The Woman in the Dark

by Vanessa Savage

  “No,” I say. “But I’m not sure they’re working like they should. Shouldn’t the side effects be gone by now? I don’t feel better—if anything, I feel worse. Tired. My head aches all the time and I don’t want to do anything.”

  “It’ll be fine—the doctor warned us of the side effects, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but he said to go back if they don’t fade. I’m not supposed to take them for long, am I?”

  “Give it more time. I’ve seen an improvement—you’re less anxious, calmer. Joe and Mia have commented on it too.”

  Have they? I’m on different pills from the diazepam—supposedly milder, with fewer side effects, less addictive potential. But my mouth is dry and my hands are trembling. We’ve only been here a week and I’ve spent half my days sleeping. How is this better?

  “Give it time,” he says again.

  Time. How much am I meant to give it?

  The phone rings in the hall and Patrick goes to answer it. I hear his repeated hello and he comes back in shaking his head.

  “Who was it?”

  “No one at the other end—probably some international sales call. Come on,” he says, pulling me to my feet. “Let’s go and get ourselves a new kitchen.”

  “Are you sure you have time for this? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  We’re standing in the middle of a DIY-shop showroom, hoping to turn our sterile measurements and pictures into a dream kitchen. Patrick opens another cupboard, compares it to the brochure in his hand. “This is more important.”

  He looks tired, the circles under his eyes as dark as his jacket. A strand of his hair is sticking up at the back and it bothers me more than the creases in his shirt and the new lines on his face. “But…” He’s frowning. I’m spoiling it for him. “Sorry, I remember you saying things are busy, that’s all.”

  He blinks. “They’ve given me the day off.”

  They’ve given him time off now? I search his face, but he’s looking at his brochure. He told me last week it was far too busy for him to have more than the moving day off. I’m glad, though. He needs some time to himself. He didn’t sleep last night. I’d gone up early, out like a light before nine thirty. When I woke up, I’m not sure what time, he was moaning in his sleep, whispering something over and over again. Gibberish, incoherent, but it made my skin crawl. It was like when he used to have nightmares before, but this was different somehow, worse.

  He woke, sitting up and gasping, but I pretended to be asleep. I don’t know why I didn’t sit up and comfort him.

  “This is where it starts, Sarah,” Patrick says, tilting his chin at the picture of a beautiful kitchen he’s circled in the brochure. “This is where it becomes perfect. You’ll see what the house can be. All new appliances, decent electrical and plumbing. We’ll finance it on top of the mortgage, and then we’ll get to the decorating when this is done, I promise.”

  I’m caught up too. We have walked through the room sets, like it was a giant doll’s house just for us. We let the salesman seduce us with talk of hidden drawers, double ovens, and recessed lighting. We said yes to everything, though we don’t know how we’ll pay back the loan.

  “We’ll choose flooring and tiles then, and when it’s all done, we’ll look at a new bathroom,” Patrick whispers. His lips touch my ear and I shiver. I started laughing earlier—we were practically drooling over a bloody tap that supplies instant boiling water. When did we turn into people whose highlight of the week was a trip to the bloody home repair store?

  Now I trail after him as he approaches our hovering salesman. It’s better this way, I tell myself. Better to be this woman than who I was before we moved here. Maybe the house, the new start, is helping after all. The salesman, fifteen years younger, sees a couple approaching middle age talking about family dinners and cupboard storage, one of hundreds of such couples he must see every week. He doesn’t see a woman, three months out of the hospital after taking an overdose, who’s living a lie. Better to be the woman the salesman sees, the woman Patrick imagines in this perfect kitchen of his, with its pale-painted units and built-in wine cooler.

  The salesman clears his throat and I look up. His big sales smile is gone and there are red spots on his cheeks. “Um, sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Walker, but I’m afraid the application for finance has been declined. Do you have any other means of financing the kitchen?”

  I’m half jogging to keep up with Patrick’s stride. We get in the car, and Patrick slams his door so hard the car rocks. He sits there, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, but he doesn’t start the engine.

  I thought, for one stupid moment back there, that he was going to launch himself at the salesman. The look on his face… But that isn’t Patrick. Patrick doesn’t lose control. He rarely gets angry, and when he does, it’s a cool anger, not violent.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “We don’t need a new kitchen, not yet. We can paint the cupboards we have. They’ll look just as good as the ones in the showroom, and we can make do with the appliances we already have.”

  “I don’t want to fucking make do!” He shouts the last words, banging the steering wheel, and I jump.

  My heart is thumping as Patrick starts the engine, pulling out of the parking lot without another word. There’s a tic going in his cheek and I’m frozen, his shouted words ringing in my ears, breath held in the charged tension. I’m still hot from the humiliation of having to walk out of the shop after being turned down. I have no idea why we didn’t get the financing—we’ve had it before for cars and credit cards, and we don’t have any debts, as far as I know. Other than the mortgage on the house, of course. Is that what’s done it? Everything is in Patrick’s name—I have no income and had no savings other than my mother’s money. Patrick arranged it all and he told me that, with my mother’s money, we’d be fine. We do have some other savings, Patrick’s pension fund… My heart rate speeds up again. The bank would never have let him put everything into getting the mortgage, would it?

  We’re parked outside the house before Patrick speaks again. “When my father lost his job, he re-mortgaged the house. He let it fall apart, turned into… someone I didn’t recognize. It used to be so perfect. My parents prided themselves on how perfect it was. Back then, when I still thought it would be mine one day, I told myself I would continue that. I’d make it even more perfect. How it used to be. Everything perfect and everything beautiful. But I’m no better than him, am I? I can’t even get financing for a fifteen-grand kitchen.”

  “Patrick…” I reach to cover his hand with mine, but he snatches his away.

  “Don’t. Okay, Sarah? Just don’t.”

  I call Caroline the next day, but it goes straight to voicemail. “Caroline, it’s me. I’m sorry I haven’t called you back. I needed to give this move time—to give me and Patrick time. And it’s good, I know you won’t believe me, but it is. This has been a good move. I’m better here. Patrick’s…” No, his outburst was a brief loss of control. And completely understandable. “Patrick’s happy, we’re happy.” I pause. I was going to say, “Come and visit,” but maybe we need longer to settle first. “It’s still a bit chaotic here, but call me back and we can arrange a visit in a few weeks, okay?”

  I put down my phone and look around the room. Determined to do what I said and make this work, even without flashy new kitchens and bathrooms, I’ve embarked on a massive spring-cleaning. I’ve put cushions on the sofa in the living room, pictures on the walls. The old gas fire is not exactly the wood-burning stove of our dreams, but it gives off a cozy glow and warmth. I’ve lit scented candles and put flowers on the coffee table. It smells of cinnamon and polish. Not beautiful yet, but getting there.

  But the room, which should be bright and sunny, stays in shadow because the windows seem to be clouding, growing opaque. I first noticed it over the weekend, but today it seems much worse. I stand in front of the big bay window and outside a ghost walks past, indistinct. I step closer to the glass until the ghost turns i
nto an old man walking his dog.

  I lean to touch it. Smooth. Whatever is clouding it is not on the inside. It’s as if the house is growing a seal to hide us from the outside. My throat tightens as my imagination feeds me images of waking one day to find all the windows and doors gone, trapping us forever in the Murder House.

  No. Stop. I press my hands to my stomach as though I could push back the growing anxiety.

  I find a cloth, fill a bucket with hot water, and step outside. There’s a dug border outside the window, freshly turned over by Patrick, ready to fill with bedding plants. Rich dark brown earth, full of wriggling worms. I know this because I’ve been watching the birds flutter down to get them, the few that haven’t flown off for some winter sun.

  I lean across the border to touch the window. The glass isn’t smooth; it’s grainy. I lean farther over and on impulse touch my tongue to it.

  “It’s salt,” someone behind me says, and I stumble, my foot sinking deep into wet, wormy mud.

  “Shit.”

  “No, definitely salt,” he says, laughing, and I turn to glare.

  I don’t know him, but he’s not looking at my mud-caked foot or the madwoman who licks windows: he’s looking up at the house. “It’s because you guys are so near the sea,” he says. “Salt deposits. This road’s the worst—you get the wind on the house all day. It’s not too bad at the moment, but it’ll get worse if you leave it. You need to clean them every week, really, especially in winter. They had someone here cleaning them a couple of weeks before you moved in—you should check with the estate agents, find out who they used.”

  It seems odd to have a stranger telling me when my windows were last cleaned. I try to picture this man where I saw the watcher. Is he the same height? I’ve never been able to get a clear glimpse of the person, except as a vague shape.

  “You’ve probably noticed it on your bedroom window too.” He points up at my room.

  I take a step back toward the front door. Has he seen me looking out the window? “How do you know which is my bedroom?”

  He blinks. Smiles. “I guessed. It would have the best view.”

  “What are you? A window cleaner touting for work?”

  “I’m Ben Owens. From the gallery? Sorry to drop in on you, but your friend Anna said you had some paintings to show us.”

  “Oh, right. She didn’t say… I don’t have anything ready to show. I wasn’t expecting…”

  His smile fades. “I’m sorry, I assumed you knew I’d be calling by. Anna did give me your number, but I was passing, so…”

  He was walking away from town, not toward it. Passing on the way to where? I look around, but there’s no one else in sight. I take another step back toward the house. My phone buzzes and I look down to see a message from Anna: Don’t hate me but u r too good 2 hide away ur art! Thought u might never get the courage 2 go 2 the gallery, so Ben said he’d get in touch with u today—meant 2 text u last night 2 warn u, sry!! ☺

  I glance past Ben, half expecting to see Anna. How did she know to send the text now, just as he arrived? Ben’s gaze drifts past the open front door to the painting Patrick has put on the wall in the hallway, my sharp-edged lie of Patrick’s childhood home on canvas.

  “Is that one of yours?” Ben asks, and I nod. “You’ve made it look…”

  “I know.”

  “I used to know the family who lived in this house.”

  My face goes hot. “Do you mean…”

  “No, no. Of course I knew the Evans family, but just as neighbors in town. I was away at college when all the… when it happened. I meant the people from before. They had a boy my age—his name was Patrick,” he says.

  “You know Patrick? He’s my husband. I’m Sarah Walker.”

  His turn to retreat, a startled look on his face. “He’s back?”

  “The house came up for sale and he’s always wanted to move back here. We’ve always wanted to, I mean.”

  “That’s… God. Sorry, but Anna never said. I never thought…”

  I force a smile. “I’ll have to tell Patrick you came by—I’m sure he’ll want to catch up with an old friend.” I stop, remembering Patrick’s words: Anyone who remembers me now is not a friend.

  Ben shakes his head. “I wouldn’t call us friends. We were at school together.” He looks at the painting again. “Can I see the rest?” He steps closer, but despite his smile, I stay wary.

  “I haven’t done anything new for a while,” I say. “But I have some canvases inside. Do you think people would buy them?” I want money back in my savings account. The failed visit to the kitchen showroom has sparked a panic that won’t die down, chasing memories of that awful time, almost ten years ago now, when Patrick was between jobs and we were forced to pay all the bills on credit cards. Didn’t we vow never to end up in that position again?

  “If they’re as good as that one? Definitely. Sorry if I’ve caught you off guard. Anna was raving about you and”—he shrugs—“it was an impulse. Sorry.” He turns to walk away.

  “Wait,” I call.

  I don’t know this man: he’s a stranger. He used to know Patrick, but Anna knows him. She wouldn’t have sent him here if she didn’t trust him, would she? I’m sure it’s safe. But I’m still uneasy, so I don’t invite him in.

  “Can you wait here a moment?” I go back inside and through to the living room, where half a dozen canvases are stacked behind the door.

  I let Ben look at them in the narrow confines of the hallway, standing between him and the open front door, behind him so I can’t see his face, my arms folded, my nails digging into my palms. He glances over his shoulder at me and smiles a smile that uses his whole face: no frown lines for him, all laughter.

  “These are wonderful,” he says, and those three words wash away all of Patrick’s warnings. “You have to show them.”

  “I’m not sure my paintings will fit in with what you exhibit.” I wince. Oh, God—should I have said that? What if he loves that painting in the gallery window? He doesn’t seem to take offense—he laughs.

  “Don’t worry. The artist in the window is popular with tourists, so I always have a couple of his on show. But your work is far closer to what I’d like to exhibit.”

  Our conversation washes away all my hesitation about Ben, too. He’s a painter himself. He has kind eyes the color of the pebbles on the beach. He paints seascapes, but not like the offensive primary-colors one I saw in the window with Anna. He shows me some photos on his phone. Ben’s paintings are quiet and lonely, mist rising on water, shadow and reflection.

  He stands next to me as he tells me about the coves he visits to paint. His shoulder brushes mine. I think he’s flirting with me, this man who has paint under his fingernails, whose creased shirt smells of linseed oil, cigarette smoke, and the sea. I should mind, but I don’t.

  He flirts with me as we stand in the hallway of the Murder House and he tells me I could have a solo exhibition if I produce some new paintings. What will Patrick think when I tell him?

  I bite my lip. No need to say anything yet.

  “Can I buy you dinner?” Ben says as he steps back outside and holds out his hand for me to shake. “To toast the gallery’s newest artist?”

  His palm is warm and dry and I swallow as his rougher skin brushes mine. It’s a handshake, nothing more, a meeting between strangers, so why do I snatch my hand away so quickly? Why do I look around to make sure no one sees us?

  “Me and Patrick, do you mean?”

  He hesitates. “Sure. If you like.”

  But I can see he doesn’t mean dinner for three. Why is he asking me to dinner, flirting with me in the hallway of my own house, when he knows I’m married? When he knows the man I’m married to?

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I say.

  Ben, with what he’s offering, is not the adventure I want.

  “No painting today?” Patrick says when he gets in, looking at the stack of untouched paint pots.

&nb
sp; “No, I… I got distracted.” I turn my face away from him in case he sees guilt in my expression. Silly, I know. I have nothing to feel guilty about.

  “Distracted? By what?”

  “I wanted to go out. Explore the town some more.”

  There’s a pause as Patrick hangs up his jacket and leans forward to check his reflection in the mirror, smoothing back his hair. “Didn’t you do that last week? I don’t think you really have time for going out, do you?”

  “Come on, it’s not my fault we didn’t get the financing for the kitchen. Don’t be grumpy with me.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the damn kitchen. I’m just saying you need to finish unpacking and painting before you go skipping off again.”

  “Are you going to lock me in until I’ve finished?” I say it with a smile, but he doesn’t smile back.

  “It would be nice if you could do something while I’m working a sixty-hour week.”

  I take a step back, startled at the bitterness in his voice. I meet his gaze in the mirror and, behind me, I see a reflection of the cans of cheap white paint lined up in the hall.

  I fold my arms and turn my back on the paint, walking away from him into the living room. My shoulders are rigid as I hear him come in.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, a heaviness in his voice. He sounds tired. “I don’t want to fight. But I wish—”

  “Look,” I say, interrupting him, pointing at the window. “The glass is clouding over.”

  He leans over and frowns. “I’d forgotten this. Leave it. It’s cheaper than curtains.”

  “What?” I let out a startled laugh at his reaction.

  “That’s what my mother used to say.”

  “Your mother? The woman who could spot a speck of dust at a million paces?”

  Patrick shrugs. “Better cloudy windows than people looking in. You should be happy about that.”