Elora left on a Thursday morning.
The day before, I had helped her pack the things she had brought.
There wasn't much.
A few dresses.
Her toiletries.
Some medication.
A pair of comfortable shoes.
And the small handbag she always carried.
I placed everything beside the front door.
Elora watched me move the last bag.
"Claire, you've done enough."
I smiled.
"Let me help you."
She shook her head.
"I don't know how I'll ever repay you."
"You don't have to."
I meant it.
I really did.
The following morning, I prepared breakfast.
Elora ate slowly.
She seemed quieter than usual.
I asked whether she had everything she needed.
She said she did.
I checked the medication one final time.
Then I helped her into the car.
The drive to her house was peaceful.
We talked about the weather.
She mentioned that she wanted to call her doctor later that week.
I reminded her to take things slowly.
When we arrived, I carried her bags inside.
Her house looked exactly as it had when I first visited after her accident.
The furniture was in the same places.
The curtains were still drawn halfway.
There was a small photograph of her three children on the living room shelf.
I glanced at it.
Then I looked away.
I helped Elora settle into her favorite chair.
"Are you comfortable?"
"Yes, sweetheart."
"Do you need anything else?"
She shook her head.
"No. You've done enough."
I stood there for a moment.
I wasn't sure whether I should leave immediately.
I didn't want her to feel abandoned.
But I also knew she needed time to adjust.
"Call me if you need anything."
She looked at me.
"I will."
I picked up my handbag.
Then she stood carefully.
She took a few steps toward me with her walking aid.
And suddenly, she wrapped her arms around me.
It was a tight hug.
Much tighter than I expected.
She held on for several seconds.
I could feel her breathing against my shoulder.
"Claire, I don't think you understand what you've done for me."
I gently rubbed her back.
"I'm just glad you're feeling better."
She pulled away.
Her eyes looked wet.
"You have no idea how much this has meant."
I smiled.
"Take care of yourself."
She nodded.
I left.
As I drove home, I felt relieved.
Four weeks had passed.
I had done everything I could to help her recover.
Now she was back in her own home.
I could return to my normal routine.
I stopped at a grocery store on the way back.
Then I picked up a few things for dinner.
Nothing unusual.
I had no reason to think that the next few hours would be any different from an ordinary Thursday.
When I arrived home, I put the groceries away.
I changed out of my work clothes.
I started preparing dinner.
The house felt unusually quiet.
I turned on the television in the living room.
Then I sat down with a cup of tea.
I was thinking about calling Elora later to make sure she had settled in comfortably.
I didn't get the chance.
Someone knocked on my front door.
I assumed it was a delivery.
But when I opened it, I found Patricia standing on the porch.
Patricia was my next-door neighbor.
She was in her late fifties and had lived beside me for almost seven years.
We weren't extremely close.
But we spoke regularly.
We exchanged greetings.
Sometimes we shared food.
And occasionally, she helped me collect packages when I wasn't home.
That afternoon, however, she didn't look like someone stopping by for a friendly conversation.
She looked nervous.
Her eyes moved briefly toward the street.
Then she looked at me.
"Claire, can I come in?"
I stepped aside.
"Of course. Is everything okay?"
She entered slowly.
I noticed that she was holding something.
An old shoebox.
It was brown, slightly faded, and worn around the edges.
There was a piece of yellowing tape across one corner.
I looked at it.
Then I looked at Patricia.
"What's that?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she glanced toward the living room.
"Can we sit down?"
My stomach tightened.
"Patricia, you're worrying me."
She placed the box carefully on the coffee table.
Then she sat opposite me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
I looked at the box again.
"Is this about Elora?"
Patricia nodded.
I felt my shoulders stiffen.
"Did something happen to her?"
"No. She's home."
"Then what is it?"
Patricia rubbed her hands together.
She looked uncomfortable.
Almost as if she had rehearsed this conversation several times and still hadn't found the right way to begin.
"I've been thinking about whether I should tell you something."
I stared at her.
"Tell me what?"
She glanced down at the shoebox.
"It's about the four weeks Elora stayed here."
I felt a strange chill.
"What about them?"
Patricia took a breath.
"There's something I noticed while she was living with you."
I waited.
She continued.
"At first, I thought I was misunderstanding things. I didn't want to interfere in your private life."
I leaned forward.
"Patricia, please. Just tell me."
She looked directly into my eyes.
"Claire, I don't think Elora came to your house for the reason you believed."
I felt my stomach drop.
"What do you mean?"
Patricia touched the lid of the shoebox.
"I think she had another purpose."
I stared at her.
My mind immediately went back to all those questions.
What time would I leave?
How long would I be gone?
Would I return early?
Why had she looked so uncomfortable whenever I came home unexpectedly?
I remembered the way she had watched me organize my schedule.
The way she sometimes stopped talking when I entered the room.
And the way she had held me that morning before leaving.
I had thought it was gratitude.
Now I wasn't so sure.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
Patricia lowered her voice.
"Because she's already gone, and I don't think you should be kept in the dark."
I looked at the shoebox.
"What's inside?"
She hesitated.
Then she moved it closer to me.
"Before I show you, I need you to understand something."
I swallowed.
"What?"
Patricia's expression changed.
She no longer looked merely nervous.
She looked concerned.
"Elora knew something about your life, Claire. Something she believed you didn't know."
I couldn't move.
"What are you talking about?"
Patricia shook her head.
"I don't want to explain it without showing you what I found."
My eyes remained fixed on the box.
The old tape.
The faded cardboard.
The lid that had clearly been opened and closed many times.
I reached toward it.
Then I stopped.
For the first time since Elora had arrived at my home, I wondered whether I had been the one who was being watched.
Patricia placed her hand over the box.
"There's something you need to know about why she chose your house."
I looked up.
"Patricia, what was she looking for?"
Patricia slowly removed her hand.
And I realized that whatever was inside that box had been important enough for her to carry it directly to my door.
I had spent four weeks believing I was helping a woman who had nobody else.
Now I was beginning to wonder whether those four weeks had been planned long before she ever called me.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: The Shoebox Contained Four Weeks of Notes About My Life, and the First Page Made Me Question Everything Elora Had Told Me
I Thought My Marriage Was the Only Thing My Ex-Husband’s Family Had Taken From Me, Until His Mother Needed My Help
Part 4 of 20
