well suited for the investigation. I’m not a marketing researcher, but a psychologist, sent here to prove that anyone can experience emotional growth. I must monitor my subjects and look for events that can prove their growth. So far, I have met 3/4 of my subjects and none of them has yet to impress me. There are the stereotypical patient mother and shrieky ten-year-old of no. 1. Her gentle smile and neat brown hair can be seen hustling about, tiredly dragging her messy haired, troublesome son along. The old lady in a loose hairnet can always be spotted in grocery stores, oblivious to the angry mutters of customers behind as she babbles on to the cashier.

Then there’s the middle-aged man of no.3. The fact file that I had been given states that he is 42 years old, unemployed and lives on his own. My job is rendered difficult--- how can I monitor this man if I haven’t seen him at all?

The screech reaches me before I see him. Bundled up in a waterproof coat and green scarf, the kid looks as infuriating as when I first met him. He doesn’t notice me as he jumps from puddle to puddle. “Randy!” His mother calls, coming into view, “Come on let’s go, the sweet shop closes at 5.”

Casting a longing look at the puddles, they walk briskly down the sidewalk. My pace matches theirs as my mind switches to “spy” mode. I pull up my hood to mask my face, I don’t want to think of the consequences of getting caught, so I keep a low profile the whole way, keeping a 1-meter distance between us. Around 10 minutes later, they turn onto the street, the brightly coloured sign glowed, warm and welcoming. Randy squeals and runs in, immediately greeted by the hearty tone of the manager, Mr Wynn. I look around, seeking a maple tree that I can hide under. I still remember my first visit to a sweet shop, the pure delight when fantasy morphed into reality right in front of my eyes.

“Remember Randy, we are just here to get your cousin a present, alright?” His mother’s soft voice floats through the transparent glass. “Okay” Randy replies, his tone dips with disappointment. But his eyes are still too bright, the gleam almost maniacal……

The colours beckon to him, drawing him closer and closer to the miscellaneous jars of sweets. Each one is an intoxicating potion; they promise great satisfaction. I watch the corner of his mouth turn up, each deliberate step another bewitchment. He’s floating trancelike now, utterly spell bound, stopping in front of the multi-coloured jellybeans, mouth slightly parted. I glance at his mother, now deeply engaged in conversation, then back at Randy, the smothering intensity showing despite his hypnotized state. Time seems to slow down--- the pudgy hand reaches for the jar, left hand grasps it firmly, the other hand twists the lid in one fluid motion. It’s fascinating how quickly things escalate, how desire overrule our conscience so effortlessly. As if he could sense my thoughts, the hand freezes in mid-air. One eyebrow furrows. Then it’s gone. Whipping around, only a slight bulge indicates the unspoken. He catches my eye from outside the glass.

The change of expression on his face is almost laughable. His fingers fumble for something, anything to proclaim his innocence. Shakily, he glances at me again, looking so defeated that I let a reassuring smile play on my face as I beckon to him. His mother doesn’t notice him as he slips out. Up close I can see the freckles on his nose, the slim chin despite a portly build. The shadows cast an eerie halo against the setting sun. I don’t know what I’m about to say but I must get this right --

“My mum doesn’t let me have sweets” Randy blurts out before I can open my mouth. He shifts from one foot from another, deliberately avoiding my eyes.

“It’s not my place to tell you off nor do I have to. I just want to clear any misconceptions out of the way---” I pause, marvelling at how grown up I sound. I would never get him to speak though. “What made you choose the jellybeans?” I enquire, drawing a confused look from him.

He waits a few beats, then answers, “I suppose it’s because it’s the cheapest, so I wouldn’t be taking as much.” He stopped, glancing at me then shrugs “I guess that was a bit stupid of me.”

I am surprised at the thoughtfulness and maturity in his answer. I’d always assumed that kids are incorrigible creatures, unable to learn from their mistakes. 

“Yeah” I said, not knowing what else to say. The silence stretched on. Both of us gaze at overgrown tree, its roots stretching like a winding river.

“Mr Wynn works really hard,” Randy mumbles, breaking the silence. “Mum says he doesn’t take any days off.” He looks at me, guilt written on his face, “He doesn’t deserve this.”

“You still have time to fix this” I state, watching newfound hope blossom on his face. Then his eyes narrow in suspicion, “Who are you again?”

I laugh dismissively.

“Randy?” His mother emerges from the shop. Randy runs past her into the shop, halting in front of Mr Wynn. He pulls out a few coins from his other pocket, then drop them into his hand. Before Mr Wynn could acknowledge it, Randy has already turned the corner. His mother pats him on the shoulder, then proceeds to pull out the “present” she had been getting. Randy’s beam stretches across his face at the sight of the delightful boxes. Randy’s mum did change her view on sweets after all.

 I let out a deep breath that I didn’t know I had been holding. Who would have thought that two of my subjects would experience growth in one day? That still leaves the old lady and the mysterious middle-aged man who have yet to be observed.

The following morning, I head to the grocery store in town, hoping to spot a trace of the old lady. Pushing the door open, the cold ventilation hits me, sending chills down my body. It’s just a regular day at the grocery store. Mothers holding crying babies bustle around the aisles, exchanging occasional chit chat. Even the shop assistants are in an uplifting mood; they scan items at the tills, only pausing to say a cheery “hello” to the customers.

Not all the tills project that sense of joy though. The grey hair in a loose hair net is talking way too loudly at the cashier. I guess I’ve finally identified my subject.

I instantly feel bad for the assistant. He looks like he wants to sink into a hole and never come back up again. Droplets of spit fly from the lady’s mouth, much to the increased annoyance of the assistant. Redness creeps up his neck, which I identify as a danger sign. “Ahem” he interrupts, I count ten of them before he gives up. But she’s on a row now, one that can’t be stopped. I wonder if she will stop if an accident happens.

Almost everyone has left the queue, only a bald man remains, his brows furrow in confusion as if he has never come across someone like her. Perhaps he hasn’t seen paid attention to the rumours. The elderly lady is well known in this town, for all the wrong reasons of course. “I hope I don’t run into Sally,” a woman walking her dog whispered to her friend when I was walking out this morning. “The assistants already have enough to worry about.”

Yet there was an air of tranquillity in this man, a sense of gentleness that I can’t comprehend. He leans slightly on his left foot, and studies Sally’s facial expression, a look of polite curiosity on his face. I don’t even know why he bothers; I wonder if there was a time when she didn’t ignore people. Even a kind man runs out of patience, I guess. I look on with dread as he gently taps her on the shoulder, “Excuse me, Sally” he calls out. He called her by her real name. No one else has done this before.

Sally turns around, her mouth is still open as if waiting for the remaining words to spill out, but they don’t. She stares at her bag once, then walks off to the startled stares of other customers. The man walks in front of her, smiling and thanking her with a gracious smile. My wonder mirrors on the assistant’s face, my surprise reflecting in his wide eyes. He shakes his head disbelievingly, then starts scanning the man’s items.

I can replay the scene so many times and never be able to come up with better way of solving the problem. Ironic, seeing as I’m a psychologist. The way the man handled it was just sheer brilliance, he seemed to know exactly what she wanted--- to have someone address her as a person rather than a disapproving label. Guilt washes over me, I can’t imagine facing the whispers and dirty stares, to be treated as a disease every day. I lower my head as those thoughts swirl around in my head, I could have easily been the lady with the dog.

Nevertheless, Sally has proven lots of people wrong today, a simple addressment can awaken that small conscious part of her. Her awareness, her growth was nothing short of remarkable, I ponder as I walk back home.

Bird song fills the air with harmony, shadowed by the elms; the air is crisp and refreshing. The light grey concrete pavement is newly laid, it winds all the way through the park, then back to the neighbourhood. As I walk along the pavement now, the prospect of having to stay here for another month (depending on how long it would take for the middle aged man to appear) doesn’t terrify me, which surprises me since I was positive that I would loath every second of this. The footsteps behind me bring me back to my senses. I’m only a few meters away from my barn conversion, now held back by my curiosity. I turn around and come face to face with the bald man in the grocery store.

“Sorry I didn’t mean to startle you,” He starts, seeing the expression of disbelief on my face. I wipe it off, plastering a generous smile on my face to make up for my embarrassment. I can’t come to any conclusions yet. Extending my hand, I introduce myself in that cheery plasticky voice that I hate.

“I moved in a few days ago,” He points at the wooden sign of house number 3--- my heart leaps. “I took it from my brother, he’s working overseas now, you see.” He smiles, showing a neat row of shiny white teeth.  

I guess now I can wrap up my investigation and go home, since my original subject isn’t here. I wait for the joy and relieve to take over, but instead I’m met by bitter disappointment. Just when I thought I would start to enjoy this.

Also, this is too easy somehow; I feel like I’m missing something.

Forcing myself to utter a “nice to meet you”, I turn towards the home I’ve had for two weeks and go upstairs to pack my bags. My gaze lingers on the scruffy armchair, the memory of resentment I had felt just a day ago surfaces in my brain. How can that be just a day ago? The creaky windows give a clear view of the upper level of the 3 houses. I spot Randy lying on the floor of what must be his bedroom, Lego pieces in hand. I have grown quite fond of him, I must admit. He’s still that pesky child that jumps in puddles, but he has certainly learnt from his mistakes. His mother enters the room, I admire the gentleness that she radiates, she’s that type of person I can never be like. I divert my attention to the second house, the lights are switched on, so Sally must be in. I can imagine her sitting downstairs watching television, enjoying the peace that she so desperately needs, distancing herself from the ongoing murmurs. I feel happy for her, perhaps quietness can be the antidote to this judgemental world.

I realise with a surge of sadness, that I will actually miss this. The lights are on downstairs in house number three, where the man’s brother is now staying. Either him or his brother really likes to read, as bookcases line the perimeter of the room upstairs. Thick volumes of books lie on those shelves, even from here I can see the matted covers. I turn towards my luggage, each one feeling heavier every passing second. Wait. I cast my eyes back to the window, focusing on the single cobweb that peeks out behind the bookshelf. No—it’s not as intricate, the blond tuft too spaced out to be a cobweb. A breath catches in my throat, could it be—

I know I just have to make sure. Blood courses through my veins as I race out of the barn, down the pavement until I reach the sign labelled house number three. Then I stop, suddenly unable to proceed, what was I thinking? The cobweb might just be a cobweb, I should know better than to be held up by my wistful thinking. I grit my teeth, it’s too late to turn back now.  Raising my hand, I knock three times.

“It’s good to see you again,” The man says, opening the door to reveal the spacious living room. “What can I help you with?”

“Uh---” I stutter, truth to be told I don’t know what I want, now I feel really stupid. “How long has your brother been away for?” The question comes out shakily.

“I took the house from him a few days ago.” He replies somewhat impatiently, as if he has better things to do. I realise that he still hasn’t answered my question.

“Sorry, it’s just that I thought I saw something upstairs” I keep my tone light but stuff my shaking hands in my pockets.

He smiles a teeth showing smile, one that throws me of guard completely. “You’re a curious one aren’t you.” A glint of sunlight spills on one of his eyes, the golden specks shimmer on the dilated pupils. I shiver.

“Um I should probably go now—”

“You could check if you want to.” He steps back only to open the door wider. I know if I don’t do this, I would never forgive myself. My mouth suddenly feels very dry, nevertheless I follow him inside. The stairs are wooden and slippery, when I reach the top, I see that only one room has been in use. The door’s closed. It opens with a creak, the eerie sound send tingles down my spine. A room decorated like a miniature library comes into view, ornate bookcases supported by rusty columns stand tall. A mahogany chair is pushed between two bookcases. The gaps between them are narrow but not impossible to fit through. I venture to the far window where I thought I saw the blond tuft. Squeezing through the gap, I push away the volumes.

My blood freezes.

He’s slumped against the wall, pale and unmoving. The face is a blank slate, eyes wide coated with fear, as if he’s still frozen in the moment. His lips project a shade of bright cheery red, so unnatural in the ominous dark. Dull blond hair frames his face, dirty and tangled with what looks like cobwebs. Blood has drained from his limbs, leaving them grey.

All along I’ve been searching for growth, but a corpse can’t "grow", can it?

A single lone cup sits on the floor beside him, only a single drop of murky dark liquid remains. Drained, just like my dead neighbour that I’ve been looking for this whole time.

I bolt, out the room, down the stairs. I have to get out of here. The living room looks unchanged, littered with cardboard boxes. But the suitcase that I saw earlier on is gone now.  Wind gushes in from the opened door, hitting my shell shocked face. I can only imagine the distant figure of a man, gone like the wind. Numbness clouds my vision; I blink it away, because somewhere out there a killer is on the loose.