The Girl in the Window

We see, and we perceive. Which one counts?

My first wife and I bought this old Victorian house many years ago. We subsequently sold the house as a result of our divorce. The owners gave us this photo, taken is some previous time, origins unknown.

For all these years I’ve had thoughts about what appears to be a girl in the window. It’s about time I wrote a story about it. The house is real, everything else in the story is fiction.

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The Girl in the Window

I’ve always cautioned my students, “They say that seeing is believing.  But we do not see so much as we perceive.  And we believe what we perceive, rather than that which is there.”  Sage words, I felt, to start off my Psych 101 class.  Our eyes function well enough.  The iris, cornea and retina faithfully send signals through the optic nerves and into the brain.  Oh, but that’s where it all goes straight to hell.

Our ears hear and send signals, and our brains process just fine.  Touch, smell, taste; all do as well.  But our sight?  Our vision? The brain manages to jumble that up, sometimes by a lot.  Not really the brain, but the mind.  The mind is the ‘je ne sait quoi’ of psychology.  The brain itself is easily studied and quantified, but the mind is no better understood now than it was a thousand years ago.  Sometimes, I think, less. Far more of the brain is dedicated to sight than any of the other senses, yet our vision fails us so often. 

I have my students close their eyes on that first day of class. “What color are my pants?  Where is my briefcase? What is written on the chalkboard?”  In various degrees, all the students fail to properly recall what their eyes had been looking at for several minutes.  They don’t recall things that are there, and recall things that don’t exist.  What else, I ask, have they misperceived?  “This simple little test has shown you how wrong you can be, in a mere matter of minutes.  How much have you gotten wrong throughout your life?  How much of what you are sure of, here and now, is misperception?  Never be too sure of what you are sure of.”

That gets their attention, and for the most part I keep at it throughout the semester. I like to think they carry that thought into their other courses, and aren’t too quick to draw hard conclusions.  Yes, I’m speaking rather metaphorically here; if you can’t trust your eyes to see what’s right in front of you, don’t be too quick to trust your mind’s eye.

So, I should have known better…

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We bought the house from an older widow, maybe eighty.  She was hard to figure.  I couldn’t even decide if I liked her or not. You could say that her personality was a non sequitur; she seemed to be in her own orbit, so conversation went in directions I couldn’t anticipate or make much sense of.  But she wasn’t senile; I think she’s always been like this.

At the closing she handed me a photograph of the house.  It clearly had been taken some years ago.  It was black and white, and the huge mature trees that grace the property today are non-existent in the photo.  It’s just a guess, but I’d say the picture was taken in the 1950s.

She had a funny way of looking at me as I looked at the photo.  It was almost flirtatious, coquettish.  What eighty-year-old widow flirts?! It felt odd, with Lara right there, but then again, she was eighty, so what does it matter? She leaned into me as I examined the picture, and I wanted to move away, but I felt foolish reacting that way to an old woman.  So, I visually scanned the picture of our new house while the widow looked on. Then I saw something a bit unusual.  Was that a girl in the window?  Or was it just the arrangement of the drapes?  I studied it for a few moments, and still could not tell.

“That looks like a girl, there in that second floor window.  Is it?”

She leaned still closer to me to see, even though she’d seen the picture countless times.  Then she turned her head from the picture to me.  “Does it matter? This photo goes so far back that nobody knows where it came from.  But, if you want for there to be a girl in the window, then it’s a girl in the window.  Why not?”

“But it’s not just me, is it?  You’ve noticed it yourself, before, haven’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I’ve seen. Are you willing to let me tell you what you see?  What point is there in that?”

I felt uncomfortable.  No, it really didn’t matter whether that was a girl or not.  But I couldn’t help looking and couldn’t help wondering. I turned to Lara, who had just finished arranging all the purchase contract papers into her briefcase.  “Look at this picture that Mrs. Lewis gave us.”

 Lara looked appreciatively. “That’s neat,” she said. “We can frame it and put it on the mantle in the parlor.”

“But did you notice something?” 

Lara looked again, searching for whatever it might be that concerned me.  Mrs. Lewis was looking at Lara now, expectantly. “No, it’s a nice picture. It must be quite old. Am I supposed to see something in it?”

“Yes.  Look at the windows.  Do you see anything in the windows?”

Lara spent a few moments scanning the windows.  “No, nothing.”

I put a finger at the window in question.  “See.  Here.  Isn’t that a girl?”

Lara inspected carefully. “I guess it could be, but you can’t really say.  Does it matter, at this point?”

“It just intrigues me. I can’t let it go.”

Lara shook her head lightly, and turned to Mrs. Lewis. ” He’s like that,” she smiled. “Just let him be.”

Mrs. Lewis smiled also. “Oh, I understand. My husband always used to see things.”  It was good natured, but seemed to signify something.

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We couldn’t move right in, because the house needed work. Lara and I and the kids, Don and Brenda, eight and six respectively, would go to the house when we could and work on it. It needed a bit of plumbing and electrical, but mostly it needed cleaning and painting.  Lara and the kids did most of the cleaning, and I did most of the painting.  I hired a capable handyman to do the plumbing and electrical.  In a way, he came with the house.  I had asked the widow if she knew anyone who could do the work, and she gave me Jim’s name.  He wasn’t much younger than the widow, had done all the maintenance for her for decades, and knew the house inside and out.

Lara and I liked the idea of an old house, an old Victorian.  Frankly, there have been some issues in our marriage. Like a damned fool, I had failed to completely break off a previous relationship. I consider myself a man of integrity but, well, I’m human. When Lara found out, I felt horrible at what I had done to her.  Some people, I think, can build a defense at such things, but I capitulated completely. Lara threatened divorce, which would have been understandable, but we both recommitted to making it work. Now, we are rebuilding.

And that, at least in some part, is why we bought the house. It was more than an investment or place to live.  It was an investment in our marriage, a commitment that needed to be made. Maybe I’m foolish, but it’s easy enough to make marriage vows.  People do it all the time, and some of those people have minimal sense of commitment from it. I have to say, considering what I had done, my own sense of commitment was lacking. Buying a house together was what we need to cement this relationship. It seems odd, but going in together to restore this old Victorian beauty seemed like the common bond, the commitment, that our marriage needed.  

Some people buy an old house, and then gut it and turn the interior into essentially a new home. Not Lara and me.  We wanted a home with a history, with a vibe, I guess you could say. I have to say, the house had a presence all its own.  It seemed to know we were there, and it seemed to accept us.  I know that’s a stupid thing to say, especially since I teach my students to be rational and objective.

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 I was working there alone one evening; Lara and the kids were dealing with schoolwork at our apartment.  Not alone, actually.  Jim was working with me. It wasn’t the first time he’d been there since we bought the house; he’d been there a few times, updating some sketchy wiring and fixing a drip from the downstairs bathroom sink. I had staked my claim in the parlor, laying down a canvas drop cloth such that I could prep the walls for painting. I placed the stepladder adjacent to a wall and started to work.

“So, what made you decide to buy this house?”, Jim asked. He was only a little way from me, but working in the bathroom, out of sight, so he talked a little loud so that I could hear.

“Lara and I have always had a warm spot for old houses. Some people want the latest trendy thing, all new and fresh. That’s so antiseptic. I like a house that has been lived in.  I can take a little dirt, a little wear. It’s what makes a house a home.”

There was a moment of quiet, and then, “Well then, this house is one hell of a home!”  He laughed.  “It’s been lived in a lot!”

He seemed a little like the widow, as if he expected me to comprehend something, such that he had no need to explain. That made me think a little.  “Did you ever work for the people who owned the house before Mrs. Lewis?  I know she lived here a long time.  How long?”

Jim seemed to need to concentrate on the work he was doing. There were noises that clearly sounded like a man working on plumbing, including some muttered expressions that I was not close enough to make out.  Then, “I never knew anyone here before Janice.  Mrs. Lewis.  I knew her husband, too, but he died nearly thirty years ago.  Cancer. It took a long time for him to die. And he was in pain, in the end.”  There were more plumbing sounds, and I saw to taping a crack in the plaster.  “I’ve never said this out loud, but I think Ja…Mrs. Lewis might have helped him get to the end sooner. She loved him deeply.  So deeply that I believe she would hasten his death for his own sake.”  Short pause. “But that’s between you and me.”

I didn’t respond.  I knew the widow only a little, but Jim’s description dovetailed with my perceptions of her.  We worked in silence for a while.  Then I had a thought.  “She gave me an old picture of the house, from years ago.  Have you seen it?”

“Sure. A number of people have seen it.”

I was perplexed. “You make it sound like it has significance.  It’s a nice picture of the house, but that’s about it.”

Jim came from the bathroom, his toolbox in hand, and put it down in a corner. He observed my efforts for a moment. “There’s a little more to it than just a picture of the house.”

Still on the ladder, I turned and looked at him quizzically.  “What more?”

“The window.”

“Well, yes. There appears to be a girl in the window.  Or maybe it’s just the drapes hanging in a funny way.  Or maybe something else. It’s impossible to say.”

“Is it?”

I stopped my work, still on the ladder, and turned to him. “Yes.  It’s impossible to say. Or do you know something I don’t?”

“They say that people see what they want to see. What I see in that picture isn’t what matters right now.  It’s what you see that matters.”

I chucked a little. “You know, I teach what you’re talking about.  I caution my students to be very critical, not jump to conclusions.  Don’t see what you want to see; see what’s really there.”

“If you say so.  But you can’t just sit there and be an impartial observer. There’s nothing wrong with seeing more than just what’s there. Way back, my grandmother used to say, there’s a difference between seeing and vision.”

I didn’t know what to make of that.  Maybe he should be teaching college classes, and not fixing sinks. Still, this was all about a photograph.   A plain photograph with either a girl or some drapes in the window.  It made no difference which.  Why concern myself?  But, in spite of myself, I couldn’t let it go.

 Jim had finished his work, picked up his toolbox and said goodbye, yanking hard on the front door as he closed it.  It was the only way to get it to latch.  He would have to work on it.

I continued with my wall repairs.  It is mindless work, allowing me to think of other things.  Of the girl in the window. I couldn’t help myself.  What was Jim getting at?  Who else had seen the photo?  What did anyone have to say about the girl in the window? I climbed down from the ladder and went up to the second floor and into the bedroom that would be our master, to the window in question. There was no light fixture in the room, but the hall light slightly illuminated the room. No girl. No drapes.  What did I expect to see?  I could see well enough that nothing was there.

But then, slowly, she appeared, illuminated in some way by the light from the hall that was coming in from behind me.  She smiled at me. She became more and more clear, looking straight at me coquettishly, almost as if flirting. Her age was not obvious, perhaps early twenties.  She said nothing.  Neither did I. Verbal communication seemed pointless, as I was sure she knew my thoughts.  My thoughts?!  I didn’t know what to think. Am I hallucinating?  Of course, I am.  But there she is.  There she is, just as sure as I am here. I start thinking, not just of the immediate reality, but of the past, and of the future.  How long has she been here?  How long WILL she be here? Lara and I are moving in in three weeks, at the end of the month.  Our lease is up at the apartment, and we’ll have to move in, even if some rooms are not entirely ready. The girl, she knows this.  Did she read my mind? She is a hallucination!  She is not here! She is an uncertain image in a photograph, and a figment of my imagination.  How could it be otherwise?

She tilts her head with bemusement. How could I doubt her existence, she wonders. Right now, she is the most real thing in my life, she reminds me. I feel almost guilty, like I am betraying Lara in some way.

Psychologists have studied for decades what it is that makes people sometimes absolutely sure that something is real, when it isn’t.  Or isn’t real, when it is. Which matters most, the physical reality, or the perceived reality?  When you get down to it, I don’t think we have a choice.  Our mind, whatever it is, has the final say, not our eyes.  We all have imaginations, and I’m not sure there’s a hard line between imagination and what we take as fact.  Perhaps there needn’t be.

What makes a house a home? The house is a physical reality, consisting of walls, floors, ceilings and such. Lara and I want to make this house our home. It will take more than spackle and paint. A home, well, home is a perception, something that our eyes are not able to reveal to us.  A home is something whose reality is shared, created not by a builder, but in the hearts and minds of family. A home is something undefined, cannot be seen.  Unless you have vision.

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Thoughts? Comments?