by Girard, Dara
Table of Contents
Title Page
Spare Room
A Thousand Words
About the Author
Other Titles by Dara
Copyright Information
Spare Room
Dara Girard
Smashwords Edition
www.iloripressbooks.com
Spare Room
“But I already told them they could come.”
“Tell them you changed your mind.”
“I can’t. They’re already on their way.”
Michael Redwell glanced again at the ginger roasted fish cooling on the kitchen counter, wishing he hadn’t asked his wife ‘What was the occasion?’ He’d had an awful day at work, one of the junior programmers had used a code that had corrupted the entire system, and he didn’t want to hear that his wife’s sister, Leone, and her husband, Martin, were coming to stay.
He walked to the fridge and opened it. Glass food containers of various shapes and sizes, fought for space on the shelves and his brother-in-law’s favorite brand of German beer crowded the fridge door. He grabbed one.
“That’s for the guests,” Natalie chided him.
Michael took a long swallow without apology. He set the bottle down on the wooden kitchen table. “You bought enough. They won’t notice,” he said, then he glanced at the covered dish on the counter and sighed. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m sorry,” Natalie said, her tone filled with true regret. “It will just be for a couple of days. I’ll look after them and keep them out of your way. They won’t be a bother.”
Guests, even the ones you enjoyed, were always a bother. They meant cleaning up, making sure the fridge was filled, the kitchen spotless and dinner made. Plus providing entertainment and making sure the conversation flowed so that awkward silences were kept to a minimum.
“They can’t help themselves,” he said.
“You’ll hardly know they’re here.”
“You could have made sure of that by saying no.”
Natalie looked at her husband feeling a little guilty, but knowing she’d had no choice really. She’d said ‘yes’ before thinking. It was the weekend and although she hated having her sister visit, she hadn’t been able to come up with a believable excuse why she and her husband couldn’t stay with them while they attended a medical workshop in Baltimore. Their house was located less than ten minutes from where the event was to be held.
“You won’t have to do anything, but smile.”
“Like this?” Michael said, making a face as if he’d swallowed something bitter.
Natalie couldn’t help a laugh, but felt some relief that he wasn’t angry. “No. I just need your help putting some sheets on the bed. That’s it.”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze shifted to the light drizzle of rain outside their window. It had been a soggy summer and didn’t seem to want to change.
She held her breath, licked her lip and waited, wondering if she was pushing too hard. Wondering if she should have just handled changing the sheets herself, but she wanted his help. Needed it. She couldn’t cope with fixing up the spare room on her own. When he still didn’t respond she said, “I promise.”
He sighed again then shifted his gaze to her face. “Okay,” he said. The bitter smile was gone but the tension in his dark, brown gaze deepened.
***
Michael watched Natalie smooth down the maroon sheets with a quick deft movement. The bed was made and ready for visitors. Visitors he didn’t want. Visitors he wasn’t ready for. She hadn’t needed his help with the sheets and he wondered why she’d even asked him. She was always efficient. She rarely needed him for anything.
Except for things she didn’t feel like doing. Like setting up the spare room. He knew she regretted saying ‘yes’ as much as he hated the thought of having visitors, but she handled it better. She handled most things better than he did.
He rested his hands on his hips and glanced around the room. He looked at the white curtains, the lemon colored walls, the built in bookshelves with tiny daisies painted on the side. The spare room smelled surprisingly fresh, although they hadn’t used it in ten years.
“You were right,” he said, needing to fill the silence. “We didn’t have to paint over the daisies. They still work. I didn’t think they would when we repainted the room.”
Natalie picked up a pillow and fluffed it. “You thought they would only work when it was pink.”
He folded his arms and nodded. “The color of Piglet.”
A slight smile touched her mouth as she set the pillow down. “And you’d added clouds to the ceiling.”
He held his arms tighter, resisting the urge to look up, resisting the urge to remember how he felt painting those clouds. He didn’t want to remember how he’d made jokes about the Sistine Chapel and Michelangelo, at times, affecting an Italian accent to make Natalie laugh. He didn’t want to remember how much he’d complained about his neck and back aching, although he’d being too happy to really feel it. He stared at the lemon colored walls, not wanting to remember when they’d prepared the room for someone else.
He swallowed. “This is not the right time for visitors.”
“It hasn’t been the right time for years.”
He rubbed his chin.
“When will it be?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Just not now.” He sat on the bed.
“The room needs to be used.”
He glanced at the wall again. “I wonder what color she would have painted it?”
Natalie sat down beside him and studied the wall for a moment then said, “Maybe gothic black?”
He laughed. “Or maybe we wouldn’t see the color because it would be covered with posters of boy bands.”
“Or maybe fashion scenes from Paris.”
“Maybe.”
She stood up. “Come on. I have to do some others things before they arrive.”
“Should I put chocolate on the pillows?”
She shot him a glance. “Don’t be rude.”
“I’m not,” he said, holding out his hands in innocence. “It’s just an idea.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“I hate when they visit.”
“They haven’t come to stay in years,” she said, nudging him with her fist to get him to stand. “And the last time we saw them was eight years ago.”
He slowly rose to his feet. “That long? It doesn’t feel like it.”
“It is. That’s why I couldn’t say no. They know we have the space.”
He wanted to argue with her. He didn’t want to admit that they had the space. He hated that they had the space. That they had a spare room and that everybody knew they had one.
You can always try for another, his mother had said.
Another. Such a simple, mechanical word. As if they could replace a punctured tire with a spare one.
Another.
But there hadn’t been another. Never would be.
Natalie adjusted the curtains, the drizzling had stopped. “I need this room used.”
But he didn’t. He’d had a bad day at work. Didn’t that mean anything? He didn’t want to chat. To pretend he felt fine when he wasn’t, but he’d have to. Natalie wouldn’t be able to keep her sister and brother-in-law out of his way. Out of this room.
“I’m sorry,” she said, again.
He looked at her. Saw the tears and knew she wasn’t sorry about the guests.
He shook his head and tried to keep his voice tender. “No, don’t cry.”
She didn’t listen. The tears fell.
And he felt the sting of tears behind his eyes. He glanced at the ceiling and blinked them away, remembering when he painted over the blue sky and white clo
uds. He remembered the stark white color on the rolling brush. The blue sky disappearing under every angry stroke. No one could tell there had ever been a sky, that there had once been images of piglet lining the trim or that he’d once been seduced by the sound of a giggling, curly haired baby.
He took a deep breath. “You’re right. The room has to be used,” he said no longer dreading the tedious conversations to come. He resigned himself to how he’d have to listen to Martin discuss his golf game as he tried to kiss up to his boss, although his passion was cricket. How Natalie would smile while Leone showed them pictures of their daughter’s violin recital, making sure to tell them how much the instrument and lessons cost.
He lightly kissed Natalie on the cheek, feeling the wetness of her tears on his lips. “It’s okay,” he said, not wanting her to feel sorry about anything.
It wasn’t her fault he’d had a bad day, that he didn’t want guests, or that they had a spare bedroom. He had to face the truth that they did. Even though they’d never meant it to be that way.
The End
Turn the page to read the bonus story A Thousand Words
A Thousand Words
Writing had become painful, like a festering disease. Yvette couldn’t understand why God would curse her with such an addiction--an addiction to write. She threw her notebook into the oversized vinyl bag, hanging over her shoulder and tried to smother the temptation as she gazed around the photo gallery with its pristine white walls, gray benches and carpeting. The serene order was a relief.
She had left her house in order to breathe, in order to escape her mind. Her one bedroom apartment, which was once a refuge, was now becoming a prison. Instead of seeing windows, she now saw bars; her door was a metal slab blocking her from the outside; the tassels of her rugs occasionally nipped at her heels as if trying to shackle her. The books on her shelves mocked her failure at acclaiming success as an author. Although she had published two volumes of short stories, reviewers had ignored them, readers had disregarded them and only a few booksellers still offered to display them. Even the hope of electronic distribution had not resurrected interest in her stories. Stories she had labored through now sat unread—it hurt, as if a baby she had given birth to had been left to die on top of a mountain.
But now she was out of the apartment and in the gallery of Pierre Dubois, a photographer who was quickly making his mark on the world. She had taken no notice of him or his work, but her friend had read about his gallery display in the newspaper and begged her to go. Unfortunately, at the last minute, her friend had bowed out of the arrangement, leaving Yvette to go alone. Since she needed the distraction she decided to come. So here she was, feeling like an outsider among the over dressed onlookers and magnificent artistry. But somehow it comforted her; no one paid attention to the dark skinned woman wearing a white blouse and cream colored pants, with a purple, silk scarf artistically draped over her shoulders. She didn’t mind being a ghost. A nonbeing floating unnoticed in a realm of nothingness. No one tried to impress her. A story started to build itself in her mind about a woman who lived her life as a spirit, but she quickly brushed the thoughts aside, as if they were poisonous thoughts out to destroy her. Thinking of them as voices only a schizophrenic would hear and listen to.
She toyed with the scarf around her neck as she stared at a photograph titled: “Morning” with detached interest. Funny, she had titled a story “Morning” once. Not that it mattered. The photograph was of a flower covered in dew with the sun causing the dew to shine like molded crystals. It was painfully exquisite. She could feel her soul dying in its presence. The photographer had an eye, he had a talent that people were praising and she was glad for him, but it also tortured her, because she knew that the others in the gallery did not see what she saw.
She heard the words “compelling”, “striking” and “innovative” bandied about like chocolate sprinkles on a cake, but those were shallow, hollow words that did not quite capture all that he was saying. She suddenly laughed at her foolishness—how could she possibly know what he meant anyway? She was only a writer—a dreamer, like him. Feeling suddenly weary, she sat down on a bench in front of a picture titled: “Anticipation”. Yvette snorted. Another mockery of a story she had once written. It was a picture of a lake with the sun’s rays fingering the waves as it descended behind distant mountains. She allowed herself to get lost in the picture, pushing people’s voices into the background. Perhaps that’s what she should do. She should find herself a lake and submerge herself in it. Cease existing. Cease torturing herself.
Again the desire to write rose up like a bonfire, burning her insides with the need to escape, but Yvette turned her heart cold, closing her eyes. Suddenly, a soothing female voice came over the loud speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, please adjourn to Room 3B to see the unveiling of Chevalier’s new piece, ‘Acute Disparity’, that will be auctioned.”
The crowd murmured its delight; people emptied the main hall, like a room full of school children being let out for the holidays. Everyone left—except Yvette who sat motionless. The place was now as quiet as a library, only the barely audible buzzing of the lights could be heard overhead. She opened her eyes and stared at the picture, now seeing the reflection of her face in the glass.
“What do you think?” a deep voice asked from behind her.
She was not startled by its unexpected appearance. Few things startled her nowadays.
“It brings me sweet agony,” she replied, not turning to the source of the voice.
The man paused. “Agony?”
She did not reply, not wanting to engage in conversation or explain her enigmatic response.
Undaunted, he sat down next to her, but far enough away to be non-threatening. Yvette observed him through the corner of her eye. He was a handsome man, his eyes were a lively brown and unusually kind—an expression she’d rarely seen in men with his physical attributes. His chin was solid with self-assurance, his nose poised but not haughty. Overall he had the kind of face seen in magazines, TV ads or movies. She looked down at his clothes—trousers made of fine wool and a blue shirt that complemented his brown skin. He looked out of place here, like Michelangelo’s David in a toy store.
“How did you escape?” she asked suddenly.
He frowned, only enhancing his magnificent features. “What do you mean?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “The women. How did you escape them?”
He laughed. “Why do you ask? Because of my looks?”
Yvette sat back and again stared at the picture. It was the laugh that had disappointed her—it was too knowing, too smug and just a little cynical. Perhaps she had misjudged him. Perhaps he was shaped more by his looks than she had assumed. He was no innocent Adonis.
He fell silent too for a moment and stared at the picture. “I hate that photograph,” he said abruptly, violently.
She turned to him, her eyes silently asking him why.
“It’s so deceptive,” he replied. “Its beauty captured merely by the trick of the light, the right angle, the right lens.”
He continued to talk and as he did Yvette was surprised that she hadn’t listened to how beautiful his voice was. How pleasant she found the cadence of his words. She felt for him. How tiresome it must be to be so beautiful, to be perceived rather than understood.
“But—,” she said, once he had finished. She paused, wanting to phrase her words properly. Not wanting to misunderstand the true meaning of his words. “All that you've said, do you think that’s what the artist intended for you to see?”
He fell silent again. So silent that Yvette figured he hadn’t heard her or just chose not to respond. Perhaps she had insulted him, she didn’t care.
She looked at the photograph a bit longer—eyeing the waves and the sunlight dancing on the water. If she focused enough she could feel the breeze, see the water moving.
“You’re wrong,” she said suddenly surprised by the vehemence in her voice.
He look
ed at her startled. “Wrong?”
“The beauty was already there. It’s not a trick of the light or shadow. It’s not the right lens or the right angle. No one could be so arrogant as to believe such superficial things could create such beauty. The beauty was there to be captured.”
“Ah, but the camera can make anything beautiful—a muddy beach, a swamp, a toad.”
She flashed him a sly smirk. “And who is to say those things aren’t beautiful?”
He shook his head, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“The camera catches things we chose to ignore,” she continued.
“Yes.”
“It’s a magnificent study,” she said, an intrusive sadness crushing her chest. All of a sudden she felt worn and tired. In this one photo this man had accomplished more than she ever would with her stories—the dead babies she had labored over for years. She felt the photos laughing at her as her books had. They had the same names as her stories, didn’t they? They taunted and teased her. How can you call yourself an artist? What have you done? Who knows you? Suddenly she felt the walls closing in on her. She shouldn’t have come. She shouldn’t have engaged in conversation with this handsome stranger who seemed to be studying her more than the photograph. She stood up wanting to be a ghost again, wanting to disappear into the walls.
“Where are you going?” the man said.
But Yvette raced out the doors, her scarf trailing behind her as if waving goodbye.
***
Oh such brilliance! Yvette thought as she cried, gulping the outside air, the sky heavy with dark clouds. It pained her to be in the presence of it. And she felt that she was the only one who truly knew the photographer's mind. But he received success while she sat on a cold pavement, contemplating what to do next. Should she continue to live and toil over words that would ultimately be unread? Words that would touch no one’s life? Or should she become a ghost. A real one?
