You're Invited; Please Don't Come

Chapter One

 

“Now look what you’ve done, Hazel Westwood,” Hazel muttered angrily to herself as she took in the glob of ice cream now seeping into her favorite sweater. That sweater had taken months to knit and, apparently, only moments to ruin. She tsked to herself as she fumbled around in the blankets for her napkin. 

​

“Less than 3 hours until midnight!” The anchorman on the TV called out excitedly. “More amazing performances when we return!” 

​

Hazel muted the TV and blotted at the stain. The grandfather clock ticked loudly upstairs, the only sound in the otherwise silent house. She stood to find some club soda and carried the now-empty pint of Ben and Jerry’s into the kitchen. Fireworks sounded in the distance, and Hazel paused to part the lace curtains. She couldn’t see the display from this angle. She supposed she could have found a New Year's Eve party to attend if she had really wanted to, but small talk made her skin crawl, champagne made her nauseous, and she hated leaving the house. All-in-all three solid reasons why a New Year's Eve party, or any party for that matter, sounded like a bad idea.

​

“What do you think, Linda? Should we have hosted something here?” Hazel asked.

 

Linda was the house. 

​

Hazel’s question echoed down the hallway and was met with no response. She wasn’t surprised; Linda liked to go to bed early.

​

The club soda did its magic on the sweater, and Hazel laid the garment to dry on the back of a kitchen chair. She leaned against the counter, now wearing only a thin cotton undershirt. Her latest artwork, a giant mosaic of the ocean, rested against the back wall. She hadn’t decided yet if she was going to sell this one or not. She had a reasonably successful business on Etsy, but this piece felt a little too personal. It was based off a picture her brother, Patrick, had taken from his balcony on the outskirts of Barcelona a few weeks before the plane crash.

Barcelona…

​

Hazel’s eyes flitted toward the envelope sitting on the kitchen island. It was from Patrick’s wife; she still lived in the Spanish villa Patrick had purchased almost two decades ago. Hazel hadn’t spoken to Sofia since her brother died. The out-of-the-blue letter had been sitting in the same place for the past four days, and Hazel continued to slink around it like it was Fuseli’s painting, The Nightmare. How was she supposed to respond to the enclosed request? Her stomach twisted painfully at the thought.

​

It was New Year’s Eve; this should be a time of celebration, Hazel told herself, pushing the letter from her mind. There was time enough to make a decision tomorrow. She grabbed a water glass from the cupboard and opened the freezer for some ice. There happened to be another pint of Ben and Jerry’s sitting there, as lonely as she was.

​

Hazel scrunched her nose; two pints in one night was a little extreme.

​

But the first one had been half empty. And it was New Year's Eve, a night for frivolities, Hazel justified. It wasn’t like she was planning on setting a resolution of losing weight; she had given up on that years ago. She had given up on all resolutions years ago. What was the point? She never kept them.

Hazel resolutely grabbed the Cherry Garcia from the freezer and a spoon from the drying rack; no sense in dirtying a bowl. With this much sugar, maybe she’d stay awake until midnight for once. She pulled her still-damp knit sweater over her head; it was too much work to go upstairs and find a clean one, if a clean one was even to be found. She had been putting off laundry for over a week. Maybe that would be a good New Year's resolution.

​

“It’s a real party now, Linda,” Hazel said cheerfully as she headed back downstairs to the old TV set in the basement. She peeled the lid off the ice cream, and it slipped from her fingers. Hazel lunged to grab it before it hit the dusty ground - she never remembered to sweep the stairs - and her left foot missed the next step. The world spun as she tumbled down. The Cherry Garcia followed through the air with impressive loft and velocity. 

​

Hazel landed in a heap against her father’s prized antique writing desk that Patrick had sent him from London years ago. Seconds later, the pint of Cherry Garcia accomplished what the less intrepid Cookies and Cream hadn’t been able to do and finished off the knit sweater.

​

Hazel groaned loudly. “Linda, why did you do that to me? And after I just bought you a new water heater.” She struggled to sit up and conducted an inventory of herself as she did so. Her backside was bruised, and her wrist throbbed a little, but both seemed intact. Her right leg, however, was definitely not okay. Hazel’s hands shook as she pulled up the pant leg; she was terrible with blood and injuries. The leg was already starting to swell; she was certain she couldn’t stand. She stared up at the staircase, looming before her like The Wedding Feast at Cana in the Louvre – tall and imposing. Fortunately, her phone was in her pocket and unharmed. 

​

Who to call? Hazel thumbed through her contacts. It was a short list. There was an IT help desk; her favorite art supply store; Luigi’s Pizza Palace; Chang Wa’s Chinese Restaurant; and a gallery owner she had talked to years ago about selling her mosaics, entered into her contacts as “Lena-The-Art-Lady-Who-Knows-Good-Places-For-Tiles.”

​

Hazel had yet to call her for that craft store recommendation; for all she knew, the place had been turned into a coffee shop by now.

​

None of the contacts seemed like good choices to call at 9:15 on New Year's Eve, and all of them involved her leaving her house. Something she hadn’t done in almost fifteen years. Her heart sped up in anticipation, and she began to ask herself how badly she actually needed to see a doctor. The leg was probably just bruised, right?

​

Hazel knew her world had become small since her father died and she inherited Linda, his little Victorian house, but she hadn’t realized quite the extent of it until now. Of course, there was little to be done about it as she lay in pain at the base of the stairs with ice cream seeping into her skin. She took the Ben and Jerry’s carton and rested it against her leg, hoping the cold might help the swelling.

​

It was broken. There was simply no way to ignore that fact.

​

There was, of course, the option of 911, but the price of an ambulance with her mediocre insurance sounded more painful than her leg.

​

With that, Hazel gritted her teeth and dialed Chang Wa’s.

​

“We are closing in 15 minutes,” the voice on the other end answered without preamble. 

​

“Is this Lin? This is Hazel Wa,” Hazel said. It was the name Lin and Chang had given her themselves; she was considered an honorary member of their family after getting them through that one lean year with her many orders of Orange Chicken and Lo Mein. It was good to know that her inability to cook had served someone well. She hoped the family’s goodwill would carry her through this phone call.

​

“It’s too late to place an order, we are closing.”

​

“Lin, it’s Hazel. I fell down the stairs and hurt my leg. I need help.”

​

There was silence for a moment on the phone. “I make rice and noodles; I’m not a doctor.”

​

“I know, but I need someone to take me to the emergency room.”

​

“Alright, I guess for you we can make some Orange Chicken. It’ll be ready in 20 minutes.”

​

“No, I don’t need food…”

​

“The hospital is across town. People are out drinking.”

​

“Please, Lin?”

​

Lin sighed. “Alright, I’m coming. Do you still want the Orange Chicken?”

​

Hazel shrugged. “Sure.” 

​

She hung up, then scooted forward until she could lean her back against the wall. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth. The pain was growing worse. What a miserable way to end the year - a broken leg, a ruined sweater, and the local Chinese restaurant owner coming to take her to the hospital.

​

Both Lin and Chang arrived at the house exactly 20 minutes later - Chang Wa’s was nothing if not prompt - and they let themselves in.

​

“Hazel?” Lin yelled.

​

“Down here!” Hazel called back as relief and the smell of Orange Chicken washed over her. It was strange to hear a voice other than her own within Linda’s walls. 

​

“Oh no,” Lin exclaimed as she came down the stairs and took in the sorry state of her best customer. 

​

“I’ll take 5% off the Orange Chicken,” Chang told Hazel with a pat on her shoulder. 

​

They each grabbed one of Hazel’s arms and helped her to her feet. Hazel fought back the tears and kept her weight on her left leg. Chang and Lin whispered furiously to each other in Mandarin. Hazel only knew “Ni Hao” and “Moo Shu,” but she could still figure out the gist of the conversation as she too took in their size differences. She had at least 6 inches and 50lbs on either one of them. Maybe it was for the best that the Cherry Garcia was now a puddle on the floor.

​

“Okay,” Chang finally said in English and gripped Hazel’s arm tightly. The physical touch felt foreign and uncomfortable, but with no other choice, she leaned heavily on him and tried to hop up the first step. Chang grunted loudly.

​

“No good,” he moaned. He whispered again to his wife in Mandarin before looking back at Hazel. “What if you sit, and we pull your arms?”

​

Hazel gave him a look that she hoped said, ‘are you serious?’

​

Lin came around Hazel’s other side and grabbed her arm. “Try now,” she said. Hazel gritted her teeth and fumbled her way up the next step.

“It’s working,” Chang muttered as he gripped her arm tighter. By the time the group made it to the top, all three were sweating. Hazel had never disliked Linda more, not even the time a pipe burst in the living room and wrecked three of her mosaics. 

​

“We are almost there now,” Chang encouraged, stopping to wipe his brow. It was easier going once they were past the stairs. The awkward trio limped out to the waiting Nissan that was perfumed with soy sauce and pine trees due to the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. It was a strange moment for Hazel; it had been so long since she had left the safety of Linda. The lack of walls felt too overwhelming, the night too dark, the world too big. She swallowed deeply and tried to quell the shaking in her hands. There was nothing to be done about it; she needed to see a doctor. 

​

The roads were empty - everyone was celebrating the new year - but the parking lot to the emergency room was relatively crowded. It seemed Hazel wasn’t the only one starting the new year off on the wrong, broken foot. She had forgotten how loud the world was and winced with each ring of a phone and each yell down the hallway.

​

“Sign in here,” the emergency room receptionist told Hazel, barely glancing her way. She clearly had more pressing patients to deal with. The drunk man in the corner currently pulling his pants down in front of the Ficus seemed to be higher priority for the staff, which Hazel felt was justified. 

​

“Thank you so much,” Hazel gratefully whispered to Chang and Lin.

​

“Do you need us to stay?” Lin asked, though it was clear from her tone that she hoped the answer was ‘no.’

​

Hazel freed them. “Oh no, I’m fine now.”

​

“How will you get home?”

Oh. She hadn’t thought of that. There was limited public transit in Jean’s Harbor, Maine, which was to say…none.

​

Lin sighed and rattled off something to Chang in Mandarin.

​

“I’ll stay,” Lin told her in a flat voice. “Chang can walk home from here.” 

​

Hazel said nothing. She felt terrible ruining their night, but she didn’t have many other options to choose from. If only she hadn’t gone for that second pint of ice cream. It was life’s way of judging her.

​

The wait in the ER felt interminable. Hazel’s leg throbbed, and her eyes were growing heavy. Lin was asleep in the chair next to her, worn out from a long workday. The drunk guy provided some amusement for a while, until the nurses got sick of his antics and brought him back to a curtained room to look at the gash on his forehead. Hazel stared unseeingly at the lobster traps covered in Christmas lights that someone had stacked haphazardly in the corner. It was probably supposed to feel festive. Nothing felt festive from within a hospital waiting room.

​

At about 11:43, a nurse finally called Hazel’s name. She wheeled Hazel back into a curtained room, and a doctor poked and prodded Hazel until she was biting back tears. 

​

“It does seem broken. We’ll take some x-rays to confirm, and then we’ll get you into a cast.”

​

“You’re shaking, hon,” the nurse said kindly, resting a hand on Hazel’s shoulder. “Let me get you something for the pain.” 

​

The shakes were more due to the overwhelming nature of the outside world, but the leg certainly throbbed too.

​

The nurse left shortly after providing Hazel some pain medication, leaving her once again alone in her misery. She could just make out a TV through the slit in the curtain. It was 12 seconds to midnight, and everyone in Time Square began to yell out the countdown. Her shakes were, mercifully, beginning to subside.

​

The letter sitting on Hazel’s kitchen island once again intruded on her thoughts. Sofia’s daughter, Lola, wanted to know if she might be able to write Hazel, as her deceased father’s only living relative. The letter was polite and placed no obligation on Hazel, but she felt it nonetheless. 

​

Hazel had never met her niece. Patrick rarely returned to the states once he married Sophia, a Barcelona native, and then he died shortly after his daughter’s second birthday. After everything that had happened, Hazel had felt unworthy intruding on Sofia and Lola’s life. She was confident they felt the same. At the very least, Sophia did. She didn’t know how much Lola knew about the past.

​

The New Year's Eve countdown hit one, and everyone on the TV cheered and kissed their partner.

​

A tear slipped down Hazel’s pale cheek. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t write her niece. She didn’t deserve to know Lola; she had failed Patrick so miserably. Both she and Sophia were acutely aware that she was the reason for Patrick’s death. It was what she called her “pentimento” moment – the mistake she would spend the rest of her life trying to brush over but, would, in the end, always bleed through the layers of paint.
 

What had her life come to? Hazel thought. She sometimes felt like a prisoner in her own house, no offense to Linda. She no longer knew a single one of her neighbors. Her grief over losing her father and then Patrick shortly after had been understandable, but they had been gone for a decade and a half, and she had yet to move on with her life.

​

The ache in Hazel’s leg had softened with the pain medication, and she felt her shoulders relax a touch. She would tell Sofia that Lola was welcome to write her. A teenager would probably write one letter, then move on anyway. She didn’t imagine high schoolers were much for old-fashioned letter writing. It was the least Hazel could do for Patrick. As for a trip to Barcelona to finally meet her niece, could it be her New Year's resolution to…

​

Hazel felt her body stiffen all over again. An international plane flight, foreign language, sort-of relatives she had never met; it was just too much. Besides, Hazel had resolved to never make a New Year's resolution. That was the only resolution she had, thus far, kept.

​

The regret at never traveling to see Patrick and his daughter before he died still haunted Hazel. She was being presented a chance to rectify that, or at the very least a chance to establish some sort of relationship with Lola. How could she live with herself if she let the chance slide by again? Was there an easier place to start? Maybe she could make some sort of resolution to get to know a few new people in a smaller, safer setting. It might feel more comfortable to have people over to a dinner party at Linda. Some of her neighbors, perhaps? She could handle that. 

​

Probably.

​

Hazel thought of her elderly neighbors, Betty and Ramon, who lived in a cape-style house next door (she had named that one “William” - it seemed like a good, strong colonial name). Betty and Ramon were big gardeners; maybe if they got to know each other, they could occasionally bring her some fresh lettuce or tomatoes. In return, she could give them eggs from her Pick-A-Little Ladies, as she liked to call her chickens. 

​

Of course, she had heard Ramon occasionally yell at people walking past when he thought they were too close to his lawn. She got the sense he didn’t really like neighbors.

​

Maybe Hazel could invite over that perky-looking woman who power walked around the neighborhood every afternoon in her matching pink sports bra and booty shorts. In the winter months it was usually baby blue leggings and a matching jacket. 

​

Hazel shuddered at the thought. Did she really want to get to know a Pilates-kind of person? That seemed too much for her self-esteem.

Okay, then, how about introducing herself to the newest person on the block, the gentlemen who had moved into the Handelman’s former house (Elizabeth) at the top of the street? He looked about Hazel’s age, and she hadn’t seen a wife move in with him…

​

Hazel immediately shut down that idea. She didn’t date. Ever. That was simply too terrifying.

​

It suddenly hit her. Hazel was doing the same thing she always did when faced with the prospect of something new: make endless excuses. There was always a reason why each person wouldn’t like her, wouldn’t make a good friend, or would cause problems in her life. And look where it had led her: all alone in the ER on New Year's Eve with a broken leg, the Chinese restaurant owner waiting to drive her home, and a letter on her counter about a niece uncertain if her aunt wanted to talk to her. This had to stop.

​

One dinner party a month.

​

Hazel mulled it over in her head. She could feel her heart rate speed up and her palms began to sweat. She could do this. She would host one dinner party a month for her neighbors. Maybe she would make a friend, maybe not, but she could at least go into next year knowing she had tried her best. Perhaps the next time Linda sent Hazel tumbling, she would have someone to call for help. Someone who didn’t also bring her spicy mustard and soy sauce packets.

The doctor returned. “Ready?” He asked, speaking of the x-rays.

​

Hazel nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”