by Britney King
On the screen, I see myself come into focus. It’s not the best system; I purchased it years ago. It’s a baby monitor with a camera, black and white, paltry compared to what you can find on the market today. Nevertheless, I can’t help but notice how old I look, how my age shows in my movement and in my body language. Hadn’t I just run a marathon last year? Or was that two years ago now?
Time is a blur. A year ago, or last night, the only thing that’s clear is the fact that my memory is failing me. On camera it becomes evident that I hadn’t locked the door after I’d kissed Eve goodnight. Had I been drunk, tired, or just plain hopeful?
Anything’s possible.
Whatever the case, I was distracted. It’s excruciating, and as of late, irritating, to have a wife that’s out of service. Being a long-term caretaker is not exactly what I had planned for my life.
I love Eve, obviously, and I understand what it means to make a vow to someone. But to live out that vow year after year, day after day, is proving to be another story entirely.
On an average day, by the time it comes to an end, even with Joni’s help, there’s not a lot left in me to put toward anything else. With work, and with managing the estate, and her care, not to mention all the little nuances of life, it’s evident something has to give. Eve used to say this about mothering when the children were little, and sometimes I feel like maybe this is a form of payback. Only my wife is not a child. She’s sick, and deteriorating rapidly.
You expect this sort of thing to occur naturally in life, growing old with a spouse. What no one tells you is how fast it actually happens. Even so, I’m not yet sixty, and on days where Eve’s illness really gets to me, where her absence feels huge, or her presence unbearable, I can’t help but think about what I’m missing out on. A normal life, whatever the hell that is.
Outside, across the yard, movement near the cottage catches my eye. Liam and the girl are cuddled up on the porch swing. It reminds me of Eve and I in years past. It reminds me of the reason I hung that swing in the first place. The countless evenings we spent in it and the few times we managed to take in a sunrise.
Liam sits upright, while she lies across his lap, her head resting in the crook of his arm. Another problem for me to fix. I glance at the clock. It reminds me, injured or not, I have to get some work in. A shower would do me good; I’ll clean myself up as best I can. With any luck, I’ll be able to locate some form of adhesive or glue around here to take the place of staples.
But my mind isn’t focused on that. Not the way it should be. The girl reaches up and caresses Liam’s face. On one hand, I’m glad she’s back. Liam is more focused with her around. But her presence, while it has a positive effect on the writing front, also leaves me with one gigantic problem: how do I keep what happened between us under wraps, at least for the next couple of weeks? Until I can finish this manuscript and free myself of Liam. I weigh my options wondering what it’s going to cost me to keep this mistake from him and from my wife just long enough for me to make it go away.
The most obvious answer would be to go straight to the source. Which is what I’d originally planned to do. But like I said, time has a way of marching on. As the saying goes, life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. There’s also the fact that we’ve only seen each other from afar since Liam introduced us at the party. It’s not that I haven’t meant to find out what she wants and what she’s up to; why she hasn’t said anything, whether to me or to Liam, or to my wife, is a mystery in and of itself. It’s not typical behavior, and generally where there’s smoke there’s fire. Is she afraid of Liam? And if so, what does she know?
Getting to the heart of the matter turns out to be easier than I thought. I emerge from the shower to a cacophony of noise. I rush to the window, thinking that Eve has escaped—that the police have surrounded the house, that if my life wasn’t fucked before, it’s certainly fucked now.
Only when I peel back the shutters, I’m only slightly relieved that’s not what I see at all. There’s a flurry of activity…the kind that can only mean one thing.
Liam has decided to throw another one of his parties.
To cheer her up, naturally.
I learn this the way I learn most things: after the fact. Out my window, there are teams of people working in unison, scattered amongst the property, rushing around hurriedly, making preparations. And it’s white. As far as the eye can see. White flowers. White tents. White cushioned furniture. White gloves. You’d think he was having a goddamned wedding.
For a moment, I think maybe Eve really has killed me, and I’m about to witness my funeral.
Once I’ve dressed and tended to my injuries, I spend a good portion of the day sitting at my desk, attempting to write. This is how I know I’m not dead. It’s strenuous, trying to work out the ending to this book. I thought I knew how things would turn out, but apparently my characters have different ideas in mind. With my head feeling the way it does and my eyes nearly swollen shut, I have a hell of a time staying focused on much of anything. My wrist throbs, and the rest of my body is stiff, but my mouth works just fine and I am at least able to dictate words into a recorder.
In the afternoon, with the turn of the key in the lock, I check in on Eve. She’s drowsy on account of the sedative but awake as much as one could expect, considering. When I say I have something to tell her, she stares at me eagerly. I know I probably shouldn’t do it. I should keep it to myself like the other stuff I don’t want her to know. But I need her to know what’s at stake if something were to happen, if she were to get out of this room, if she were to have an episode like the one she had last night. “I need you to remain calm,” I tell her, patting her hand.
She peers up at me through sleepy eyes. Eventually her scornful mouth curls upward. “I’m calm,” she says, motioning around the small room.
She likes it in here. For me, it offers a creepy vibe, the kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. I’ve always gotten the feeling that something very bad once happened in here. At any rate, it was meant for storage, not to house a human. But we needed something without a window, something without objects that could be used for harm. “How could I possibly get more calm than this?”
“You’re not going to believe it,” I say. “It’s about Liam.”
Eve leans forward and rocks slowly back and forth. It’s the meds. She seems to space out, to withdraw into herself, away from me, toward something else entirely, traveling somewhere I cannot reach. Eventually, she whips her head around and faces me. “She’s back, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” she says softly, almost too softly to hear, as though she’s speaking only to herself. “I suppose we have to let them be.”
“You’re not feeling well,” I tell her, rage suddenly boiling inside. “I’m going to put a stop to this. The last thing we need right now is a party.”
“Just wait a second, George.”
“What do you mean wait a second—what makes him think he can make decisions like this about our home? Without even consulting anyone?” I received an email from Liam which was supposed to serve as a consultation—maybe. He’s put me back on the bestseller list. Now, he’s planned a pre-release party for the new book. He says to “build excitement.” What he really means is to bribe his friends and people in literary circles, to not only buy the book but to actually read it and speak positively about it. It’s a big feat, I realize, but this seems like a bit much.
“I don’t understand the point of parties,” Eve tells me, her voice sounding very far off.
“Aside from the booze? Yeah, me either.”
She shakes her head like she’s trying to rattle a thought loose. “It’s all for show.”
Even when she’s sick, my wife has a brilliant way of stating the obvious. In fact, I think it’s her illness that makes her better at this than the rest of us. There’s no pretense—just blatant honesty, a rare thing in this business and in life, and despit
e all the rest is one reason I can’t seem to fall out of love with her. “That’s why I just said—I’m going to put a stop to it.”
“On the other hand,” she says, turning toward me, her eyes brightening. “It could be fun.”
“You hate parties.”
“I think I can manage one more.” I watch as she chews at her bottom lip until it bleeds. “He won’t be here that much longer anyhow.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“The best ones,” she says, “usually are.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Eve insists I come down for a visit. She wants to see me before the party. Not that I plan to go anywhere near it, not in my condition. Instead, I plan to spend the night in my study, writing, inching ever closer to the finish line and to getting Liam off my property and out of my life. He apparently did more today than plan parties and canoodle. He worked, emailing me some outstanding notes, and also some feedback that I hadn’t considered.
“I don’t know why you keep saying that,” Eve snaps. For most of the day, the sedative offered her the sweet release of sleep. But she’s fully awake now, the waning meds and lowering sun having its usual effect on her. I promised to read her a little of the book before guests began arriving and I have to dose her again.
“Saying what?”
She lies back on the bed and draws her knees up, covering her eyes with her forearm. Her shorts hang off her hips, the bones jutting outward, visible beneath the sheets. She’s lost weight. I know; I’ve spent many hours of my life studying the curve of those bones. “You keep referring to her as ‘that girl.’”
I take her wrist from her eyes and place it at her side.
She glares at me, her brow furrowed. “I’ve seen her up close. She’s hardly a girl.”
I know better than to offer a response. No matter what I say, it will lead to trouble.
Eve props herself up on her elbows. “She’s pretty, don’t you think?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sure you have, darling,” she says with a closed smile. “I saw your face when you were with her.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I reply, drawing smooth circles with my finger on her knee. “For one, she’s not my type. And two, even if she were, what does it matter?”
“A woman like that, dear, is everyone’s type.”
I lean toward her. “Interesting,” I murmur against her neck. “But there’s only one woman for me.”
She pulls away. “Is that so?”
“How long have we been married?”
Her brows stretch toward the ceiling and her eyes follow suit. “A very long time.”
“Then why do you insist on asking such silly questions?”
Eve scoots as far away from me as she can manage, forcing herself into a ball. “I’m tired, George.”
“So rest.”
“I’m not talking about that kind of tired. You know what I mean.”
I stare down at the floor, singling out carpet fibers with my eyes, one by one. I’ve seen Eve pick them apart during a manic phase. It’s not pretty. “We should replace this,” I tell her with a nod.
“George?”
Our eyes meet. “Have you even heard anything I’ve said?”
“You’re tired.”
“Yes.” Tears well up in her eyes. Finally, she sighs. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Chapter Thirty
The party goes about the way I imagine. All I can think about is Eve locked in that room. About what she’s done to me and about what I’m doing to her. About where this all ends. It’s for the best, I realize, her being in there, safe. It sucks, nonetheless, to have people crawling all over my property, enjoying themselves, and my wife not be one of them.
She said this would be fun, otherwise I’d have put a stop to it, and even though I’d rather be doing just about anything else, she wasn’t entirely wrong. After managing nearly a thousand words and partially editing several chapters, I step out onto the balcony that’s off the great room. I bring along a drink and a cigar, even though I have no intention of lighting it. It’s been ages since I smoked, but there’s something about rolling one between my fingers that I can’t let go of.
Kicked back under the stars, I am surprised to find myself enjoying the party from afar. Eavesdropping can be very enlightening. I’m three drinks deep and overlooking the lawn when I hear a familiar voice behind me. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”
I don’t have to turn in my chair to know who it is. But that doesn’t stop me. Her long hair swept up, my wife is right—she is pretty. She’s wearing a dress, black, not as short as the last time. “Whatever you’re speaking of,” I say, “I’m sure the answer is yes.”
“It’s funny,” she sighs whimsically. “We can be so together and yet so alone.”
I watch her hands as she pulls a cigarette from her clutch, sticks it between her lips and then fishes for a lighter. “You mind?”
I shrug.
She takes a long pull and exhales into the night air. “For millennia, people have taken vacations…people have had children…” she tells me, like she’s getting at some great big point. “This is an endless universe which spans who knows how long.” She gestures toward the sky, and I consider for a moment that she’s had too much to drink. “And still people think the details of their lives are special. So much so that they go to parties and spend the whole night detailing them to complete strangers.” She takes another drag, this time blowing smoke my way. It reminds me how much I miss it, regardless of the source. “No one is that special, George.”
Nostalgia rolls off her tongue in a manner I find amusing. “I take it you’re not a fan of people.”
“Oh, I love people,” she quips. “It’s the niceties and fakery I could do without.”
I don’t say anything in response, even though I understand what she means completely. I had been thinking it myself. As a collector of stories, I sometimes get so wrapped up in my own little world that I forget what it’s like. Back when I was a regular chart-topper, there were endless social functions, awards, book tours and such. It always struck me as odd that strangers felt that because they knew my words, they knew me. To describe what it was like standing there talking to people who felt like they knew me but who were essentially strangers, as far as I was concerned, is awkward. They’d ask me about the children, about life, picking out small details in articles, piecing them together, painting sometimes, but not often, accurate pictures of my life.
I never felt more like an imposter than I did standing there listening to people drone on incessantly about their trip to Italy three summers ago or little Johnny’s latest feat.
“It makes me feel like a fraud. All this smiling.”
“I heard about your fiancé.”
She turns to face me. “Absolutely tragic, isn’t it?”
“The death of a young person is always tragic.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
I swirl the remaining whiskey around my glass. “The cops have any leads?”
“For all I know,” she says with a snicker, “they’re watching me this very second.”
“Who could blame them?”
“We weren’t married.” She leans against the balcony. “What motive could I possibly have?” she asks, giving me the side-eye. “It’s not like I’ve gained anything.”
“Freedom isn’t nothing.”
“True,” she smirks. “Good thing I have an airtight alibi.”
“That’s smart.”
I watch as she stubs her cigarette out. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I was doing?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s none of my business. And to be honest, I really don’t care.”
“Oh George,” she laughs. It’s a head back, throaty kind of laugh. Then she looks me in the eye. “That’s where you’re wrong. You should care. You should care very much.”
“Shoul
d I?”
A smile lights up her whole face. The kind of smile that makes me unsure whether I want to kill her or fuck her. “I told them I was with you.”
Chapter Thirty-One
At this point in my life, there’s not much that she could say that would surprise me. But if a reaction is what she was after, a reaction was what she got. Mid-sip, I nearly spit out my whiskey. Afterward, she sits down beside me and lowers her voice. It’s full of smoke and mischief. “I think we could be very good together, you and I.”
“I’m married. And my wife is asleep downstairs.”
“That didn’t stop you before.”
I down my drink. She isn’t wrong.
“You know your characters in When Tomorrow Ends, Jen and Harry?”
“Sure.”
“I want a love like theirs.”
I wouldn’t be so sure about that, I think but don’t say. “It’s fiction.”
“Maybe,” she shrugs. “But I don’t buy it.”
“Apparently, you already did.”
“You got me,” she answers with a frown. “What happened to your face?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I stand with the intention of refilling my glass. “Why are you here anyway? You shouldn’t be here.”
She shakes her head slowly from side to side. “You’re right. I don’t want to talk about any of that stuff either.” My eyes move toward her legs as she crosses and uncrosses them. Is she being suggestive? Or trying to get comfortable? She smiles that smile again, letting me know it’s the former. “I want to talk about us.”
“There is no us.”
She glares up at me and cocks her head. “Who are you trying to convince?”
How I end up in the guest bathroom with the girl propped up on the sink is anybody’s guess. Although I suppose when you mix alcohol and loneliness, it isn’t so hard to imagine. “You know, George,” she tells me afterward, “I’ve always been your number one fan.”
