How to Be a Good Wife (5 page)

His eyes were wide with something.

‘I promise,’ I said. I tried to stand up then, but the light was bright all around me, and I fell back, shutting my eyes. He stood up and held out his hand. I paused, then took it.

He pulled me up, putting his arm around my shoulder for a moment. It was wet and heavy; it felt wrong there.

I watched the water fall from my hair, forming circles on the wood near his hairy toes. Then we walked back towards the house.

In the kitchen, my fork clatters onto the table. I breathe in and out. I know that Hector saved me from drowning on that trip: we’ve told people the story for years. It is light, romantic, and people love to hear it. But this version is different. It’s as if I am listening to a familiar song played slightly out of tune. That heaviness I felt then, a sickness turning, is here with me now.

I have waited long enough, I think, digging my fork into the casserole and shovelling down mouthful after mouthful, barely chewing. I want to stop and wait for Hector, the guilt hot in my cheeks, but I am too hungry.

He is coming down the stairs, across the new carpet we had put in after Kylan went to the city three months ago. I make myself put down my fork and swallow.

I see the navy blue velvet of his slippers, then the bottom half of his corduroyed legs. He is slow, holding on to the handrail to protect his knee. My stomach dips. He comes in, half smiles, and sits in his place. He looks at the food, at my half-eaten plateful. I keep my eyes on the table. He picks up his knife and fork. I pick up mine. He begins to eat. I do too. We eat in silence. I concentrate on my lamb. It’s perfectly cooked.

Let him talk first. Remember that his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

He always breaks the silence if I leave it long enough.

‘How was the market?’ he asks.

‘Good,’ I say. ‘The butcher was busy.’

‘He’s a good butcher. You can trust his meat.’

Hector says this as if he is an expert on butchering practices. Or as if he goes to the butcher himself.

‘Yes,’ I say.

We continue eating.

Remember always to be bright and cheerful: a breath of fresh air.

‘Would you like some wine?’ I ask, gesturing at the half-empty bottle on the table.

‘No, thank you,’ he says. He looks at me. ‘Make that your last one. You know you’re not supposed to drink with your pills.’

I keep my eyes on the table. Remembering the candle, I take the lighter out. The table glows.

‘Where did you get that lighter?’ Hector asks.

‘It’s the one from the kitchen drawer,’ I say.

The accusing look in his eyes falters.

‘It’s been in there for years, for lighting birthday candles and things,’ I continue.

He takes a mouthful of lamb and chews it slowly, still examining his plate.

‘Why was it in your pocket?’ he says.

‘I was going to light the candle,’ I say, looking at him calmly.

‘Oh,’ he says.

I scrape my plate clean.

I watch Hector eat, cutting his food up into small pieces before eating them, chewing slowly and methodically. This is rare for a man.
Better good manners than good looks.

As I watch his mouth, I see another row of teeth moving faster and faster, shovel, swallow, shovel, swallow. No chewing. As he smiles, I see the food between them, on his tongue, imagine it travelling down his throat. I shut my eyes, thinking for a moment I am going to be sick.

‘Marta?’ Hector says. ‘Are you OK?’

I open my eyes. A piece of lamb glistens on his fork. I swallow. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I just ate too quickly.’

Take small mouthfuls of food, like a baby bird, and make sure to chew daintily with your mouth closed.

I wait for him to look away.

After dinner, Hector goes to the living room, leaving me to clear up.

As I wipe the green sponge over the plates at the sink, the taste of bare china fills my mouth, cold and hard. My teeth ache deep into the gums and I clench them together, waiting for the feeling to pass. I take a swig from the wine bottle, swallowing to clear the taste in my mouth. When I pull the bottle away, it is empty.

Opening the bin to scrape in the leftover broccoli, I step backwards: it’s filled with wet hair. I think I see something move: for a moment I think it is an animal, and I am about to call to Hector. But when I look back, there is nothing there. The edge of the cigarette packet is visible, underneath a pile of envelopes. I slam the bin lid down, hard.

Reaching into the cupboard above my head, I pull out the small orange pot of pills. I hold it in my hands, touching the peeling edge of the label.
Marta Bjornstad. Take three daily with food.
No, I think. I won’t.

The pills go back into their place. Opening a new bottle of wine, I pour myself a glass and go through to the living room.

The clock above the mantelpiece reads 8:15. Hector has turned on the lamps and the room glows warmly. The thick cream curtains are drawn at the bay window facing the lane.

He is lying on the sofa, propped up on one of the ivory cushions, his arms bent behind his head. One slipper hangs off his foot. His face is soft: his eyes are shut, his chest moving slowly and rhythmically. The creases on his brow have disappeared and he almost looks happy. Like a boy. I look at the grey hairs around his temples, his thinning hairline. He isn’t a boy, I think; he’s getting to be an old man now. As I watch him, listening to his laboured breathing, I feel a familiar rush of pity for him. There are twenty years between us.

His eyes open, and I am caught.

Hector sits up, rubs his eyes.

We sit in silence, watching the television.

‘Kylan called earlier,’ Hector says. ‘While you were out. He’s coming for dinner tomorrow night.’

I feel myself breathe in sharply. ‘He’s coming home?’

‘They’re coming for dinner and the night,’ he says. ‘They have work on Monday.’

‘Katya’s coming too, then?’ I ask.

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘You can meet her at last. They have some news.’

‘It’s about time he brought her home,’ I say. ‘It almost feels like she doesn’t exist.’

Hector watches me. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s a shame going to the city upsets you.’

I pause. ‘It must be getting serious.’

‘They live together,’ Hector says. ‘I’d say that’s pretty serious.’

‘But she hasn’t met his mother,’ I say.

Hector doesn’t reply. We both look at the television screen.

‘Did he want me to call him?’ I say.

‘He said there’s no need.’ I feel a sharp stab then, of being left out again. I remember the sounds of laughter from Hector’s study, the gaps of contented thought, then the horrible click of the chess pieces.

‘I’ll go to the market in the morning, then,’ I say.

‘I’m sure we have enough food in the fridge,’ Hector says.

I glance at him. ‘I want to make halibut stew,’ I say. ‘It’s Kylan’s first time home in three months and I want to make his favourite.’ It almost sounds like I am pleading.

I wait. Finally, Hector nods.

‘I’ve invited my mother,’ he says.

I sigh. ‘But where is everyone going to sleep?’ I ask.

‘Put Kylan and Katya in the guest room and my mother in Kylan’s room.’

‘Kylan can’t sleep in the guest room,’ I say.

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not his room.’

Hector half smiles. ‘I doubt he’ll mind.’

I mind.

‘I better go and get the rooms ready,’ I say, moving to get up.

‘Can’t you do that tomorrow?’

I sit back down.

Hector turns back to the television, his jaw tight. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch for the signs: the drooping eyelids, the slowing of his breathing. He is drifting off. When I am sure he is asleep, I leave the room.

I walk upstairs and along the corridor to Kylan’s room. My watch says eight thirty. Through the crack in the door, I think I see his small body curled under the dinosaur duvet cover. Though the light still glows at the edges of the curtains, it’s bedtime. On the chest of drawers a small golden trophy stands: one he recently won in a handball tournament at school. His sandy hair rests on the pillow and I step forward, longing to stroke it until he falls asleep. Then I see a younger Hector, leaning over the bed, and I take a step back.

‘What’s the matter, Kylan?’ Hector is saying.

At first, Kylan doesn’t answer, and I see his head shake on the pillow; he covers his face with his hands.

‘What’s up? You can tell me.’

Still nothing. Inwardly, I smile. Hector thinks he’s so good at this.

‘I won’t tell your mother.’

Kylan lifts his head up from the pillow, takes his hands away from his face, and looks at his father. He speaks softly, but I still hear him.

‘She won’t tell me about them,’ he says.

I remember, then, Kylan’s upturned face with his father’s blue eyes and the smattering of freckles. I was silent at first, pretending I hadn’t heard him, but he kept pushing and pushing me, as he did when he wanted something from the supermarket.
Please, Mum, please, Mum, please, Mum.
I snapped and told him to shut up. I didn’t want to lie to him, my son. He was silent then, staring out of the window at the green fields. His silence continued through teatime, and bedtime, and he refused to say good night to me when I came to tuck him in. I pleaded with him, my voice full of trapped tears, but he still didn’t speak a word to me.

‘She won’t tell you about who?’ Hector asks.

‘She won’t tell me about her mummy and daddy,’ Kylan says.

Hector is silent.

‘Everyone else at school has two sets,’ he says. ‘I only have Granny. It’s not fair.’

I sigh. It can’t be true that everyone has four grandparents.

‘Mummy’s parents are dead,’ Hector says finally. ‘They died when she was younger, before I met her. She doesn’t like to talk about it because it makes her sad.’

Hector sits on the edge of the bed, his arm snaked over Kylan’s side.

‘How did they die?’ Kylan asks.

‘They were in a car accident,’ he says. ‘Don’t ask Mummy about it any more. We don’t want her to be upset.’

I rest my head against the wall, my eyes burning. I know I can’t let myself think about that: it’s somewhere I am not allowed to go.

Kylan is silent. Then he nods, sinking back down under the covers.

When I open the door, the room is empty and dim. Without turning the light on, I sit down on the edge of the bed. I don’t come in here often. The walls are bare, and I know that in the wardrobe only a few misshapen hangers are left in the darkness. I lean back, turning over and burying my face into the duvet, breathing through the thickness of the material. Only the sweetness of fabric softener fills my nose. I long for the smell of baby Kylan’s dim beige room: a harmless smell, of something familiar, like biscuits dipped in tea. His hands on the solid white bars of the cot; his feet sinking into the thin mattress; his legs stiff, defiant. His vertical blond hair, and his eyes watching for any movement. An excited smile, and then his face against the cotton of my shoulder as I carry him to the changing table. I know he can’t remember these things, so I will have to, for both of us.

After he left in the summer, I would find my way here in the middle of the night. I would slide under the duvet and wake up crying, knowing he wasn’t coming back. As he packed his room into boxes, I told him it would be best to leave some things here, that it was all too sudden, but he shrugged me off, excited about moving in with Katya and his new job at the bank. I wanted to tell him it was too soon: he didn’t know her well enough. I thought he was being selfish. He couldn’t see that if he moved to the city I would never see him. He knows I don’t like the city: I haven’t been there in twenty-five years. I wanted to shout at him, grab his arms, and tell him not to leave me.

But I had told him all that before, when he wanted to go to university in the city. I begged him to stay, to go to college locally. I told him he would break my heart. One night, we sat again at the kitchen table to discuss it, Hector and Kylan on one side, me on the other. My argument was that the local college was good, that he could get his qualifications and work at the farm up the road. Hector thought he should go to the city, live his own life. I have never forgiven him for that.

I started to cry then, slow deliberate tears. Kylan sat on the other side of the table and watched me for a long time. Hector sighed. I put my head in my hands, heard Kylan’s chair scraping on the kitchen tiles, and felt him put his arms around me.
It’s OK, Mum
, he whispered.
I’ll stay.

I smile to myself, a warmth moving through my chest. He’s coming home. Tomorrow, Kylan will be here and everything will be all right again. I’ll show him everything he has left behind. And I’ll do it all without my pills. There’s so much to do, I can barely wait to get started. I tell myself he won’t leave me again.

I go to our bathroom and wash my face. Leaning close to the mirror, I see the lines around my eyes, the traces of grey in my hair. Smiling, I watch the furrows deepen. My skin is paler than most of the women in the valley, those who help out on the farms. My hands are paler too, less marked, though the undersides have hardened from all the cleaning products. My wedding ring is so much a part of my hand now, I don’t see it any more. I never had an engagement ring: I suppose we were never really engaged.

In my bedroom, I pull on my woollen nightgown and slip beneath the covers. Touching my stomach, I push it out, imagining I am pregnant again. That feeling, of your body no longer being yours but the property of someone else, someone more important. I remember the sickness too. Before I knew I was pregnant, I thought there was something really wrong with me.

One day, on my way to the market, I had to pull the car over and vomit onto the grassy verge. I drove myself straight to the doctor’s surgery on the other side of the water. Asking for an appointment, I felt ashamed, as if I was betraying Hector, by admitting there was something wrong in the new life he had worked so hard to build for us. I read the posters on the walls of the waiting room, my hands quivering against my green skirt, not making eye contact with anyone in case I knew them or they knew Hector.