FRIDAY, JULY 12, 2013
MORNING
I am exhausted, my head thick with sleep. When Idrink, I hardly sleep at all. I pass out cold for anhour or two, then I wake, sick with fear, sick withmyself. If I have a day when I don’t drink, that nightI fall into the heaviest of slumbers, a deepunconsciousness, and in the morning I cannot wakeproperly, I cannot shake sleep, it stays with me forhours, sometimes all day long.
There is just a handful of people in my carriagetoday, none in my immediate vicinity. There is noone watching me, so I lean my head against thewindow and close my eyes.
The screech of the train’s brakes wakes me. We’reat the signal. At this time of morning, at this time ofyear, the sun shines directly onto the back of thetrackside houses, flooding them with light. I canalmost feel it, the warmth of that morning sunshineon my face and arms as I sit at the breakfast table,Tom opposite me, my bare feet resting on top of hisbecause they’re always so much warmer than mine,my eyes cast down at the newspaper. I can feel himsmiling at me, the blush spreading from my chest tomy neck, the way it always did when he looked atme a certain way.
I blink hard and Tom’s gone. We’re still at thesignal. I can see Jess in her garden, and behind hera man walking out of the house. He’s carryingsomething—mugs of coffee, perhaps—and I look athim and realize that it isn’t Jason. This man is taller,slender, darker. He’s a family friend; he’s her brotheror Jason’s brother. He bends down, placing themugs on the metal table on their patio. He’s acousin from Australia, staying for a couple of weeks;he’s Jason’s oldest friend, best man at their wedding.
Jess walks towards him, she puts her hands aroundhis waist and she kisses him, long and deep. Thetrain moves.
I can’t believe it. I snatch air into my lungs andrealize that I’ve been holding my breath. Why wouldshe do that? Jason loves her, I can see it, they’rehappy. I can’t believe she would do that to him, hedoesn’t deserve that. I feel a real sense ofdisappointment, I feel as though I have been cheatedon. A familiar ache fills my chest. I have felt this waybefore. On a larger scale, to a more intense degree,of course, but I remember the quality of the pain.
You don’t forget it.
I found out the way everyone seems to find outthese days: an electronic slip. Sometimes it’s a text ora voice mail message; in my case it was an email,the modern-day lipstick on the collar. It was anaccident, really, I wasn’t snooping. I wasn’t supposedto go near Tom’s computer, because he was worriedI would delete something important by mistake, orclick on something I shouldn’t and let in a virus or aTrojan or something. “Technology’s not really yourstrong point, is it, Rach?” he said after the time Imanaged to delete all the contacts in his emailaddress book by mistake. So I wasn’t supposed totouch it. But I was actually doing a good thing, I wastrying to make amends for being a bit miserable anddifficult, I was planning a special fourth-anniversarygetaway, a trip to remind us how we used to be. Iwanted it to be a surprise, so I had to check hiswork schedule secretly, I had to look.
I wasn’t snooping, I wasn’t trying to catch him outor anything, I knew better than that. I didn’t want tobe one of those awful suspicious wives who gothrough their husband’s pockets. Once, I answeredhis phone when he was in the shower and he gotquite upset and accused me of not trusting him. Ifelt awful because he seemed so hurt.
I needed to look at his work schedule, and he’d lefthis laptop on, because he’d run out late for ameeting. It was the perfect opportunity, so I had alook at his calendar, noted down some dates. WhenI closed down the browser window with his calendarin it, there was his email account, logged in, laidbare. There was a message at the top fromaboyd@cinnamon.com. I clicked. XXXXX. That was it,just a line of Xs. I thought it was spam at first, untilI realized that they were kisses.
It was a reply to a message he’d sent a few hoursbefore, just after seven, when I was still slumberingin our bed.
I fell asleep last night thinking of you,I was dreaming about kissing yourmouth, your breasts, the inside ofyour thighs. I woke this morning withmy head full of you, desperate totouch you. Don’t expect me to besane, I can’t be, not with you.
I read through his messages: there were dozens,hidden in a folder entitled “Admin.” I discovered thather name was Anna Boyd, and that my husbandwas in love with her. He told her so, often. He toldher that he’d never felt like this before, that hecouldn’t wait to be with her, that it wouldn’t be longuntil they could be together.
I don’t have words to describe what I felt that day,but now, sitting on the train, I am furious, nailsdigging into my palms, tears stinging my eyes. I feela flash of intense anger. I feel as though somethinghas been taken away from me. How could she?
How could Jess do this? What is wrong with her?
Look at the life they have, look at how beautiful it is!
I have never understood how people can blithelydisregard the damage they do by following theirhearts. Who was it said that following your heart is agood thing? It is pure egotism, a selfishness toconquer all. Hatred floods me. If I saw that womannow, if I saw Jess, I would spit in her face. I wouldscratch her eyes out.
EVENING
There’s been a problem on the line. The 5:56 fasttrain to Stoke has been cancelled, so its passengershave invaded my train and it’s standing room only inthe carriage. I, fortunately, have a seat, but by theaisle, not next to the window, and there are bodiespressed against my shoulder, my knee, invading myspace. I have an urge to push back, to get up andshove. The heat has been building all day, closing inon me, I feel as though I’m breathing through amask. Every single window has been opened and yet,even while we’re moving, the carriage feels airless, alocked metal box. I cannot get enough oxygen intomy lungs. I feel sick. I can’t stop replaying the scenein the coffee shop this morning, I can’t stop feelingas though I’m still there, I can’t stop seeing the lookson their faces.
I blame Jess. I was obsessing this morning aboutJess and Jason, about what she’d done and how hewould feel, about the confrontation they would havewhen he found out and when his world, like mine,was ripped apart. I was walking around in a daze,not concentrating on where I was going. Withoutthinking, I went into the coffee shop that everyonefrom Huntingdon Whitely uses. I was through thedoor before I saw them, and by the time I did itwas too late to turn back; they were looking at me,eyes widening for a fraction of a second before theyremembered to fix smiles on their faces. Martin Mileswith Sasha and Harriet, a triumvirate ofawkwardness, beckoning, waving me over.
“Rachel!” Martin said, arms outstretched, pulling meinto a hug. I wasn’t expecting it, my hands werecaught between us, fumbling against his body. Sashaand Harriet smiled, gave me tentative air-kisses,trying not to get too close. “What are you doinghere?”
For a long, long moment, I went blank. I looked atthe floor, I could feel myself colouring and, realizing itwas making it worse, I gave a false laugh and said,“Interview. Interview.”
“Oh.” Martin failed to hide his surprise, while Sashaand Harriet nodded and smiled. “Who’s that with?”
I couldn’t remember the name of a single publicrelations firm. Not one. I couldn’t think of a propertycompany, either, let alone one that might realisticallybe hiring. I just stood there, rubbing my lower lipwith my forefinger, shaking my head, and eventuallyMartin said, “Top secret, is it? Some firms are weirdlike that, aren’t they? Don’t want you saying anythinguntil the contracts are signed and it’s all official.” Itwas bullshit and he knew it, he did it to save meand nobody bought it, but everyone pretended theydid and nodded along. Harriet and Sasha werelooking over my shoulder at the door, they wereembarrassed for me, they wanted a way out.
“I’d better go and order my coffee,” I said. “Don’twant to be late.”
Martin put his hand on my forearm and said, “It’sgreat to see you, Rachel.” His pity was almostpalpable. I’d never realized, not until the last year ortwo of my life, how shaming it is to be pitied.
The plan had been to go to Holborn Library onTheobalds Road, but I couldn’t face it, so I went toRegent’s Park instead. I walked to the very far end,next to the zoo. I sat down in the shade beneath asycamore tree, thinking of the unfilled hours ahead,replaying the conversation in the coffee shop,remembering the look on Martin’s face when he saidgood-bye to me.
I must have been there for less than half an hourwhen my mobile rang. It was Tom again, calling fromthe home phone. I tried to picture him, working athis laptop in our sunny kitchen, but the image wasspoilt by encroachments from his new life. She wouldbe there somewhere, in the background, making teaor feeding the little girl, her shadow falling over him.
I let the call go to voice mail. I put the phone backinto my bag and tried to ignore it. I didn’t want tohear any more, not today; today was already awfulenough and it was not yet ten thirty in the morning.
I held out for about three minutes before I retrievedthe phone and dialled into voice mail. I braced myselffor the agony of hearing his voice—the voice thatused to speak to me with laughter and light andnow is used only to admonish or console or pity—butit wasn’t him.
“Rachel, it’s Anna.” I hung up.
I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t stop my brainfrom racing or my skin from itching, so I got to myfeet and walked to the corner shop on TitchfieldStreet and bought four gin and tonics in cans, thenwent back to my spot in the park. I opened the firstone and drank it as fast as I could, and thenopened the second. I turned my back to the path sothat I couldn’t see the runners and the mothers withbuggies and the tourists, and if I couldn’t see them, Icould pretend like a child that they couldn’t see me. Icalled my voice mail again.
“Rachel, it’s Anna.” Long pause. “I need to talk toyou about the phone calls.” Another longpause—she’s talking to me and doing something else,multitasking, the way busy wives and mothers do,tidying up, loading the washing machine. “Look, Iknow you’re having a tough time,” she says, asthough she has nothing to do with my pain, “butyou can’t call us at night all the time.” Her tone isclipped, irritable. “It’s bad enough that you wake uswhen you call, but you wake Evie, too, and that’sjust not acceptable. We’re struggling to get her tosleep through at the moment.” We’re struggling toget her to sleep through. We. Us. Our little family.
With our problems and our routines. Fucking bitch.
She’s a cuckoo, laying her egg in my nest. She hastaken everything from me. She has taken everythingand now she calls me to tell me that my distress isinconvenient for her?
I finish the second can and make a start on thethird. The blissful rush of alcohol hitting mybloodstream lasts only a few minutes, and then I feelsick. I’m going too fast, even for me, I need to slowdown; if I don’t slow down something bad is goingto happen. I’m going to do something I will regret.
I’m going to call her back, I’m going to tell her Idon’t care about her and I don’t care about herfamily and I don’t care if her child never gets a goodnight’s sleep for the rest of its life. I’m going to tellher that the line he used with her—don’t expect meto be sane—he used it with me, too, when we werefirst together; he wrote it in a letter to me, declaringhis undying passion. It’s not even his line: he stole itfrom Henry Miller. Everything she has is secondhand.
I want to know how that makes her feel. I want tocall her back and ask her, What does it feel like,Anna, to live in my house, surrounded by thefurniture I bought, to sleep in the bed that Ishared with him for years, to feed your child atthe kitchen table he fucked me on?
I still find it extraordinary that they chose to staythere, in that house, in my house. I couldn’t believeit when he told me. I loved that house. I was theone who insisted we buy it, despite its location. Iliked being down there on the tracks, I likedwatching the trains go by, I enjoyed the sound ofthem, not the scream of an inner-city express butthe old-fashioned trundling of ancient rolling stock.
Tom told me, “It won’t always be like this, they’lleventually upgrade the line and then it will be fasttrains screaming past,” but I couldn’t believe it wouldever actually happen. I would have stayed there, Iwould have bought him out if I’d had the money. Ididn’t, though, and we couldn’t find a buyer at adecent price when we divorced, so instead he saidhe’d buy me out and stay on until he got the rightprice for it. But he never found the right buyer,instead he moved her in, and she loved the houselike I did, and they decided to stay. She must bevery secure in herself, I suppose, in them, for it notto bother her, to walk where another woman haswalked before. She obviously doesn’t think of me asa threat. I think about Ted Hughes, moving AssiaWevill into the home he’d shared with Plath, of herwearing Sylvia’s clothes, brushing her hair with thesame brush. I want to ring Anna up and remind herthat Assia ended up with her head in the oven, justlike Sylvia did.
I must have fallen asleep, the gin and the hot sunlulling me. I woke with a start, scrabbling arounddesperately for my handbag. It was still there. Myskin was prickling, I was alive with ants, they were inmy hair and on my neck and chest and I leaped tomy feet, clawing them away. Two teenage boys,kicking a football back and forth twenty yards away,stopped to watch, bent double with laughter.
The train stops. We are almost opposite Jess andJason’s house, but I can’t see across the carriageand the tracks, there are too many people in theway. I wonder whether they are there, whether heknows, whether he’s left, or whether he’s still living alife he’s yet to discover is a lie.
SATURDAY, JULY 13, 2013
MORNING
I know without looking at a clock that it issomewhere between seven forty-five and eight fifteen.
I know from the quality of the light, from the soundsof the street outside my window, from the sound ofCathy vacuuming the hallway right outside my room.
Cathy gets up early to clean the house everySaturday, no matter what. It could be her birthday, itcould be the morning of the Rapture—Cathy will getup early on Saturday to clean. She says it’s cathartic,it sets her up for a good weekend, and because shecleans the house aerobically, it means she doesn’thave to go to the gym.
It doesn’t really bother me, this early-morningvacuuming, because I wouldn’t be asleep anyway. Icannot sleep in the mornings; I cannot snoozepeacefully until midday. I wake abruptly, my breathjagged and heart racing, my mouth stale, and Iknow immediately that’s it. I’m awake. The more Iwant to be oblivious, the less I can be. Life and lightwill not let me be. I lie there, listening to the soundof Cathy’s urgent, cheerful busyness, and I thinkabout the clothes on the side of the railway line andabout Jess kissing her lover in the morning sunshine.
The day stretches out in front of me, not a minuteof it filled.
I could go to the farmer’s market on the Broad; Icould buy venison and pancetta and spend the daycooking.
I could sit on the sofa with a cup of tea andSaturday Kitchen on TV.
I could go to the gym.
I could rewrite my CV.
I could wait for Cathy to leave the house, go to theoff-licence and buy two bottles of sauvignon blanc.
In another life, I woke early, too, the sound of the8:04 rumbling past; I opened my eyes and listenedto the rain against the window. I felt him behind me,sleepy, warm, hard. Afterwards, he went to get thepapers and I made scrambled eggs, we sat in thekitchen drinking tea, we went to the pub for a latelunch, we fell asleep, tangled up together in front ofthe TV. I imagine it’s different for him now, no lazySaturday sex or scrambled eggs, instead a differentsort of joy, a little girl tucked up between him andhis wife, babbling away. She’ll be just learning to talknow, all “Dada” and “Mama” and a secret languageincomprehensible to anyone but a parent.
The pain is solid and heavy, it sits in the middle ofmy chest. I cannot wait for Cathy to leave the house.
EVENING
I am going to see Jason.
I spent all day in my bedroom, waiting for Cathy togo out so that I could have a drink. She didn’t. Shesat steadfast and unmovable in the living room, “justcatching up on a bit of admin.” By late afternoon Icouldn’t stand the confinement or the boredom anylonger, so I told her I was going out for a walk. Iwent to the Wheatsheaf, the big, anonymous pub justoff High Street, and I drank three large glasses ofwine. I had two shots of Jack Daniel’s. Then Iwalked to the station, bought a couple of cans of ginand tonic and got onto the train.
I am going to see Jason.
I’m not going to visit him, I’m not going to turn upat his house and knock on the door. Nothing likethat. Nothing crazy. I just want to go past the house,roll by on the train. I’ve nothing else to do, and Idon’t feel like going home. I just want to see him. Iwant to see them.
This isn’t a good idea. I know it’s not a good idea.
But what harm can it do?
I’ll go to Euston, I’ll turn around, I’ll come back. (Ilike trains, and what’s wrong with that? Trains arewonderful.)Before, when I was still myself, I used to dream oftaking romantic train journeys with Tom. (TheBergen Line for our fifth anniversary, the Blue Trainfor his fortieth.)Hang on, we’re going to pass them now.
The light is bright, but I can’t see all that well.
(Vision doubling. Close one eye. Better.)There they are! Is that him? They’re standing onthe terrace. Aren’t they? Is that Jason? Is that Jess?
I want to be closer, I can’t see. I want to be closerto them.
I’m not going to Euston. I’m going to get off atWitney. (I shouldn’t get off at Witney, it’s toodangerous, what if Tom or Anna sees me?)I’m going to get off at Witney.
This is not a good idea.
This is a very bad idea.
There’s a man on the opposite side of the train,sandy blond hair veering towards ginger. He’s smilingat me. I want to say something to him, but thewords keep evaporating, vanishing off my tonguebefore I have the chance to say them. I can tastethem, but I can’t tell if they are sweet or sour.
Is he smiling at me, or is he sneering? I can’t tell.
SUNDAY, JULY 14, 2013
MORNING
My heartbeat feels as though it is in the base of mythroat, uncomfortable and loud. My mouth is dry, ithurts to swallow. I roll onto my side, my face turnedto the window. The curtains are drawn, but whatlight there is hurts my eyes. I bring my hand up tomy face; I press my fingers against my eyelids, tryingto rub away the ache. My fingernails are filthy.
Something is wrong. For a second, I feel as thoughI’m falling, as though the bed has disappeared frombeneath my body. Last night. Something happened.
The breath comes sharply into my lungs and I situp, too quickly, heart racing, head throbbing.
I wait for the memory to come. Sometimes it takesa while. Sometimes it’s there in front of my eyes inseconds. Sometimes it doesn’t come at all.
Something happened, something bad. There was anargument. Voices were raised. Fists? I don’t know, Idon’t remember. I went to the pub, I got onto thetrain, I was at the station, I was on the street.
Blenheim Road. I went to Blenheim Road.
It comes over me like a wave: black dread.
Something happened, I know it did. I can’t pictureit, but I can feel it. The inside of my mouth hurts, asthough I’ve bitten my cheek, there’s a metallic tangof blood on my tongue. I feel nauseated, dizzy. I runmy hands through my hair, over my scalp. I flinch.
There’s a lump, painful and tender, on the right sideof my head. My hair is matted with blood.
I stumbled, that’s it. On the stairs at Witney station.
Did I hit my head? I remember being on the train,but after that there is a gulf of blackness, a void. I’mbreathing deeply, trying to slow my heart rate, toquell the panic rising in my chest. Think. What did Ido? I went to the pub, I got on the train. There wasa man there—I remember now, reddish hair. Hesmiled at me. I think he talked to me, but I can’tremember what he said. There’s something more tohim, more to the memory of him, but I can’t reachit, can’t find it in the black.
I’m frightened, but I’m not sure what I’m afraid of,which just exacerbates the fear. I don’t even knowwhether there’s anything to be frightened of. I lookaround the room. My phone is not on the bedsidetable. My handbag is not on the floor, it’s nothanging over the back of the chair where I usuallyleave it. I must have had it, though, because I’m inthe house, which means I have my keys.
I get out of bed. I’m naked. I catch sight of myselfin the full-length mirror on the wardrobe. My handsare trembling. Mascara is smeared over mycheekbones, and I have a cut on my lower lip. Thereare bruises on my legs. I feel sick. I sit back downon the bed and put my head between my knees,waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. I get to myfeet, grab my dressing gown and open the bedroomdoor just a crack. The flat is quiet. For some reasonI am certain Cathy isn’t here. Did she tell me thatshe was staying at Damien’s? I feel as though shedid, though I can’t remember when. Before I wentout? Or did I speak to her later? I walk as quietly asI can out into the hallway. I can see that Cathy’sbedroom door is open. I peer into her room. Herbed is made. It’s possible she has already got upand made it, but I don’t think she stayed here lastnight, which is a source of some relief. If she isn’there, she didn’t see or hear me come in last night,which means that she doesn’t know how bad I was.
This shouldn’t matter, but it does: the sense ofshame I feel about an incident is proportionate notjust to the gravity of the situation, but also to thenumber of people who witnessed it.
At the top of the stairs I feel dizzy again and gripthe banister tightly. It is one of my great fears (alongwith bleeding into my belly when my liver finallypacks up) that I will fall down the stairs and breakmy neck. Thinking about this makes me feel ill again.
I want to lie down, but I need to find my bag, checkmy phone. I at least need to know that I haven’t lostmy credit cards, I need to know who I called andwhen. My handbag has been dumped in the hallway,just inside the front door. My jeans and underwearsit next to it in a crumpled pile; I can smell theurine from the bottom of the stairs. I grab my bagto look for my phone—it’s in there, thank God, alongwith a bunch of scrunched-up twenties and abloodstained Kleenex. The nausea comes over meagain, stronger this time; I can taste the bile in theback of my throat and I run, but I don’t make it tothe bathroom, I vomit on the carpet halfway up thestairs.
I have to lie down. If I don’t lie down, I’m going topass out, I’m going to fall. I’ll clean up later.
Upstairs, I plug in my phone and lie down on thebed. I raise my limbs, gently, gingerly, to inspectthem. There are bruises on my legs, above theknees, standard drink-related stuff, the sort of bruisesyou get from walking into things. My upper armsbear more worrying marks, dark, oval impressionsthat look like fingerprints. This is not necessarilysinister, I have had them before, usually from whenI’ve fallen and someone has helped me up. Thecrack on my head feels bad, but it could be fromsomething as innocuous as getting into a car. I mighthave taken a taxi home.
I pick up my phone. There are two messages. Thefirst is from Cathy, received just after five, askingwhere I’ve got to. She’s going to Damien’s for thenight, she’ll see me tomorrow. She hopes I’m notdrinking on my own. The second is from Tom,received at ten fifteen. I almost drop the phone infright as I hear his voice; he’s shouting.
“Jesus Christ, Rachel, what the hell is wrong withyou? I have had enough of this, all right? I’ve justspent the best part of an hour driving aroundlooking for you. You’ve really frightened Anna, youknow that? She thought you were going to?.?.?. shethought?.?.?. It’s all I could do to get her not to ringthe police. Leave us alone. Stop calling me, stophanging around, just leave us alone. I don’t want tospeak to you. Do you understand me? I don’t wantto speak to you, I don’t want to see you, I don’twant you anywhere near my family. You can ruinyour own life if you want to, but you’re not ruiningmine. Not anymore. I’m not going to protect you anylonger, understand? Just stay away from us.”
I don’t know what I’ve done. What did I do?
Between five o’clock and ten fifteen, what was Idoing? Why was Tom looking for me? What did I doto Anna? I pull the duvet over my head, close myeyes tightly. I imagine myself going to the house,walking along the little pathway between their gardenand the neighbour’s garden, climbing over the fence.
I think about sliding open the glass doors, stealthilycreeping into the kitchen. Anna’s sitting at the table. Igrab her from behind, I wind my hand into her longblond hair, I jerk her head backwards, I pull her tothe floor and I smash her head against the cool bluetiles.
EVENING
Someone is shouting. From the angle of the lightstreaming in through my bedroom window I can tellI have been sleeping a long time; it must be lateafternoon, early evening. My head hurts. There’sblood on my pillow. I can hear someone yellingdownstairs.
“I do not believe this! For God’s sake! Rachel!
RACHEL!”
I fell asleep. Oh Jesus, and I didn’t clear up thevomit on the stairs. And my clothes in the hallway.
Oh God, oh God.
I pull on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt.
Cathy is standing right outside my bedroom doorwhen I open it. She looks horrified when she seesme.
“What on earth happened to you?” she says, thenraises her hand. “Actually, Rachel, I’m sorry, but Ijust don’t want to know. I cannot have this in myhouse. I cannot have?.?.?.” She tails off, but she’slooking back down the hall, towards the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry, I was just really illand I meant to clear it up—”
“You weren’t ill, were you? You were drunk. Youwere hungover. I’m sorry, Rachel. I just can’t havethis. I cannot live like this. You have to go, OK? I’llgive you four weeks to find somewhere else, but thenyou have to go.” She turns around and walkstowards her bedroom. “And for the love of God, willyou clean up that mess?” She slams her bedroomdoor behind her.
After I’ve finished cleaning up, I go back to myroom. Cathy’s bedroom door is still closed, but I canfeel her quiet rage radiating through it. I can’t blameher. I’d be furious if I came home to piss-soakedknickers and a puddle of vomit on the stairs. I sitdown on the bed and flip open my laptop, log in tomy email account and start to compose a note tomy mother. I think, finally, the time has come. I haveto ask her for help. If I moved home, I wouldn’t beable to go on like this, I would have to change, Iwould have to get better. I can’t think of the words,though, I can’t think of a way to explain this to her.
I can picture her face as she reads my plea for help,the sour disappointment, the exasperation. I canalmost hear her sigh.
My phone beeps. There’s a message on it, receivedhours ago. It’s Tom again. I don’t want to hear whathe has to say, but I have to, I can’t ignore him. Myheartbeat quickens as I dial into my voice mail,bracing myself for the worst.
“Rachel, will you phone me back?” He doesn’tsound so angry any longer, and my heartbeat slowsa little. “I want to make sure you got home all right.
You were in some state last night.” A long, heartfeltsigh. “Look. I’m sorry that I yelled last night, thatthings got a bit?.?.?. overheated. I do feel sorry foryou, Rachel, I really do, but this has just got tostop.”
I play the message a second time, listening to thekindness in his voice, and the tears come. It’s a longtime before I stop crying, before I’m able to composea text message to him saying I’m very sorry, I’m athome now. I can’t say anything else because I don’tknow what exactly it is I’m sorry for. I don’t knowwhat I did to Anna, how I frightened her. I don’thonestly care that much, but I do care about makingTom unhappy. After everything he’s been through, hedeserves to be happy. I will never begrudge himhappiness—I only wish it could be with me.
I lie down on the bed and crawl under the duvet. Iwant to know what happened; I wish I knew what Ihad to be sorry for. I try desperately to make senseof an elusive fragment of memory. I feel certain thatI was in an argument, or that I witnessed anargument. Was that with Anna? My fingers go to thewound on my head, to the cut on my lip. I canalmost see it, I can almost hear the words, but itshifts away from me again. I just can’t get a handleon it. Every time I think I’m about to seize themoment, it drifts back into the shadow, just beyondmy reach.