The Twilight Wife

by A. J. Banner

  “Kyra, a thought just occurred to me. I hate to play devil’s advocate, but are you sure he didn’t show you the box before?”

  Her suggestion stuns me, and for a moment, I can’t speak. “I don’t think so,” I say finally. “If he had, he would’ve told me.”

  “But he didn’t tell you about what really happened on the dive—at least, not until you confronted him about the miscarriages.”

  The room feels suddenly cold. A thread is beginning to unravel in the cuff of my sweater sleeve. “That’s true. Now he’s saying I swam into the strongest current on purpose. But I can’t imagine that I did. I don’t get a sense that I was depressed . . . I’m guessing the miscarriages would’ve made me feel sad and hopeless, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “Still not enough to want to kill myself. I know people get that depressed, but . . . I can’t imagine ever wanting to do away with myself. Life feels far too precious. But I don’t know who I was a few months ago, or last year.”

  “Have you ever been deeply depressed?” she says, uncrossing her legs and recrossing them in the other direction. She looks at me directly.

  “You mean before, in the years I remember?”

  She nods, looking at me intently.

  “No, never,” I say without hesitation. “I’ve been sad, sure, but never sad enough to want to end it all. At least, I don’t think so . . .”

  “What do you mean, you don’t think so?”

  I take a deep breath. “In high school, I was pretty down and out. I was never in the popular group of kids. I wasn’t a cheerleader type. I went to a large high school with lots of cliquish groups.”

  “Did you have any close friends?”

  “A couple, but I made my closest friends in college. Anyway, I never wanted to hurt myself. I certainly wouldn’t do it on a dive. I would take pills or something, just fall asleep and not wake up. Hypothetically speaking.”

  “Have you thought of doing that? Taking pills and not waking up?”

  “No,” I say. “Never!”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  My head is throbbing; the dizziness has returned. “Maybe Jacob doesn’t want me to know the truth.”

  “What truth do you think that might be?” She sits very still, her pencil unmoving, the eraser end resting on her notebook.

  “He’s only ever lied to me to protect me. What if I might have done something terrible?”

  “Like what?”

  “Hurt someone, or . . .”

  “Do you think you hurt someone?”

  “It doesn’t seem like me.” I look out the window, at the changing clouds, the sky transforming itself from solid blue to an angry gray. Drowning would work better. The room moves in circles, the shadows whipping around and around, as if in a blender at slow speed. “I have to go. I need to think.” I get up and make my way to the door.

  “Are you all right?” Her voice is full of worry.

  I turn to her and say, “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  The air hangs heavy in the house, thick with unspoken secrets. Unknown secrets. This afternoon, Jacob and I have barely spoken to each other. He’s making pasta for dinner. Now and then, I cast a sidelong glance in his direction. In my office, I find no new messages from Linny. Maybe she’s out on a research vessel without access to email. Sometimes she goes a couple of days without replying. I need to write her a real letter, send it to Russia by snail mail. I check back through our messages for her contact information, and I search my computer files but I find only a defunct address in Seattle.

  I sign out of email and search Google again for information about the dive, but there is no mention of what might have caused our accident aside from the treacherous currents. I turn off the computer and search through my files. I do not find a journal or any notes I wrote that might give me a clue.

  In my room, I look through my books, my papers, my belongings. The only subtle indication of my recent state of depression: the clothes in muted, somber colors. Grays and browns, blacks and dark blues. It was as if I wanted to blend in and disappear.

  In the bottom drawer of my dresser, beneath a gray sweater, I find a pair of form-fitting exercise pants I haven’t worn since we arrived. Did I ever wear pants so tight? Maybe I wore them for yoga or Pilates. I’m not a jogger. I pull out the leggings and a fragment of red fabric drops to the floor. I pick up the scrap of material, which must’ve clung to my pants in a dryer cycle. But it’s not a scrap at all—it’s a silk G-string with a narrow lace border. Underwear featuring a tiny triangle in the front, nothing but a string in the back.

  I see my hand reaching out to take the G-string off a hanger in a lingerie shop. Silk teddies shine in a rainbow of colors on hangers. Maybe a charmeuse, I thought, looking at a loose satin sleeveless top. Or a lace corset.

  Why not? He came up behind me. I would love to unlace you.

  I blushed. Corsets are too retro.

  No garters, either. I hate unfastening those things.

  I turned to him. I touched his five-o’clock shadow. So you’ve had experience unfastening those things?

  No, I’m imagining they would be hard to undo.

  Uh-huh. Right. I gave him a look.

  Seriously. I’ve never undone a garter, and corsets don’t turn me on. They look uncomfortable. I can’t believe women had to wear them for so damned long.

  This is why I love you, I said, smiling up at him. You want me to be comfortable.

  It’s my mission in life.

  I pulled a black transparent lace suit off a hanger. How about a body stocking?

  Looks sexy, but way too much trouble to take off.

  I showed him the G-string, and his eyes lit up. That’s what I’m talking about.

  I snap back to the present, collapsing on the bed, gripping the G-string so tightly my fingernails dig into the palm of my hand. I put on the G-string for him, somewhere else, not here. I wore nothing else. He lay in bed, patted the mattress. Come here, right now.

  A cloud passes over the sun. I can hear Jacob calling for me, telling me dinner is ready. I’m trembling all over. The memory sharpens. The bed, the light, the curves of his muscles. Were we in a hotel? A bed-and-breakfast? The location, the time, and what came before and after—the context eludes me. But I know for sure what we did that night, what we did for many nights. Shhhhh, don’t make a sound, Aiden said, pressing his hand over my mouth. Someone will hear.

  Jacob lit candles for dinner. They waver softly in the center of the table, sending a glow over our plates. He set two woven place mats close to each other, at right angles on the table. Cloth napkins, silver cutlery, two glasses of white wine.

  “You went all out again,” I say. “A bottle of wine, too?”

  “From Van’s collection,” he says.

  “This is lovely, but I’m not all that hungry.” In truth, I’m not sure I could keep any food down.

  “Here, sit.” He pulls back my chair, and I sit.

  “You’re good at feeding me,” I say, looking at the colorful salad tossed in a bowl on the table. He brings out ravioli and a bowl of tomato sauce.

  “Homemade sauce,” he says. “My own special recipe. No sugar. Most tomato sauce recipes include sugar.”

  “You’re the healthiest man I’ve ever known.”

  “Only a touch of red pepper.” He plunges the corkscrew into the wine bottle. “You don’t like your food too spicy, but a little red pepper is good for you.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  The popping sound makes me jump. Jacob holds up the corkscrew with the cork attached to the end. “First time I did this without losing the damned cork in the bottle.”

  “Good going,” I say.

  He pours me a half glass of wine and gives me a concerned look. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, as casually as I can. The arms of the chair feel like the walls of a prison cell.

  Jacob pours his own glass, sits in his chair. He gives me another peculiar loo
k. “There’s something wrong. You’re still angry at me.”

  “Why would I be angry at you?” I’m sure I don’t sound convincing.

  His face falls, the corners of his lips turning down. “You have to believe I did what I thought you wanted.” He gives me a pleading look. I’ve never seen such a vulnerable expression on his face.

  “I believe you,” I say.

  He lifts his glass. “A toast to starting again, to trusting each other.” He looks into my eyes.

  “To starting again,” I say halfheartedly, clinking my glass against his.

  He opens the cloth napkin on his lap, and I mirror his actions. He grabs the salad tongs and places a generous portion on my plate. “When the vegetables mature in Mom’s garden—I mean our garden—we can have our very own salad.”

  “That will be nice.” I pick up my fork, put it down. “You went all out to make this a romantic dinner. Thank you.”

  “It’s not working, is it?” he says, searching my eyes.

  I touch his cheek. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

  “That’s what people say when they’re breaking up. Are you breaking up with me?” He doesn’t really think this. His slight smile says that he’s trying to be charming.

  “No, I’m not. I’m telling you I’m flawed. I know I’m not perfect. I never was, was I? Even though you keep telling me I was.”

  He looks at me. “But you are perfect to me.” His words are laden with a different truth, running beneath them, unspoken. Did he know about Aiden? Is this why he hardly ever talks to him anymore?

  I spoon a few squares of ravioli onto my plate. I barely taste the meal, although I smile and tell Jacob how good the food is, what a great job he did in the kitchen, as usual.

  After dinner, we share fruit salad, and we load the dishwasher together. This is the part I hate, having to be domestic, Aiden said next to me that night, after I bought the G-string. Let’s leave all this. Life is too short. He tugged me back toward the bedroom. He didn’t mind the piles of unwashed dishes in the sink.

  Jacob makes sure the plates and bowls are loaded neatly, then he uses the kitchen sponge to scrub the sink. “Stainless steel is not really stainless,” he says.

  Later, after I’ve changed into my pajamas, he stands in the doorway. “Good night, Kyra.” He hesitates.

  “Good night,” I say, looking up at him. I’m brushing my hair on the bed.

  “Will you tell me when you’re ready for me to move back in here with you?”

  “I will,” I say, and I let him go.

  * * *

  I hardly sleep at all, and when I do, shadowy nightmares plague me. I wake with an acute uneasiness, but no specific images in my mind. In the morning, I make a pot of coffee and peanut butter toast for breakfast before Jacob is even up. As I wash my face in the master bathroom, the scar on my thumb seems to pulse. I see it now, in a flash, Jacob throwing the soap, then hurling the soap dish, making a dent in the door. What do you mean, you’re not sure? he shouts at me. I was picking up a shard of glass. The sharp edge cut my thumb. The blood seeped out of the wound and dripped on the floor. Why did Jacob tell me I cut my thumb on a dive? Did he want to pretend we never fought, that he never got angry?

  After a quiet breakfast of coffee and cereal, he drives into town. The house, which once felt so airy and spacious, closes in on me, every shadow full of secrets. I flip through the photo albums. I’m in a kayak, on the beach, sipping morning coffee, eating a hard-boiled egg. Digging in the garden. In every picture, we seemed so happy together. Did Jacob carve out all evidence of problems between us? Hide it away?

  I slip into his bedroom. The fragrance of laundry detergent and his familiar, spicy scent waft into my nose. He made his full-sized bed without a lump or a crease. In his closet, he folded pants and jeans over wooden hangers, arranged by color and style. Same goes for the shirts, sweaters, shoes. His dresser drawers offer up the same methodical arrangement of clothing. White undershirts folded just so. He even folds his briefs, trifolds his socks.

  There are no photographs on the walls, no coins scattered on the dresser. His books on the nightstand are arranged from large to small, bottom to top, like an Egyptian pyramid of books. The top three paperbacks are thrillers. The hardcover on the bottom is Atlas of Remote Islands. I open the atlas, page through drawings of islands off the grid. Tromelin, in the Scattered Islands of France, is barely a strip of sand with a couple of palm trees. Ascension Island in the Atlantic Ocean, boasting 1,100 residents, is a wasteland of cooled lava. In the Arctic Ocean, only nine residents populate Norway’s Bear Island.

  Mystic Island is not in the book. Perhaps we’re so remote we don’t even make it into any books. A note slips out from between the pages, one of his lists. But this one strikes me as more cryptic than the others:

  PHOTOSHOP

  UPDATE KEYWORDS: KYRA, AIDEN, ME

  LINNY EMAIL

  Update keywords? What on earth does that mean? Linny email.

  Why did Jacob write the note? Why did he include Aiden’s name? I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the list, trying to make sense of the words. My heart is racing. Is he trading emails with Linny? Or is he somehow reading my messages?

  I can feel panic exploding to the edges of my body and I wrap my arms around myself, breathing deeply and rocking back and forth. After five minutes, maybe ten, I get up, fold the note into my pocket and put the book back in its place. The wind is rising outside. All I can think is, I need to know the truth.

  I go to my office, sign into my email, and change my password. I start typing a message to Linny. Are you talking to Jacob? Has anyone hacked into your account? Is anything strange going on? No, I have to start again. If he’s seeing the messages first, he could possibly alter the text. He would know I’m suspicious.

  What am I doing? I start again.

  Dear Linny,

  Jacob might be reading these messages. If he is

  If he is . . . I start again.

  Dear Linny,

  Thank you for always being such a dear friend. I don’t know what I would do without you. Memories have been coming back to me in pieces. I’m hopeful, now, that I might recapture the lost years of our friendship. If not everything, then at least the key moments. The carved giraffe you gave me, the one your mom brought back from Kenya, I can’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere. That giraffe was one of my favorite, most cherished gifts from you. Do you think your mom would consider bringing back another one on her next trip? Xo, Kyra

  I turn off the computer, bundle up, and ride my bicycle into town through the cold wind. Nothing on the route suggests I ever came to the island with Aiden, but I slept with him many times. I feel him in my bones—his scent etched into my skin. Our affair was not a one-night stand. My relationship with him meant something to me. Where is he now? What is he doing?

  In the protected bay, Van’s boat is gone. He’s on his way to Colombia. I ride back along the harbor, past the fishing vessels gently bobbing on the water. I don’t see Jacob’s truck anywhere. The mercantile is closed. The modest strip of downtown shops is all dark and silent, with an air of abandonment. The island feels desolate, uninhabited.

  I stop in front of the library and gaze toward the ferry landing, and I see myself as I was that day, rolling my suitcase toward the waiting boat. Jacob strode after me. Don’t go, don’t leave. This isn’t right.

  I can’t stay, I said, turning toward him. He looked bereft, his hair lit by the midday sun. I planned to take the last ferry. Was I planning to leave him for Aiden? I’m sorry, Jacob. Part of me didn’t want to leave. A ghost of me stayed behind. The decision to leave was not easy, the truth was not clear. I hesitated. I almost turned back. The summer waned around us. The days were still warm, but the nights were growing cool. Our idyllic summer of rediscovery on the island—it hadn’t worked. The wounds had not healed.

  I hoped if I brought you here . . ., he said.

  I hoped so, too, I said.

  You should
n’t leave. You’re making a mistake. It’s not what you want, to go back to him. We can have a family, you and I . . . I know that we can.

  My hands tighten on the handlebars. What happened between us? If Jacob is reading my email, perhaps censoring what I see, is he trying to protect me from the truth? Does Linny know what really happened?

  The door to the library swings open. “Kyra!” the librarian, Frances, says. “You’re down here early. I’ve been meaning to contact you, but I got busy with orders for the school. You’re going to want to see what I found. Took me a while. I had to do some digging.”

  I park my bike and take the stairs up two at a time. In the warmth of the library, I follow her to her desk. The smells of old wood and dust waft up to me. She rummages through the drawers. “I knew I had it here. I had to talk to the old librarian. Something nagged at me about the paintings. Here it is!” She opens a manila file folder and shows me a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping.

  “What is it?” I say, my heart thumping.

  “It’s from 1977. The Bugle of the San Juan Islands.” She points at a man and woman. The man, dressed in a T-shirt and coveralls, is helping a woman step from a yacht onto the dock. In contrast to his rough appearance, she’s a breath of brightness in a floral summer dress, her dark hair fashionably tousled by the wind. The caption at the bottom reads, Tourist Season Heats Up on Mystic Island.

  “That’s Douglas Ingram,” I say. “And the woman . . .”

  “Yes, the woman,” she says. “Shocked me, too. There was no story to go with the picture. Just the caption.”

  There is something terribly familiar about her, in the shape of her face, the arch of her eyebrows, her cheekbones. The eyes, too—the pensive, guarded expression. Her wild, dark hair tumbles past her shoulders. She’s smiling, her face turned up to the sun.

  “She’s the woman from the painting,” I say.

  Frances nods.

  “She definitely looks like me.” The resemblance is not exact. But the similarities between this woman and me are so striking; I could be looking at a version of myself. She appears to be in her early twenties.