How to Be a Good Wife (16 page)

I open the piece of folded paper in my hand. It’s small and square, cut from the newspaper, nothing but a picture with text on the back from some other story. A man and a woman stand under a tree in a garden. The man has a slight smile at the corner of his mouth, and in a rush, I feel his hand on my shoulder, the smell of leather and Paco Rabanne, so strong I almost cry out. The woman has long dark-blonde hair, almost down to her slight waist, and I feel it brushing against my cheek as she leans down to give me a kiss goodnight. In between them stands a girl with blonde hair, squinting into the sunlight. It is her. It is me.

I need to get out of here. Telling myself I will look at it again later, I climb the stairs two at a time. In our bedroom, I pull off my nightgown and dress in jeans and a black polo neck. I don’t bother with underwear. Slipping the piece of newspaper into my pocket, I reach into the bottom of our shared wardrobe and pull out the old green overnight bag. I throw things in, as much as I can, until it is full. I raid the bathroom: toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, towel. Taking my jewellery out of the top drawer of my dresser, I collect my make-up and a picture of Kylan that lives there. I pull at the zip, willing it to close.

Downstairs, I stop in the hallway, trying to think clearly if there is anything else I need. Looking down at my shaking hands, I see my wedding ring, glinting against the strap of the bag. I pull it off and drop it onto the kitchen table.

As I walk back through the hallway, I see the huge cabinet on the wall, crammed with the frozen faces of my dolls. I walk to the doors, open them, and pull out my favourite doll: the one with the white blonde hair and grey eyes. Peeling off her pink dress, I hold her naked body in the palms of my hands. Turning her over, I slam her into the wall next to the cabinet, over and over, as hard as I can. I hear a crack. I keep going. Then I put her back into the cabinet.

Opening the front door, the large stone doorstep is where I left it, exposing a dark opening. There is no time to lose. I lean forward and push the stone back into place, sweat breaking across my forehead, tears springing into my eyes in frustration. When it looks like it always has, I get up and go to the other car.

I throw the bag into the boot and open the driver’s door. I hear a vehicle approaching. Through the windscreen, I can see the tight line of Hector’s mouth, his eyes concentrating on the road ahead. He raises his hand in a wave.

I stay where I am.

He pulls into the drive, pauses for a moment and rolls down the window, blocking my way.

‘On your way out?’ he says.

‘I need to get a few things from town.’ I feel my voice tremble.

‘Are you feeling better?’ he says.

I smile. ‘Much,’ I say.

His brow wrinkles. ‘Are you sure you’re OK to go out?’

I nod. ‘Can you make me an appointment to see a doctor next week?’

Hector’s eyebrows rise.

‘I think you’re right,’ I say. ‘We need to put this all behind us.’

He smiles. ‘How long will you be?’

‘An hour, two at the most.’

‘If you wait a minute, I’ll come,’ he says.

I look at my watch. It is almost one o’clock. ‘I want to catch the market before they pack up,’ I say. ‘I won’t be long.’

My heart shudders in my chest.

‘I’ll see you later.’

He rolls the window back up, pulls forward into the drive. Pulling out onto the road, I turn left, away from town, pressing my foot down on the accelerator.

I drive fast, passing the pale blue farmhouse, the yard scattered with junk and scrap metal, the sign advertising eggs that nobody ever sees. The red buildings lie low in the valley; the machinery waits.

Speeding through a tunnel of green-and-white trees, I check the rear-view mirror repeatedly. The road behind me is empty. Turning left, I begin the zigzagged incline, traversing the mountain, making my way out of the valley. It slopes upwards, disappearing into dark carved rock tunnels and then re-emerging into the white world. To my left, I can see the patches of snow clinging to the land below; the vast stretch of water glimmers through the morning haze. I imagine my little car tumbling down the side of the mountain and into the water, filling slowly but surely, sinking below the surface.

At the top, the next valley is laid out before me. The sharp, rocky crags; the new fjord, a silvered mass like the belly of a fish. I have never seen this side of the mountains, and I feel a thrill run through me like an uncoiling ribbon.

There are hikers here, their tight, strong bodies wrapped in walking clothes: scarves and hats and gloves. My eye is drawn to a man and a girl, hand in hand. The man is tall and thin with sandy blond hair, and the girl’s white blonde hair is plaited. He smiles as I drive past, and I feel an ache of familiarity. When I glance in the rear-view mirror, they have disappeared.

As I look for them, the smell of boiled sweets and wet canvas fills the car. I hear music, too-loud rock. I feel a sweet wrapper beneath my fingers, the wetness of his mouth as I drop it in. His golden hair shining in the orange evening sun; stubby fingernails tapping the steering wheel along with the music. The sound of the wind flapping against the tent, green morning light through the material. Then it’s gone again, and I am alone, driving down a steep road, moving faster and faster. I put my foot on the brake, straightening the steering wheel. When the road flattens out, I come to a passing place and pull the car over.

I slip the scrap of newspaper out of my pocket and hold it up to the light. It is a black-and-white photograph, grainy, soft and malleable in my hands.

We are standing in front of the wide dark spruce tree which grows in the garden. Its shadow falls behind us, heightening the brightness of the sun which reflects our skin.

My father stands proud under the lower branches of the tree. His sandy hair falls neatly down the centre of his head. I see a flash then, of the evening light in his hair, and I know it was him in the car with me.

My mother stands next to him, smiling widely at the camera, her arm around my father’s waist. Her dark blonde hair falls over her shoulders and she wears a summer dress I remember with red cherries on the front, her feet bare. She looks impossibly young.

I stand in front of my parents, wearing a dress with puffy sleeves and flowers across the bottom. My hair is pulled back, and the sunlight wipes out everything except for a mouth and two dim black holes for eyes. I remember the itch of the dress at my neck: how hot it was, standing in the sun.

Looking up, I find myself at the side of the road. I know I don’t have long. Once Hector sees the empty wardrobe, my wedding ring on the kitchen table, I’m sure he will be right behind me, driving fast. I run my fingers over the different faces, breathing them in. Remembering.

*

I drive through villages and towns. Even out here, there are road signs that point the way towards the city and I follow them. The sun shines from the roofs of the wooden houses along the roadside. After a while each conglomeration of village necessities, village shop, pub, the older magnificence of the hotels, starts to blend together into one long unchanging stretch of green. I pass glassy fjords that reflect the huge sky: my head soars. I have always known it was a long way.

I have broken the rules.
You are not to go further than here. It is not safe.
I hear Hector’s voice, filling the car, and then I am in the passenger seat, bundled in a heap of blankets. The sound of the engine, musty and loud: the rattle of warm air through the vents. Outside the window, the greens moved too fast, the mountains loomed too large, and I shut my eyes, resting my head against his shoulder. Through his chest, I heard the rumbling of his voice as he pointed out the town hall, the post office, the hotels. At the school, he stopped the car.

‘When you are on your own,’ he said, ‘this is as far as you are to go. You are never to leave the valley.’

I lifted my head up. ‘I don’t want to be on my own,’ I said.

He smiled. ‘Don’t look so frightened,’ he said. ‘I only mean later, when you are feeling better.’

I put my head back on his shoulder.

‘I’ll always be here,’ he said.

*

When I reach the outskirts of the city, it’s night time. The clock reads 21:55. In the dark, it is harder to watch out for Hector. The road has widened out and there are many more cars now, speeding past and cutting in front, their lights glaring.

Grey industrial buildings and long shop warehouses line the road, their brightly lit signs offering computers, fitness equipment, electrical appliances. Reaching a roundabout, I circle it three times before I remember the way. I pass a tall white block of flats, and then I am in the city streets. There are so many houses, so many people.

Wide old trees stand at the roadside, their few shadowy leaves shuddering in the evening wind. There is a huge brick building with a flag on a long white pole outside. The terraced town houses, lit up inside, look familiar. Even in the darkness, it is as if nothing has changed, like seeing a forbidden old friend again. I am sure that the answers are waiting here, and I am glad I came back.

Stopping at a red light, my leg begins to shake on the accelerator. There is a crowd of people standing at a bus stop, huddled together in the cold. As the lights turn green and I start to move off, I see a girl wearing a red coat, a sports bag slung over her shoulder. Under the street lamp, her blonde hair glows.

I slam the brakes on, ignoring the blasts of horns from the cars behind me. My heart beats faster. There are no other people at the bus stop now, no cars on the road, only her. She looks down the street, both ways. I can tell she is worried, and as she turns her back, I see a pink ribbon escaping from her bag, caught in the zip, the end fluttering in the wind.

She rocks back and forward on her heels, wraps her arms around herself, rubs her shoulders. Her breath leaves a misty trail, making it hard to see her face. She slides a box out of her pocket, slipping out a cigarette, white as bone.

Then I see the car, driving along the road towards her. It slows as it approaches the bus stop, and the window begins to wind down. She leans, her blonde hair falling forward. She shakes her head, and I see her smiling. I watch her lips move.
No, thank you.
Then she stops. She shrugs, drops her cigarette onto the floor, opens the car door, and slides in. The door shuts and they drive on, disappearing into the darkness.

The cars are zooming past me now. Some beep their horns, some don’t, but I can barely hear them. I sit and stare at the bus stop for a long time. I remember coveting that red coat in the window of a department store, buying it once I had saved up. It was the first thing I bought for myself, with my own money, won in competitions. My mother told me the sleeves were too short, that I should have got a bigger size, and I was annoyed with her. I feel the cold air against my cheeks on the walk to the bus stop that evening. Another night practising late and things hadn’t gone well, and now I had missed the last bus. I didn’t want to call my parents: I was still annoyed with my mother. Then the car pulled in, and the man inside offered to give me a lift. He was older, and he looked concerned, his blue eyes clear and unsettled: he reminded me of my father. He didn’t look like he would harm anyone, so I climbed in, and told him my address. He nodded. He drove at a normal speed, in the right direction.

‘What are you doing out so late?’ he said.

It was nearly ten o’clock. ‘I had ballet class,’ I said.

‘Ballet?’ he asked. ‘What kind of a studio is open at this time?’

I smiled. ‘I have a key.’

‘I was worried about a young girl like you, out so late,’ he said. ‘You should be careful.’

I shrugged. ‘I always catch the bus home about this time,’ I say. ‘Except tonight I was a little late.’

‘Lucky I was passing,’ he said.

We were heading into my suburb now, and I began to relax, to think about making some cheese on toast when I got home. The man handed me an open bottle of something which smelled like aquavit.

‘Would you like some?’ he said.

We were close to my road now: only a few moments, and we would be pulling up in front of my house. I liked the idea of my mother smelling the alcohol on my breath, of her wondering what I had been up to. I took a big swig from the bottle.

The man smiled. ‘I would join you,’ he said. ‘But I don’t like to drink and drive. I wouldn’t want to get pulled over.’

The low lights of the familiar houses flashed past as we circled my neighbourhood. As we approached the turning for my road, he didn’t slow down.

‘That was it,’ I said, my voice strangely thick.

The man didn’t seem to hear me.

‘It was back there,’ I said again.

I remember the outline of his nose, his tight lips against the suburban lights: his hands clenching the steering wheel. Then all around me the world began to fade, dimming like the failing light of winter, until everything was dark.

I have to pull over and check the address several times, but eventually I find the road and park the car.

Carrying my bag, I walk along the street until I reach the right number. The building is the only red one in a long row of terraced houses. A low black fence runs along the front. I open the gate, walk up three stone steps, and press the buzzer for Flat 3.

‘Hello?’

‘Kylan?’ I say. ‘It’s your mother. Can you let me up?’

I hear the buzz of the door opening. When I reach the top of the stairs, he’s standing at the door.

‘Hi, darling,’ I say, reaching forward to give him a hug.

He stops me. ‘Mum, have you been crying?’ he says.

‘I’m fine,’ I say.

He hugs me then, and stands aside so I can walk in. The walls are painted red and the floors are wooden. I follow Kylan down the corridor and through a door. It’s a small kitchen with a generous window on the far wall, through which I can see the lights of the street below.

Kylan gestures to a chair at the table and I sit down.

‘I thought you’d be more surprised to see me,’ I say.