Life Partners
Deborah has requested an angora sweater, but I can’t find one in her price range today. She has special requests for all her orders, which is a pain, but she always ends them with a “Thank you!” and a smiley face, which I find polite, so I don’t mind. I settle on a rayon-poly blend sweater for her—more in her price range and still just as soft. I put in the package note that I hope she’ll like it, and then hit “Save and Send.”

Gertrude creaks behind me.

“What, like you could’ve done better?” I reach back with my left hand and tap lightly on the drywall, around where I expect her to be. “I wasn’t going to send her a two-hundred-dollar sweater, not when her price range tops out at fifty. You know that.”

Gertrude creaks again, a low, resolute sound. I smile. She knows I’m right.

For the last six months, her name has been Gertrude. I change her name like a profile picture, mostly whenever I feel like it. Commenting on my stylist work is pretty ordinary for her, though, so she’s been Gertrude for a while. She’s had lots of old-lady names: Mabel, Charlotte, Amelia. I tried a newer name once, Taylor, but it didn’t feel right. I think it pissed her off, too, because she was silent for a week. I called her Shithead for a while after that.

I’m about halfway through my Not-the-Rack shift. Just as well I started early today, because my apartment is a mess. There are piles of stuff everywhere. The living room looks like a tornado ran through it, not that the kitchen’s much better, but at least all the mail is junk and the dishes on the counter are clean. Don’t get me started on the bedroom. I almost want to ask Gertrude for help cleaning—what else is she doing, right?

But then, maybe that’s not fair. It’s not like any of this is Gertrude’s mess. I’m not sure she makes mess at all. I never see evidence of her in my apartment, and I’ve never bothered to open the Hatch to check inside the walls, where she lives. I could ask the landlord for a key, or a crowbar, since it locks from Gertrude’s side. But I don’t know. I don’t really think it’s worth the effort. I know who’s in there.

Who should I do next? Katrina, she’s been in my queue for a while—wants a specific pair of leopard-print booties, very specific, she even looked up the brand name. I’ve been looking for three days with no luck—not that it’s entirely my fault, the company doesn’t stock a lot of styles in a women’s size twelve. Still, I’ll keep looking and hopefully come up with a good alternative for when I can’t find what Katrina’s looking for.

Gertrude shifts inside the wall.

She’s restless, making the studs and rafters moan. I think that’s why she’s picked my apartment; top floor, nothing above me, there’s more room to move around.

I have a lot of ideas about someone I’ve never actually met.

I click through Katrina’s order, then Barb’s, then Catie’s—I find a cute pair of faux-leather leggings to finish her look, she’s only twenty-one and my younger clients are always more fun to style. I review the pieces for her box and dash off a note with styling suggestions, then click into my next client’s order. I won’t lie; the work is monotonous, clockwork-regular. But somewhat fun clockwork, at least.

Gertrude’s moving from stud to stud behind my drywall. It takes me a second, as her movements groan up and into my ceiling, down into the kitchen and then back towards the bedroom, to realize what she’s doing.

“Don’t.” I make my voice louder so it can’t be muffled by drywall. “Don’t you dare!”

But, of course, she does—Gertrude always does. There’s a dull clunk from my bedroom as Gertrude shuts off my heat. “Shithead,” I mutter, setting my laptop aside and extricating myself from under my blanket. I swear to god, she waits until I’m at my most comfortable to pull shit like this.

I walk back to the bedroom to re-start the heat and I can hear Gertrude over my head, scaling through the rafters back to the living room. “Dick!” I call after her as I turn the thermostat off, then on again. I still haven’t figured out how she manages to mess with my climate control from inside the wall, and it’s not like she’s telling.

I can break for lunch now—the leftover burrito in the fridge is calling my name. I clock out and head to the fridge, empty but not depressingly so, I could go to the grocery store but DoorDashed burritos have felt right lately. I throw the whole takeout container in the microwave. Gertrude squeaks above me as my food whirrs in circles. I hear a chipper voice out in the hallway—my next-door neighbor, Corinna. She isn’t always this cheerful. Her and her boyfriend—Troy? Trent? I think it’s Trent, but I’ve only met him once—must be going through a good patch. I wonder when the next rough one will hit. Sometimes they’ll go a month without fighting, arguments I can hear almost word-for-word through the shared walls of our apartments if I listen hard enough, but two-week increments are more common. I have other neighbors, of course—there’s Marcus, at least I think that’s his name, who likes to rev his motorcycle’s engine in the parking lot periodically throughout the day without actually driving it, and Molly and Sam, the two nurses (I think) who live directly below me. But Corinna and Trent are the only ones I can always hear.

I’ve never been sold on having a boyfriend. Corinna refers to Trent as her “life partner” when things are good and her “roommate” when things are bad, and, honestly, those peaks and valleys make the whole thing seem like a lot of work. Besides, I don’t really need a “life partner,” or a “roommate.” I have Gertrude. As far as I can tell, she’s kind of the same thing. Makes noise when you want quiet. Moves your things without asking. Listens without judgement. Is always there.

Gertrude might be better than a life partner.

There’s another clunk from the bedroom—dammit Gertrude! I stomp back there and reset the thermostat, again, listening for her. Absolute shithead.

“Do you like it cold?” I ask Gertrude. “Is that why you do this? Or are you mad at me?” I take gentle steps, heading back the kitchen to check my leftovers, trying to make as little noise as possible so I can hear her reply. Okay, she never replies, exactly. But I’ve kind of worked out her code: three short creaks usually means yes, one long one means no. She’s more talkative when it’s windy outside and I’m wishing for a breeze, one hearty gust so she’ll feel comfortable talking. I hope she waits for wind because what she wants to say (or convey, that’s probably a better way to think about it) is just for me, and the wind causes other sounds, not-Gertrude chirrs (they sound different) to hide what she’s saying from Corinna, and Trent, and whoever else that might try to listen. It’s not a secret that Gertrude’s here, but it’s fine that people don’t know about her, too.

I stir the burrito, now fully deconstructed; not hot enough. I put the container back in the microwave but hesitate before hitting START again, because the mechanical whirring might drown Gertrude out. But the walls are silent; nothing makes noise, not even the wind. This isn’t the first time she’s given me the cold shoulder, but it’s not fun when she does. Especially when I don’t really know why.

I hit START and take loud steps to the bathroom, where I flush the toilet for no reason. “Fine! If that’s how you’re going to be, then I’ll just live my life. Talking. You know. Normal stuff.” I flush the toilet again for good measure. “I have forty more clients to style by the end of the week. Which maybe doesn’t sound like a lot but ’tis the season for specifics, right? This one wants a New Year’s Eve dress, that one wants a Christmas sweater, another wants a swimsuit for her upcoming vacation even though I’ve told her three separate times that we don’t carry swimwear. And Christmas parties—everybody and their mother wants ‘something cute for the office Christmas party.’”

I’ve never been to an office Christmas party. Hard to get to one, since I don’t work at an office. Honestly I haven’t done anything for Christmas in a while. I have my own little tree, and I decorate for me and Gertrude. But there’s not really anyone else to celebrate with.

I open the microwave, take out the burrito and wait for a second, listening. Nothing. I slam the silverware drawer open and shut, then shovel a forkful of burrito in my mouth. The food scalds my tongue, and I open my mouth so it falls back into the container. “Fuck! Hot. Fuck.” I set my food down when I hear it—almost in sync with my opening the cabinet. A scratch. Soft, long, followed by a crack, almost a knock, a rap, a tap. She’s laughing! I can’t say exactly how I know, but she’s laughing at me. The fucker. “I knew you were here,” I say, so softly that I’m not sure she’ll hear me, but of course she does, she always does. The noise stops, but the knocking continues—and continues. At the door. Someone’s knocking on my door.

Oh.

I close the cabinet and go to answer it, almost tripping on my boots, abandoned in front of the door. Another creak; another laugh. Fine. I guess that’s how today’s going to go. I open the door. Corinna smiles up at me—Jesus, she’s short. I guess I’ve never stood this close to her before.

“Hey, Lydia,” she says. She’s wringing her hands, shifting from foot to foot, each shift resulting in a soft rasp, almost like Gertrude’s laughter (but not quite).

“Hi. What’s up?” I ask. That’s politer than “What do you want?” and not as formal as “How can I help you?” Perfect, for neighbors.

“Oh so not a big deal, and this might sound weird, and, like, kind of old-fashioned, but—can I borrow a cup of sugar?” She laughs. “I’m making chocolate chip cookies and remembered brown sugar at the store, but completely forgot that the recipe called for white sugar too. Any chance you can help me out? Totally okay if not, I can run downstairs and see if anyone else has some. It’s just that you were a lot closer? And, you’re like, always home. I got halfway through making them before I realized I was missing something, and I really want to have them ready when Trent gets home—sort of an early Christmas surprise? We like to celebrate through the whole month, or at least I do!”

I’ve opened my mouth to reply four times since Corinna started talking. She talks really fast. Is she done? I think she’s done. Good.

“Sure,” I say, “I’ve got some in the cupboard.”

Corinna pulls a Ziploc bag out of her sweatshirt pocket. “Thank you so much! You can pour it in here, if you want, that way you don’t have to worry about getting a dish back from me, or anything like that.”

“Sure. Okay.” Corinna sounds weird. Is she afraid? I’ll have to ask Gertrude for her opinion later. I turn and head into the kitchen, Ziploc in hand. There’s little pat sounds behind me and I almost think it’s Gertrude, but it’s just Corinna, following me further into my apartment. She peeks at my bedroom, and while I’m digging in the cupboard for the sugar bag, she peeks into the living room. There’s a squeak above our heads and Corinna glances up, but doesn’t say anything. I happen to agree with Gertrude: Corinna is being kind of rude. Snooping. I pull out a measuring cup and level off a cupful of sugar, pouring it into the Ziploc bag. I hand it to Corinna, who looks surprised.

“Here you go,” I say.

“Thanks! Seriously, thank you so much. And—” She looks around again. “I’m sorry. I felt so nervous coming over because I thought you had company. But—yeah. my bad.”

Gertrude creaks loudly, right above Corinna’s head. She jumps, then titters another anxious laugh. “God, this old building? Sometimes I hear the noises and like, I don’t know, groans and knocks and stuff and it makes me jumpy. Trent says it’s just the building settling, but it kind of wigs me out?” She pauses. I guess it’s time for me to answer. I should answer. But I can’t. It never occurred to me that they might hear Gertrude too.

Corinna laughs again and shuffles toward the door. “Anyway, thanks for the sugar! I appreciate it.”

“Company.” The word pops out of my mouth unprompted.

Corinna looks at me. “Huh?”

“You said you thought I had company. Why?” I should tack “if I can ask” to the end of that. It’d be more polite. But I don’t.

“Oh,” Corinna says. “Um—sorry, it’s because—I just like, sometimes I can hear you talking. Like when I’m in the hallway, or sometimes where our apartments share walls? Like sometimes I can hear things in Trent’s bathroom, or when I’m leaning against the wall in our bedroom. I can’t actually hear anything you’re saying,” she adds quickly. Am I making a face? I must be making a face. “I can just hear your voice, all muffled and stuff.”

“And the sounds?” I shouldn’t ask. But I really want to know.

“That the building makes? What about them?”

That the building makes. It would be silly to talk to the house, to the sighs and shrieks of the wind and the shuddering heat system and the clunking pipes. I’m not talking to the building. I’m talking to the woman who lives in our walls.

I don’t tell Corinna any of that.

“Just…wondering,” I say lamely. Corinna’s staring. She looks like she’s trying not to squint, to narrow her eyes in suspicion, judgement. She’s not doing a very good job. Then, her face softens.

“No—I get it, I think.” She gets it. Gets what? What does she get? “Before Trent moved in, I talked to myself a lot more—I was pretty lonely then! And it’s funny, the things you overlook when you don’t live with someone. Like, until Trent moved in when I dropped stuff in my apartment, it stayed there? But now we’ll leave and I’ll shut off the kitchen lights, and then Trent will have to go back in for something and then we’ll get home and I’m like, I thought I turned those off, and he won’t remember turning them on! It’s a whole thing. Sometimes I miss when the kitchen lights would just stay off?” Corinna laughs again. I don’t see what’s funny. She holds up the Ziploc bag, “Thanks again for the sugar!” She leaves. I hear the latch on her apartment door click, the hinges squeaking as she goes inside. Her door shuts.

Silence. No Corinna. No Gertrude. Just nothing.

I’m still not sure I understand what Corinna was talking about. I go back to the kitchen. My leftovers have cooled to the point where they don’t taste good. I pop them back in the microwave. Her and Trent? Kitchen lights? Talking to myself? I guess I don’t blame her for thinking that. It’s not like I actually asked about Gertrude directly, and I do, technically, live alone. But talking to myself? No. I don’t talk if there isn’t someone listening.

The microwave beeps, and when I pull my food out the lettuce looks sad, wilted and wet. There’s a squeak over my head. Gertrude.

“Oh, shut up,” I say. I’m not sure how she can see the state my food’s in, but she does. It’s one of her favorite things to comment on. “It’ll still taste fine.” I sit down on the couch. Usually I turn on the TV while I eat. Gertrude and I are halfway through the latest season of The Great British Baking Show on Netflix, but I don’t feel like turning it on. I can tell Gertrude thinks that’s rude (she groans expectantly from the wall to my left), but I ignore her. “Lonely,” I say. “Gertrude, have I ever come off to you as lonely?”

No answer. She obviously wants me to turn the TV on. Bitch. “I don’t think I’m lonely.” I take another bite of burrito. I really should turn the TV on. Gertrude and I have had some of our best conversations when the TV’s been on. “I mean. You’d made your presence pretty well known by the time I started talking to you. Do you leave Corinna and Trent’s kitchen lights on too, when you get bored with me? Do you?”

There’s a noise, but it’s too quiet to be Gertrude; at least, I think it’s too quiet to be her. “Bet you do.”

The thought of Gertrude doing the same things to Trent and Corinna that she does to me, I don’t know why, but it bothers me. A lot. She’s my wall woman. They don’t need her. They have each other. Life partners.

I don’t say any of this to Gertrude. I’m sure she’d hit me with a sassy creak in return, a kind of cre-creak, short-long, a syncopated sound, accusing me of jealousy, of loneliness. Just lashing out because I won’t turn the TV on, not because she’s telling the truth. Rude.

Gertrude offers with a sassy rasp, this time from the wall right behind my head. Whatever. I hit the power button on the remote and wait for Netflix to boot up. “What should we watch? Drum roll, please?”

Usually, when I ask for a drum roll, Gertrude makes a skittering sound, like someone dragging a stick across a copper pipe, in the ceiling. Today, surprise surprise, nothing. “I’m turning it on,” I say. “What more do you want?”

Another sound sassing me—or, wait. That might’ve been the wind. Not that that’s any better, since it means she’s still giving me the mostly silent treatment. “You’re not mad about me not taking your advice on that order last week, are you? Come on, you can’t still be mad about that.” The Netflix theme tones buh-bong from the TV speakers, and I jump. I scroll through our usual choices, NCIS, The Great British Baking Show, Queer Eye, waiting for Gertrude to say which she wants.

“Fine. Then I’m going to watch Baking Show and I hope you’re here and paying attention because I’m not going to backtrack to watch things you miss.” The cheerful theme sequence for the show comes on, but I barely hear it. I’m listening for her. Nothing. I wonder if she’s turning on the lights behind Trent as he leaves the room, or moving Corinna’s wallet from where she left it.

I turn up the volume to drown out that image.

I sit in—not silence, of course, because the TV’s on, but just-the-TV silence, for almost an entire episode before I hear her. A single, resolute scratch, or something, behind my head. I feel like I can breathe again. “I—” I hesitate. “I’m—sorry. I’m sorry—for whatever it is I did, okay? I guess I’ve been preoccupied with work lately, it’s made me a bad listener. I didn’t realize it would bother you so much. Sorry.”

There’s a long, resolute creak. I think there must be beams in the walls that have come loose from their joists and when she leans on them, this is the sound they make. It’s long, slow. Sympathetic. Kind. The friendship creak, the partners creak, the we’re-in-this-together creak. It’s a good sound. She’s only made it twice before. I smile. She forgives me. “Thanks.”

We watch TV in quiet, but the companionable kind, this time, for a bit longer. I wonder if I should get Gertrude a Christmas present. It’s been a long time since I’ve bought one—for anyone, frankly. What do you get for the woman who lives in your walls? Normally that’s a question I’d ask Gertrude, but that would kind of defeat the purpose.

I walk my now-empty container to the kitchen and come back to the couch, getting re-situated for the rest of my shift. More clockwork, but now, post-lunch, it feels more monotonous, more boring.

Gertrude’s quiet. I swear I can feel her, just on the other side of the wall. Maybe I should join her in there. She has no problem being in my space, sneaking around when she knows I won’t see her. Brings a whole new meaning to the idea of someone “seeing you when you’re sleeping.” I don’t know why she has such a problem with me seeing her, but that’s her prerogative, I suppose. But she comes in here. Why shouldn’t I go in there? I bet the landlord keeps a fire axe somewhere in the building. I could find it, hack my way through, live in the walls with Gertrude. We’d hide, talk without talking, and leave Corinna’s kitchen light on together. It would be easier.

Maybe figuring out a Christmas gift would be easier if I lived in the wall, too. Was Gertrude born in the wall? Did she have wall-parents? Were there wall-siblings, who had to grow up and sneak out windows in the dead of night to go find their own walls to live in, their own thermostats and lights to turn on and off? Or did Gertrude move into the walls later in life? Did she get stuck between a rock and a hard place, and escape into crawl spaces, hacking a hole from this world to hers, then building a door and locking it only from her side?

These are questions I’ve always had. I don’t think I should ask them. It would be rude.

I scan back through Katrina’s order, but still no sign of giant leopard-print booties in inventory. Oh well. I click into a new client, picking new pieces, when there’s a loud squeak from behind my head—forceful, almost angry. What the hell is her problem today? There’s another, the wood moaning in the walls, then another, insistent, and finally a crack, like a fist on drywall, right behind my head.

“Oh, my god, what?” I ask, turning to look at the blank expanse, as close to eye contact as it seems we’ll ever get.

There’s a second of silence, and then she’s off! Rasping, tapping, skittering, I can’t follow what she’s trying to say, and the wind outside would kick up right as she’s trying to say it, wouldn’t it? I catch a sound here and there: that long one seems deliberate, I think it’s her, and the tapping might be her but it could just be the heater turning back on. Fuck! It would be a lot easier if she’d just talk to me. But she won’t. She never does.

The cacophony dies just as the wind does. We sit in silence while a Not-the-Rack model spins artfully in a hunter-green Christmas dress I thought my client Josie might like. “I’m sorry,” I finally say, “but I didn’t get all that. Would you mind repeating it? Please?” She’s quiet. Of course. I fight the urge to get annoyed, to snap at her, but it’s not working. “You could just talk to me, you know. That would make this easier.”

I shouldn’t have said it. There’s this pause that feels big, fills the room like an oversized balloon before it pops and Gertrude’s creaking, but they’re not purposeful creaks, they’re just motion creaks, as she climbs like a monkey through the walls, up into the ceiling and back towards the bathroom, then out through the ceiling over my front door. I can hear her chirr in the hallway before distance muffles the sound too much. She’s gone. Probably in Corinna and Trent’s apartment, turning on all their lights. I look at my laptop.

I shouldn’t be jealous. I shouldn’t be annoyed, either, that she won’t just talk to me. I know she’s there. Maybe noise is the only language she ever learned to speak. Or cared to use. But would it have killed her, just this once, to be a little clearer? Is this what I have to look forward to? Just her sounds for company? Mystifying sounds in my walls, fucked thermostats? Forever?

I wonder what she was trying to tell me.

I need to focus on my work. It’s not like Gertrude’s here for me to talk to, anyway.

I raise my hand to the wall as I breeze through a few more clients—I’m on full autopilot now. I tap twice on the drywall, where Gertrude usually sits. I’m annoyed with myself, with how much I want her to come back.

When my shift ends I know the orders I’ve sent out aren’t my best work. My success stats, tracked meticulously through the Not-the-Rack algorithms, will drop, I’ll get a cautionary email from my long-distance supervisor, blah blah blah. I’ll bring them back up. I always do. It’s why they made me a full-time stylist. I’ll have to send a contrite email to Elise, my supervisor, though. Normally I’d get Gertrude to help me write it, but she hasn’t come back to my apartment.

I close my laptop and slump down on the couch, pulling the blanket up over my head. Is three in the afternoon too early to go to bed? Probably. Gertrude would make it her mission to keep me awake.

It’s too stuffy under the blanket, so I pop back out again. I’m not really tired. The quiet presses in, more smothering than the blanket, because it’s not companionable.

What the fuck was she trying to tell me? I’m not sure I even have a guess.

But I could. Guess.

Maybe she was trying to tell me…I stretch out so I’m laying down on the couch. Maybe she was trying to tell me—that I’ll never find the booties Katrina wants in her size. Maybe she wanted to say leopard print is on its way back out anyway. I guess I don’t even know if she knows what leopard print is. I have no idea what Gertrude knows. I only know what I know.

Damn. That’s a lonely thought.

Lonely? Stop it, Lydia.

I’ve never really thought about what Gertrude’s voice would sound like. She’s always just been what she is, squeaks and taps, but this, this voice in my head that’s not my own, that I’ve made up, is surprisingly smooth, deep, even. Not like a voice that’s disappeared from lack of use, but one that’s sounding all the time. What’s bringing this on? You’ve never felt lonely before, Gertrude says, inside my head.

Haven’t I? That’s what I want to say, into the emptiness of my silent walls, even though I’m making all this up, that Gertrude’s not really here, not at the moment anyway. I hope she comes back. I don’t want to be alone.

You’re not alone, fake Gertrude says.

“How do you know?” I whisper. Aloud. Am I talking to myself? No. It’s only talking to yourself if you answer yourself, right? Right.

Because I’m here. We both know it, don’t we?

Maybe. Maybe she’s here. And even if she is, is she really? Here here? We don’t actually talk to each other. I’m not even sure what to get her for Christmas. And she’s the only one I can see myself getting a gift for.

It’s amazing, how laying quietly on your couch can convince your body it’s time to sleep. I’m getting there. It’s still a nap if it’s afternoon.

The wall near the window moans, but I’m pretty sure it’s just the wind. The wind affects the windows the most.

But then there’s another creak, and another, and another, and they’re getting more deliberate and they’re travelling, from the window to the wall behind the dresser and, briefly, into the ceiling, before settling with a long, slow rasp into the blank wall behind me, Gertrude’s wall, and the sound is a nice one, a friendship one. I think she might be saying sorry. I smile, and I hope she can see it. I’m glad she’s back.

I’m getting sleepier. Maybe a nap is all I need. “Just one more question,” I say, closing my eyes. “Knock—please knock—three for yes, once for no. Are you here?”

It’s quiet. The wind rattles the windowpane, causes the frame to shudder. Maybe I should’ve asked if she’s here for good. That’s the answer I’m really looking for. But then there’s three knocks: sharp, deliberate, louder than anything I’ve ever heard, it seems. From Gertrude’s wall. And they feel like enough.