How to Be a Good Wife

by Emma Chapman

  ‘You look lovely, Elise,’ she says.

  I smile. ‘So do you.’

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘Are you ready?’

  I walk towards the open front door, into the square of sunlight.

  * * *

  There is a black car waiting for us. It’s different to the vehicle I arrived here in, and I wonder if it is one of the staff’s, or if they hired it specially. Everything has been carefully planned for today so that it runs smoothly. It is rare, they told me, for us to be allowed out, but they can make exceptions, on special occasions.

  We drive out along the gravel path, through an avenue of tall green trees, their silver bark catching the light. When I arrived, it was hard to see out of the small windows of the van. I remember the heavy fear, my hands gripping the shiny faux-leather seat, but when I stepped out and saw the building, I was surprised. It was an old stone house, with faded blue paintwork and white shutters. There were lots of big, wide windows, and a grand stone porch, surrounded by decorative columns. It looked out over a small lake, with open fields beyond.

  I had imagined somewhere small with artificial light, like the room I had been put in at the facility. I suppose I am lucky, that I am being taken care of.

  The drive is long. I look out of the window at the sunlight dappling the fields. When I feel nervous, I look over at Laura, and feel better. I have told her about Hector. I’m not sure whether she believed me or not, but she kept her face so flat and calm, nodding in all the right places so that it didn’t seem to matter. She and the other doctors listen to me when I talk. They call me by my real name. In the beginning, they tried to show me how to control the memories, how to stop them, but I made it clear that I wanted to remember. It is all I live for now. I take the good with the bad.

  There is a light airy library in the house where I like to sit. The room has huge windows overlooking the lake, and patio doors that they open in the mornings now that it is warmer, so that we can go outside when we feel like it. It’s nice, to watch the ducks gliding on the surface, to feel the sun on my face, but there are limits, just as in there were in the valley. I must not leave the grounds, or go into the woodland beyond the lake.

  I sit by the window and remember. There is nothing to do now, nothing to distract me, but I am glad: I want the memories now. Sometimes they are the same as ones I have had before, and sometimes they are new, or slightly different. Each time, they are so vibrant and bright that I don’t want to come back from the past. I want to stay there, with those people, but I know that isn’t possible.

  I haven’t made many friends, but I suppose I am out of practice. Sometimes I smile at the other residents, and they smile back. I suppose I have Laura, though I know it is her job to be nice to me.

  Kylan comes to see me once a week. After our conversation in the facility, I don’t try to explain any more, about what happened. I tell him what I have had for breakfast, about craft classes and group-therapy sessions: my daily routine. I listen to him talk about the wedding, the house they are thinking of buying. He never mentions his father, unless I ask him. Sometimes, when he goes home, my face aches from smiling.

  I watch the fields and forests fly past the window. I must have slept for a while, because soon, Laura is tapping me on my shoulder, and telling me we are here.

  * * *

  By the church clock, it is 12:25 when we arrive. As I pull myself out of the car, I am startled by the number of people in the churchyard. They seem crammed onto the flagstones, a mass of writhing colour. I feel the faces turn to look at me, and I long to slip back into the car and let it drive me away. Then I feel Laura’s hand on my arm: the car door shutting behind me.

  I see Kylan, standing on the pavement before the church gates, looking for someone. Just as I am wondering who, he turns and sees me and starts walking towards us.

  ‘You’re here,’ he says, pulling me into a hug.

  ‘We just arrived,’ I say.

  ‘You look lovely, Mum,’ he says.

  I smile. ‘So do you,’ I say, looking at his stiff morning suit.

  ‘I’m a bit uncomfortable,’ he says. ‘I didn’t think it would be this warm in April.’

  The old crease deepens between his eyes, and I realize he is nervous. ‘It’s going to be wonderful,’ I say.

  He squeezes my arm. ‘I hope so,’ he says. ‘I’ll show you to your seat.’

  He leads me through the churchyard towards the door, and people move apart to let us through. I look for the familiar thinning brown hair, the walking stick, but he is nowhere to be seen.

  As Kylan leads me through the entrance of the church, my eyes adjust to the dimness, and for a moment, I can’t make out anything inside. I feel myself grip his arm.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ Kylan says. ‘Dad isn’t here yet.’

  I breathe out. Laura is right behind me. I wonder if they planned for Hector to arrive later: how much additional stress this must have caused. I see how hard it will be for Kylan, to juggle us for the rest of his life. I want to tell him that he doesn’t need to worry: I am determined to stay calm, not to ruin the day.

  Kylan leads me to the front of the church, to a sign marked ‘Reserved’ in the front pew.

  ‘Best seats in the house,’ Laura says, and Kylan smiles at her.

  ‘You should be able to see everything from here,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks, Kylan,’ I say. ‘This is perfect.’

  ‘Dad will be on the other side,’ he says. ‘I hope that’s all right.’

  ‘We’ll be great here, won’t we, Elise?’ Laura says.

  Kylan balks at the name, and Laura blushes.

  ‘I’m fine, Kylan,’ I say. ‘Honestly. Go and enjoy your day. And stop worrying about me.’

  Kylan looks at me, and I pull him into a hug. ‘You look so good,’ I whisper.

  As I let him go, I see him smile, and for a moment, he is a little boy again, nervous about running the hundred-metres race at the school sports day. He walks down the aisle and back towards the entrance of the church, stopping to talk to some people along the way. I see him shake hands with an old school friend, laughing at something the man says, and I realize how proud I am of him.

  ‘He’s a lovely man,’ Laura says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve done a good job with him,’ she says, and I smile.

  * * *

  It is warm in the church: people fan themselves with their orders of service, and there’s a buzz of chatter in the air. I keep an eye out: every time I turn around, I am momentarily disorientated by the menagerie of bright hats and dresses.

  When the church is almost full, I turn my head and see Hector and his mother walking down the aisle, arm in arm. Hector is without his stick, but he is still a little stooped, and I am struck by how small he looks. Kylan told me that Matilda has moved back into the house with him, to take her old job back, I suppose. She must be happy about that. I take hold of Laura’s hand.

  ‘Is that him?’ she whispers, and I nod.

  A few minutes pass before I risk another glance at him. He is sitting across the wide aisle, boxed into the pew by his mother and a group of people I don’t know. As I turn my head, I see that he is staring at me, a still, flat look on his face that makes me tremble. He doesn’t look angry, or sad. There is a blankness that I find more disconcerting.

  Hector looks away, towards the front of the church, and as I follow his gaze I see that Kylan is entering from the side chapel with his best man. They take their places at the altar rail, and Kylan shakes his friend’s hand. He rocks backward on his heels, glancing behind him.

  Just then, the organ starts up, and everyone turns to the back of the church. I see a white shadow in the doorway, lit up by the sunshine outside. Slowly, arm in arm with a sturdy grey-haired man, she walks forward. The wedding march begins. Step left, step together, step right. A gauzy veil covers her face, and for a moment, the man at her side falls away, and it is me again, walking down the aisle towards He
ctor. I want to reach out for her, to tell her to get out of the church and run as fast as she can, but as I look down at Laura’s hand over mine, I know I am too late for that. It is Katya, underneath that veil, and even through the material, I can see she is smiling.

  As she approaches, I turn to look at Kylan. As soon as I see his face, I feel the tears begin to push at the back of my throat. He is smiling, his eyes filled with joy, and excitement, and so many other things. That is what a husband should look like, I think. Katya kisses her father on the cheek, squeezes his arm, and takes two steps to her place beside Kylan at the altar.

  * * *

  When the ceremony is over, Laura makes sure we are one of the first to reach the doorway of the church. Hector waits in his seat. I am not sure if it has been planned this way, or if he can’t get out quickly because of his knee.

  My throat is still a little tight from the tears, but I feel lighter as I step out into the sunshine.

  The courtyard is bright. Blinking, I see the bride and groom are standing to one side, waiting to greet people. Laura and I approach them.

  They are laughing about something, and when they turn to us, they are smiling.

  ‘That was perfect,’ I say.

  ‘I’m so glad you could come,’ Katya says. The sunlight is behind her, making it hard to see her face clearly.

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed it,’ I say. ‘You look so lovely.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘You are looking very well yourself, Mrs—’ She stops herself.

  ‘You’re Mrs Bjornstad now,’ I say, and I laugh.

  Kylan puts his arm around her. ‘I suppose you are,’ he says. ‘Mr and Mrs Bjornstad.’

  ‘I brought you a present, Katya,’ I say, holding out the parcel under my arm.

  Katya blushes. ‘Thank you,’ she says. She takes my hand and squeezes it, and for a moment, it is not Katya I see before me, but the girl I used to be, the light catching her long blonde hair. She smiles, a fearless, familiar smile, which makes my stomach ache.

  Then it’s Katya again. ‘Shall I open it now?’ she is saying.

  ‘Save it,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks so much for coming, Mum,’ Kylan says. ‘I know it can’t have been easy.’

  I smile, pulling him into a hug, and this time, he doesn’t move away first.

  ‘We’ll see you at the reception,’ Katya says. ‘It’s only a short walk to the house from here.’

  ‘We might take the car,’ Laura says.

  ‘You can go there now if you like,’ Katya says. ‘Everything’s ready and my mum should be heading there soon.’

  I let the people behind me greet the bride and groom.

  ‘Are you ready to go now?’ Laura asks me.

  I nod, and we go to find the car.

  ‘What was the present?’ Laura asks as we slide in.

  ‘A book,’ I say. ‘I was given it on my wedding day, and I thought I should pass it on.’

  Laura turns back to the road ahead.

  Making myself comfortable, I imagine Katya tearing off the wrapping paper and revealing the old tattered copy of How To Be a Good Wife. I can imagine her and Kylan laughing at the old-fashioned phrasing: belittling the demands that were so much a part of my married life. I don’t need it any more.

  * * *

  Soon, the reception is in full swing. The house is as beautiful as Kylan said, a yellow wooden building that skirts the edge of the fjord, with a long sloped lawn leading down to the water. The day is perfect, and the people milling about are smiling, their cheeks flushed from sun and champagne.

  Laura and I have been sitting in the shade, watching the party. Laura has spread her legs out in the sun, and she is on her second glass of wine. It’s hard not to be relaxed when the weather is so nice, especially after the long winter, and with everything going so well. Kylan has come over a few times to check up on us, but I actually prefer it when we are left alone. I ask Kylan where his father is, and he tells me he has taken Matilda home. I have been introduced to Katya’s parents, who seemed a little nervous, unsure of what to say, as if they were meeting a celebrity. I just nodded and smiled, as I have done all day. It is all I seem to do these days, and I have become quite used to it.

  I like sitting here, out of the way, where I can watch the festivities. I can imagine blonde-haired children running across this lawn, a pregnant Katya smiling in the sunshine, a cool glass of water in her hand. I am like a lion in the shade, apparently resting, but actually waiting for the right moment. I know it will come, and I have waited so long now that a little longer won’t make any difference.

  There is a jazz band out here, and soon, people start to dance on the grass. Though it is only 4:10, some people have removed their shoes and socks. Laura is tapping her foot to the music.

  There is food laid out on a table in the shade: a buffet to help yourself to. I’m not hungry, but Laura brings me back a plate anyway, and I pretend to eat. After we have finished, a young man comes over to ask Laura to dance. She blushes, looking at me. I nod, smile, and tell her it is fine. She sits for a moment, her eyes squinting in the sunlight, and I can tell she is weighing up whether she is allowed to dance: she is supposed to be working, after all. But eventually, she gets up, smiles at me, and lets the young man draw her away.

  To start with, they dance near me, the man leaning close and Laura jumping away slightly. She looks over at me, and I can tell she is embarrassed. She knows she should keep an eye on me. But gradually, she lets the man lead her into the throng of the other dancers, and after some minutes her attention wanders.

  I glance around the lawn but I can’t see Kylan or Katya. Slowly, I get out of my seat and walk into the house. I am ready with my excuse, but it is deserted: cool and shady and dim. All the doors and windows are open, the shutters thrown back, and I walk through unnoticed. As I reach the front hall, I hear the clattering of dishes from what must be the kitchen. I unlatch the front door and walk out.

  The drive is cluttered with empty cars; I weave my way through. Before I know it, I am out on the road, hidden from view by the heavy evergreen trees that mark the territory of the house, dappling the road with sunlight. I walk quickly in the direction of the church and the town.

  The heat has dislodged a warm, earthy smell from the dark trees, and I can hear the distant music. Kicking off my high heels and looping them over my wrist, I break into a run, watching the forest rush by me out of the corner of my eye. There isn’t a soul on the road, and it doesn’t take long to reach the village.

  There is a bus stop on the main stretch and I stand by it, slipping my shoes back on, trying to make myself presentable. I check the timetable, before remembering I have no way of knowing the time. Soon, my feet begin to ache and I sit down. It can’t be long, I think, but without a watch, time stretches. At every moment, I think I will see Kylan or Laura running down the road from the house.

  Finally, the bus approaches. I step onto it. The bus driver smiles at me. I ask him where the end of the line is, then I buy a ticket, counting out the change onto the counter. It’s the last of the money from my old purse, and it isn’t quite enough, but he waves me on anyway.

  I find a seat at the back. When we start to move, I feel an excitement rise in my chest. We drive back the way I have walked, and as we pass the house, I duck down in my seat. Soon, we are long gone, and I relax, looking out of the window. I wonder if they have noticed yet.

  The bus is quiet for most of the journey. There is a young man with blond hair who reminds me a little of Kylan, but I don’t speak to him. Kylan and Katya will be leaving for their honeymoon soon, standing at the very edge of their new lives together. For a moment, I feel a pull of sadness, but I tell myself again that I am doing what is best.

  I slip my hand into my bag and smooth out the scrap of newspaper I have saved. The picture of my family underneath the tree in the garden. Whenever I look at the picture, which is often, I think how sad it is that I didn’t realize at the time how lucky I was
, just to be standing there, so close to them. All I cared about that day was the prickling sweat running down my back: I wanted to go inside where it was cool. Now all I have are impressions and longings.

  When I catch my first glimpse of the sea, the sun has begun to lower towards the horizon. I lean forward in my seat, watching the light shift across the water; the waves crash against the cliffs.

  I get off the bus at the last stop, and walk down towards the shore. I can smell the sea, and I am reminded again of the taste of rock candy, crunching between my teeth. Once I reach the sand, I kick off my shoes and walk out barefoot towards an outcrop of rocks overlooking the beach.

  Settling myself, I look back the way I have come. The beach is long and flat, the sand coarse and dotted with small shells. There are grey cliffs behind me, dropping to the rocks where I am sitting, and more, further out to sea. The beach is completely empty, but through the brisk wind, I hear a girl laughing. I see a flash of blonde hair, down on the shore, and I get up from the rocks and run down to the beach. Following the sounds of laughter, I run and run until my lungs burn and I am right at the edge of the water, watching the waves lap the shore, alone. This is what it’s like: with a certain turn of light, or a familiar sound, they are here with me, these people from the past. In the thrill of remembrance, I am her again. But just as quickly, the moment passes, and I am back in the present, with only the renewed pain of everything I have lost.

  And then I think of the message, written inside the back cover of How To Be a Good Wife, waiting to be found. Perhaps it never will be, but they are words I needed to say. It makes me smile to think of Katya taking the book down from a shelf, in a quiet lull between moments of motherly chaos, and finding my handwriting. Perhaps she will tell Kylan that I did say goodbye after all, that I was happy for them. That having my son was the best thing that ever happened to me, and that because of him, I would not change anything. And I hope that, maybe, they will understand what I am about to do.

  I look behind me once more, but the beach is deserted. I start to walk along the edge, towards the rocks. Clambering across them, I am taken back to our holiday on the island, when I walked out to the water, thinking at every moment I would fall. When I am far round enough, I take off my clothes, and fold them into a neat pile. I sit down, listening to the breaking of the waves. For a moment, I look down into the dark water, and then, I let myself go.