The receptionist had to call my name three times before I recognized it.
Marta Bjornstad.
Blushing, I made my way along the draughty corridor.
‘You’re expecting a baby,’ the doctor said once she had run her tests, looking up from behind a desk cluttered with paperclipped documents and family memorabilia.
I felt my mouth fall open. ‘But I’m ill,’ I said. ‘I’ve been dreadfully sick.’
The doctor smiled, writing something. ‘That’s perfectly normal. I’m prescribing folic acid.’
‘But I don’t feel right,’ I said.
She didn’t look up. ‘It’s all worth it in the end,’ she said. ‘When the baby arrives.’
It felt so strange that something had been happening in my body which I was unaware of. I put my hands on my tummy but it didn’t feel any different. As I walked out of the doctor’s surgery into the sunshine, I smiled, imagining someone to talk to, to look after. I held onto the knowledge as if it was something precious. Hector could tell something was different: I hummed to myself making the dinner, smiling more than usual. I waited until we were in bed that night, sitting side by side, before I told him. He shifted his position, leaning over me and searching my face. Then he pulled me towards him into a hug, squeezing me gently, and I knew then that this was what he wanted, that he was as happy as I was.
Leaving the light on for Hector, I turn onto my side and shut my eyes.
In the middle of the night, I jerk awake, my eyes wet. The illuminated alarm clock by the side of the bed reads 02:13. Moonlight shines dimly through the crack in the curtains, and I can just make out a white disc in the night sky. A full moon.
I was dreaming of a forest. A figure was running, as fast as she could, the green of the trees rushing darkly past. I remember a flash of white-blonde hair, a shriek of laughter, her muscular limbs pushing forward. The ballet shoes she wore on her feet. Ribbons trailed behind her, skimming the dirt.
I breathe out. I am in my own bed, warm and safe. Hector is on my side, his arms around me. I imagine him, lying awake in the darkness, watching the outline of my body, working up the courage to move closer. I can feel his warm belly against my back; the looseness of the skin like silk; the flesh soft, harmless. I listen to the rise and fall of his breathing: the slight wheeze in his lungs, the rattle of his throat. I put my hands over his: the skin feels dry.
There is no sound in the room except for our breathing, my heartbeat in my chest. I feel a twisting anxiety begin in my stomach. I try to make myself calm, to go back to sleep, but the darkness is heavy, the silence oppressive. I long for the sound of the outside nighttime: an owl in the forest, a fox wailing.
When I can’t bear it any more, I slip away from Hector and out of bed, pulling myself up. Walking towards the hallway, I wince at the creak of the hinges.
Away from the warm bedroom, the air is sharp. I long for my dressing gown, hanging on the other side of the door. Over the banisters of the staircase is one of Hector’s ironed shirts and my black trousers, ready to be put away. I pull off my nightgown and slip them on. The shirt is made of thick wool and reminds me of Wellington boots, chopping wood, and the smell of pastry. Warm, wholesome things.
Shafts of moonlight trespass across the hallway, casting shadows behind the picture frames. I rub my finger over the light switch on the wall. I don’t press it: Hector is sleeping, but I imagine the light spreading down the dark corridor. I am good at this. Soon, the black square of the window is white.
I walk to Kylan’s bedroom, opening the cupboard doors to look for traces of him. At the back, I find a pair of balled-up socks and an old magazine about stamp collecting, yellowed at the edges. Holding the socks to my nose, I breathe them in, but there is nothing. Eventually, I put the things back where I found them.
Turning around, I see a girl, sitting on the floor with her back against the bed. I let out a gasp, but she doesn’t seem to see me. She stares without blinking, her grey eyes wide and glossy. Her hair is very messy: dirty, almost grey, though the broken ends are blonde. She is wearing grimy white pyjamas, her thin arms wrapped loosely around her bony knees. The bed is different: low with a metal frame, and a thin foam mattress covered with a white sheet.
A strand of hair falls forward into her face. She doesn’t notice; I long to reach forward and brush it out of her eyes. Then she looks straight up at me.
‘Help me,’ she says.
As I step towards her, she disappears. The bed is as it was. I go and stand in front of where she was sitting, lean down and look under the bed, but there is nothing there. I tell myself I must have imagined it. It isn’t real, I say. But I can still hear the desperation in her voice, and see her huge grey eyes. I try to remember if this is what happened last time I stopped taking my pills, but I can’t. The part of me that watches from the outside is intrigued. Something is happening at last.
I walk quickly back down the corridor, thinking with every step that I see something in the corner of my eye. In our bedroom, I pull back the covers and crawl into bed. It is so warm. I lean in to Hector, pulling his arms around me. I feel him stir.
‘What’s the matter?’ he says sleepily.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ I say, drawing him even closer. ‘I had a bad dream.’
I feel him wrap his body around mine. I think then of telling him what I saw, but I know he will ask me if I have been taking my pills.
‘You’re so cold,’ he says, his breath warm on my neck.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘Go back to sleep,’ he says, and I shut my eyes.
Lying in the darkness, I hear his breaths slow, and I match mine with his.
*
I wake again at seven to the sound of the alarm. Hector is on his side of the bed and I am on mine.
He switches off the sound and I turn over, watching the blue edge of the curtains. It makes me think of the early days, before we were married, when I spent so much time in this bed. I wasn’t well then: I could barely sit up, but waking in the night and seeing the orange summer light around the curtains made me feel a little better. I would lie awake, listening to Hector breathing, thinking of nothing but the light-filled valley above the dim bedroom, and listening to the alien sounds of birds in the trees. My fingers trembled under the duvet cover, stretching towards the window.
Hector was so good to me in those days. He took time off work, sat with me while we watched old movies, and wiped the tears from my cheeks. I was ill, grieving, and he took care of me, with food and cups of tea and hot-water bottles. He knew I didn’t want to see anyone, so he kept me a secret, didn’t force me to get up, to pull myself together. He made sure I took my medicine, and slowly I began to put on weight, to get better. I owe him so much.
I get out of bed, creeping towards the bedroom door so as not to wake Hector. He likes to sleep in on Saturdays, and I have a lot to do for this evening. He’ll be down at about nine for his eggs, and I will have them ready.
Downstairs, I clear the mess in the living room: scooping up the newspaper, putting Hector’s shoes into the hall cupboard, straightening the cushions, drawing the curtains.
Clear away any untidiness. Catering to his comfort will give you an immense sense of personal satisfaction.
Setting up the ironing board, I put on my
20 Romantic Classical Favourites
CD and work to the ‘Moonlight Sonata’. Everything gets ironed, including Hector’s underpants.
Find little jobs that will make his life easier and more pleasant.
Listening to the rise and swell of the music, the muscles in my legs begin to twitch, as if I have trapped a nerve. They long to be stretched. Putting the iron down, I place my hands face down on the ironing board. As I point my toes, my legs lengthen and the gentle hairs catch the light. The music reaches a crescendo and I pull my leg up further, ignoring a tremor of pain.
Letting go, I move the ironing board and rise up onto the tips of my toes in one motion, feeling the arch of my foot. Stepping from one foot to the other, I lift my curved arms backwards and then forwards. My body knows what to do. I rise onto one leg, sweeping the other in a semicircle, raising my arms and turning, turning, turning, always bringing my head back to the same point.
Just as I am beginning to overbalance, I feel a hand catch my leg and hold it, helping take the weight. There is another hand on the small of my back. I open my eyes and the girl from last night is there, smiling, swaying a little to the music as she supports me, her eyes closed.
I stay very still, not wanting her to go. Her blonde hair isn’t as messy, tied up high on her head. The white pyjamas she was wearing the last time I saw her are clean now, too short at the arms and legs, dotted with tiny pink hearts. Her body is more filled out, and I can see the muscles of her legs, and the definition of her stomach. She opens her eyes and looks right at me.
‘What are you doing?’
I jump, and turn towards the living-room door. Hector is standing there, watching me. I feel my cheeks redden. When I look behind me, she is gone.
‘I didn’t think you were up yet,’ I say, my heart pounding.
A smile cracks the corner of Hector’s mouth. ‘You look ridiculous,’ he says. ‘What was that supposed to be?’
I look down at the floor.
He laughs then, short and sharp. ‘You looked like a crazy person. Dancing in your nightgown. Whatever next? Just wait until I tell Kylan.’
I shoot him a look. ‘Don’t, Hector,’ I say. ‘Please.’
He smiles. ‘I won’t,’ he says, moving closer, putting his hand on my back where hers was a moment ago. ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’ He rubs my back, up and down. ‘Have you taken your pill?’ he says.
‘Not yet,’ I say.
Hector leaves the room, returning with the bottle.
‘Open your mouth,’ he says.
He takes out a pink pill and puts it in my mouth. I mock-swallow, letting the pill slip underneath my tongue, then open again. He nods.
Once he has left, I spit the pill into my hand, going to the fireplace and dropping it into the grate. Then I move the ironing board back into place and continue to work.
There is something, just out of reach, which I can feel shifting inside me. I shut my eyes, willing it to come forward. It’s a smell first, of detergent and sweat, and a rapid image that shuttles before my eyes too fast for me to grasp. Hard, shiny wood floors, a wall lined with mirrors. The tight material against my legs, my hair scraped back and held aloft with too many sharp pins. Then the chords: classical music played softly, a few bars and then nothing. The picture spreads for a moment like ink through blotting paper, and then, just as quickly, it is gone.
After what feels like a long time, Hector re-enters the room. He walks slowly to his chair, easing himself into it. I hear the newspaper open. The only sound is the rustle of the pages and the hiss of the iron. The palm of my hand is slippery with sweat, making it hard to get a good grip.
Some time later, when I am finished, I turn to lift the pile of ironed clothes into the basket, and catch a glimpse of him. He holds the newspaper up, but he is staring straight past it, at the far wall. He looks so tired and old and drawn, his half-moon spectacles resting on his nose. His face is clouded with something I can’t read. I almost don’t recognize him.
I stand by the ironing board and watch as he lets the newspaper crumple in his lap, dropping his head into his hands. The iron hisses.
He lifts his head and looks at me. I can barely stand it. He is expecting something. I should know what to do.
Comfort him in times of stress. Speak in a low, soft voice to reassure him of your support.
‘Hector?’ I say. ‘Do you want some eggs?’
He gets up, lifting himself out of the chair. Standing behind me, he puts his arms around my waist, resting his neck onto my shoulder.
‘We’ve been happy together, haven’t we?’ he asks.
I nod, my hair brushing against his cheek.
‘Don’t ever leave me,’ he says softly.
‘I won’t,’ I say.
‘Tell me you love me,’ he says.
‘I love you, Hector,’ I say.
He turns me around, pulling me towards him and kissing me on the mouth, his eyes still open.
He releases me, then he smiles and walks towards the door. There’s the sound of the front door slamming, and the car starting up in the drive.
Hector leaves the house at eight thirty. After getting dressed in some old clothes, I fetch the duster and cleaning spray from under the sink and return to the living room. Starting at the bay window, I wipe down everything, making sure not to miss a spot.
I reach Hector’s chess set, in pride of place on the table in the centre of the room. Sitting on the floor, I rub one piece at a time, turning to look out of the window as I work. Behind me, I hear the sound of a marble chess piece sliding across the board. I turn and see her sitting cross-legged on the floor, her legs so thin that the gaps between them are vast. Her hand is still on a white pawn, which she has pushed forward two spaces.
I look at her face: the dirty, narrow cheeks; the matted hair; her glowing grey eyes. She smiles as I slide a black pawn forward to meet hers, her white teeth too large in her head. She takes her turn, her legs jigging in the white pyjamas.
As I am wondering what has happened since the last time I saw her, I feel her hand over mine. Looking down at our two hands together, I see both sets of fingernails are bitten to the quick, raw at the edges. I put my other hand on top of hers, and suddenly, her hand is gone and the room is empty.
The pieces on the chess board are paused, mid-game. I wonder if that proves that she was really here. It felt real: I can still feel her cold hand over mine. I imagine telling Hector about it, and I see his face falling, then hear the rattle of the pill bottle.
I think of the house, of Kylan coming home, and I want to make him proud of me. I don’t want to disappoint them again.
One after another, I move from room to room, cleaning everything in sight, until the whole house shines. I don’t stop to look around or to check my progress. A few times, I remember the hidden cigarettes under the mattress, but I am not tempted to take a break. It feels good to be busy, to be working hard, and I barely think about Hector or what he is doing out for so long. It is like the old days, when Kylan was young, and I never had a moment to myself. It’s not until I am wiping down the final stretch of kitchen surface that I look up at the window in the kitchen and realize the light is fading already, that the day is nearly gone. It’s four p.m.