by Lee Moan
***
It was hunger that finally made him venture out. He carefully unbolted the door and peeked through the gap. The landing was clear. The master bedroom door was ajar, which probably meant she was up and about. She always slept with the door firmly shut, some obscure childhood fear he never understood. If he’d had his way he would have slept with the windows and the door open.
He crept downstairs, his fear evaporating when he saw his wife seated at her favourite place: the breakfast table. She was surrounded by bowls of food: a plate of spare ribs, a salad bowl (untouched), a farmhouse loaf, sliced in readiness with a dish of butter next to it. There were microwave cheeseburger cartons, a plate piled high with oven chips. It looked like the entire contents of the fridge-freezer.
He stood behind her for a time and watched her gorge herself, feeling an odd sense of revulsion and pity. Eventually she sensed his presence and looked over her shoulder with a cowed look.
“Is that your solution to the problem?” he said. “In times of crisis, eat the entire contents of the fridge? A little short-sighted don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?” she said, after a hard swallow.
“I mean, dearest, what if this goes on and on for weeks? What are we going to eat?”
She gestured at the fridge-freezer. “Take a look.”
He stared at her, unsure for a moment, then walked over and yanked the door open. The fridge compartment was stuffed full of food. He looked at the table, then back at the fridge. Everything she was eating was stocked in the fridge.
He looked at Portia, but she only shrugged.
“Every time I take something out and close the door it . . . replaces itself. Try it.”
He snorted. Then he took a bowl of prawns from the top shelf and closed the fridge door. He paused, scowling at Portia while he counted to three in his head. He pulled the door open and there it was: an identical bowl of prawns sitting in the space he had just vacated.
He laughed and closed the door again. “Is that you, too?” he asked.
Portia was just about to bite into a greasy rib when her face fell. She looked ashamed and dropped the rib onto her plate.
He set about fixing himself a prawn sandwich, being careful to remain on the far side of the table.
After a time, she said, “What do you think’s happening, David?”
He glared up at her. “You tell me, sweetness.”
She threw her napkin down and sipped her glass of Diet Coke. “I don’t understand this, David. I swear. Nothing has ever happened like this before.” Her brow wrinkled. “Well . . .”
“Well?”
“When I was sixteen, I dated a guy called Scott Milner. He was a bit of a bad boy, but I really liked him. He dumped me after our second date.”
“And?”
“We were in the park. He was walking away from me, and . . . I don’t know, it was like the sky grew dark. You know when a really bad storm is coming in? It was like that . . . only it wasn’t just the sky. Everything grew just a little bit dim. But as he was walking off with his arrogant swagger I realised he was just a total prick and then, in a flash, everything was bright again.”
David stared at her for a long moment, then bit into his sandwich very carefully. He chewed for a while, and then said, “Can’t you just call me a prick and turn everything back on?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think you’re a prick, David. I love you.”
He stopped chewing.
“For better or worse, I love you.” She leaned across the table. “I know we’ve had our problems, David. I know things aren’t perfect, but I’m willing to do anything to make it work. I just wish you felt the same.”
He dropped the butt of his sandwich onto the plate. “Is that the deal?” he said. “I tell you I love you, go through the motions, and you’ll make the world come back?”
Her brow clenched. “No, David. No. But think about it for a minute: maybe this has all happened because . . . because we’re meant to be together. Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling us that we should never be apart.”
He shook his head, avoiding her gaze.
“You still haven’t given me a good reason why you wanted to leave me, David. I thought we were happy.”
“Well, you thought wrong.”
“No,” she said, and he saw a rare defiance in her face. “No, that’s not what you really think. I know you, David. You’re hiding something.”
They stared at each other for a long time.
“You’ve always refused to talk about your parents.” She cocked her head to one side. “Is it something to do with what happened to your father?”
“I don’t want to talk about my father.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
“No.”
He glared at her and she bowed her head. They were silent for a while.
“David, all I want is to understand you, to make you happy.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Portia. I won’t . . . I can’t . . .” He sighed, finding the words hard to say. “No matter how long we’re stuck here, the fact remains . . . you can’t make me love you.”
She flinched as if he had struck her, then turned her face away from him. She nodded, before slowly rising from her chair.
“Let me go,” he said, grabbing her hand and squeezing hard. “Please, Portia, just let me go.”
She looked at him with a stoic expression, her voice devoid of emotion.
“Don’t you think I’ve tried?”
“Please, try one more time. For me.”
After a moment she closed her eyes and stood in silence for a while, her forehead clenching and unclenching. Then her eyelids snapped open. She shook her head.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to control it.”
“What?” he said. “What does that mean? You don’t know how to control it?” He rose up from his chair and leaned across the table, his voice growing higher with each word. “So that’s it? That’s the deal? We’re stuck here until I somehow find a way to love you again?”
She looked at him, a mixture of fear and helplessness in her eyes. “What’s so bad about me David? What’s so bad that you want to leave? ”
“You really want to hear it? ”
“Of course I do.”
He stared at her, surprised at how little sympathy he had left for her. “You just gave up,” he said. “You gave up on yourself and you gave up on me. You eat and eat and eat. You sleep all day. You don’t even look after the house, Portia. Whenever I try to tell you about it you just tell me to stop bitching at you. Well, I decided to stop bitching and get out. You’ll never change, Portia. I realise that now. You’re lazy and self-centred and you don’t care about anything. You make me miserable.” He paused. “Is that enough for you?”
He could see she was fighting the tears but she wouldn’t win. “I thought it would always be the two of us,” she said quietly. “Always. ”
“You and me?” he said. “Together forever? I’d rather live in the dark.”
He sat back down and resumed eating his sandwich in quick, angry bites.
Portia stared at him in silence, her face crumbling into a mask of misery. She hurried away from the table and he watched as she made the long, lonely journey up the stairs to the imagined sanctuary of what had once been their marital bed.
