WOUNDING

by Heidi James

  ‘Presents!’ The children run in clutching brightly wrapped packages. ‘We’ve got another surprise, Mummy!’ They collide with her knees. He watches laughing, proud of them. Proud of this little scene. They tumble the presents into her lap. ‘Open them! Open them now.’ The boy thinks of nothing but acquisition, he is so desperate for her to tear the paper he’ll do it himself if she doesn’t get a move on. He steps from foot to foot, as if he wants to pee. She picks one up, squeezes it, shakes it; performs the expected pantomime of guessing what’s inside the coloured paper. It flops like a dead fish in her hand. She lifts a corner of the paper and tears it back.

  ‘What can this be?’ She knows what it is. A scarf, a silk scarf. The type his sister wears. Something Cora has never worn. It’s beautiful. She wraps it around her neck. ‘Do I look pretty?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy. You’re very pretty.’ Patrick leans in to kiss her. She turns her cheek. His damp kiss lands on her chin, leaving a sticky residue.

  ‘Open the next one.’ Jessica can’t be left out. She must be acknowledged. Cora repeats the schtick again. Shaking and prodding the gaudy package. It’s a box of chocolates.

  ‘Chocolates! Are you going to share, Mummy? It’s very naughty not to share.’ Cora opens the lid of the box. They pounce, him and the children. They take a chocolate each. She is allowed the rest. They acquiesce that she ought to have all the others now, as they are her special treat.

  ‘Do you like your party?’ they ask.

  Cora nods. The food is rising up her oesophagus, her stomach turning inside out.

  ‘Shall we play a game? Because it is your party and Daddy said we could play a game after dinner.’

  ‘OK, Patch. But choose one we can all play.’ She says her lines with conviction. She is very convincing.

  ‘Let’s play Ludo. I’ll go and get it.’ Patrick runs with his sister trailing him upstairs to his room.

  The husband comes to her and lays his hands on her shoulders. ‘You OK, Cora? D’you like your presents? I wasn’t sure what to get you.’

  ‘Wonderful, thank you. I’ve had a nice time. Really, it’s very thoughtful.’ She is a hybrid of what she says and what she thinks. She is a half-breed.

  The children come back; it’s hard to keep up with their entrances and exits. But they come back clutching the game. It is seven o’clock. Nearly the children’s bedtime. She can’t wait. The game is unpacked. A jumble of counters and dice. She must pick a colour. Green. Green isn’t a girls’ colour. But she is allowed to have green, as it is her birthday. The game plays. The dice lands giving a six, then a four, then other numbers. Counters move forwards. Incremental. Time crawls on its belly.

  ‘Mummy, your turn. Mummy!’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. I was just thinking.’

  ‘Mummy, play the game.’ The little boy supervises the ordeal.

  ‘Yes.’ She throws a three and moves forwards. She is neither winning nor losing. Patrick takes his turn and then her husband. Jessica is losing the game. Her red counters lag behind. She cries. Her mouth wide open, her worn milk teeth on show, she ups the volume a notch. The sound campaigns against the barricade of the world outside her self. Her father finally reaches for her.

  ‘Poor tired little bunny. It doesn’t matter about the silly game. Come on now, dry your eyes.’

  Cora doesn’t move, doesn’t want to see the child. She looks down at her finger. Clear fluid seeps from the wound and glistens in the candlelight. Healing fluid. She waits while he comforts the girl. Jessica calms down and hiccups her unfinished sobs. He is winning the game, with Patch a close second. Soon it will all be over. The game will be finished and she will be free for a moment or two. He wins. Both the children sulk, the burden of losing contorting their faces. Of course, he wouldn’t let them win because that would teach them false values, and there is nothing more dangerous than that. Better to have a painful lesson from failure than to learn how to cheat.

  He gives them a cup of milk each and refills her glass of wine. She feels drunk. She hasn’t performed as she should have. They are all disappointed, but they smile anyway because it’s her birthday and they must be happy. She knows he watches her, missing nothing. Love provides an extra vigilance. One can’t take anything for granted. She is depressed, that’s obvious. Perhaps she is overworked, stressed. Maybe he should suggest she gave up her job. Allow her more time with the kids. He could work more hours. They could manage on his salary. Who knows what he thinks. She has no idea what he’s really thinking.

  He scoops up both children. ‘Time for bed.’ They reach for her. For kisses and cuddles. For what should come naturally. A love that excludes all violence, unshadowed by an opposite; it must be untainted by hate or even simple ambivalence. Therefore what’s demanded is unnatural. Love is violence, wreaking havoc on her health with the dark sacrifice it demands.

  He carries them both towards the door. He is strong enough; his arms encircle their bodies. Bodies that romp through her, to which she can have no resistance. Their little fingers rest on his neck; they are completely at ease, their bodies melding with each other. They are a fusion of molecules. They enjoy one another; even going to bed is fun when they are with him. He whispers something and they both giggle. They leave the room. He walks past the bag hanging on the banister. He doesn’t notice it. Why would he? Why would he even for one minute imagine what sort of a woman he married? When she didn’t even know herself.

  Alone, she is aware only of her hatred. She hates them for being. They are hated for nothing at all. The sounds of their love for each other filter through the wood and plaster construction of the brittle house. They brush their teeth, they piss on the toilet, they make a mess. They get into bed, they sleep. Each one utterly mysterious. Every night the same routine. She listens to them; an ancient urge spreads itself through her body. As clean and pure as all instincts, bone deep. Her finger is clean and shiny, unprotected. The urge to destroy, thick as mucus, clogs her veins. With her fist she grabs a handful of her hair and rips it from her head. She clears the blockage. The urge fades. She hears lights snapping off. His tread on the stairs, descending from the children to her. She crosses the kitchen and drops the bundle of hair into the bin. She sits back down, the patch of scalp raw.

  ‘Right, that’s them off to sleep. Happy birthday, my love. What would you like to do now? Watch a film? Or listen to some music?’ He sits in the chair opposite her, his hands folded on the table; he leans forward, towards her.

  ‘I’m going to go up for a shower. OK? Thank you for the party. It was really sweet of you.’ She stands up and turns for the door.

  ‘Cora, don’t go up just yet. Let’s spend some time together. Seems like we’re never alone anymore.’

  ‘I’m tired, really. I’m sorry, another time, OK?’ He reaches for her and closes his hand around her wrist. She wishes he’d squeeze it, yank her down, kick her, smash her head against the floor, punch her in the face. Punish her. He won’t. He never would. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less a woman, much less his wife. No matter what she said right now, no matter what she did, he wouldn’t give her what she wants. She pulls away and he drops her arm.

  ‘Cora, we need to talk. Let’s talk. I want to talk. Please.’ He stands and puts his hands on her shoulders. He does the right things, he looks into her face. He is sincere. His sincerity tickles her. She wants to vomit laughter, black violent spew. He is too good.

  ‘Please. I’m tired, I’ve had a long day.’ She looks up at him, making the effort to meet his eyes, to reassure him, waits for him to look away, or say something to break the moment she created.

  ‘Is it me? Have I done something?’

  ‘God, no. Of course you haven’t. I’m just tired, please.’

  ‘Cora. Something is wrong. You don’t talk to me, you don’t touch me. It’s like you can’t wait to get away from here. I can’t help but wonder.’ His hands drop to his sides
. He plays his part beautifully.

  ‘Wonder what? What do you wonder?’

  He breathes heavily, looks at his feet. ‘Cora, is there someone else?’

  ‘What? Oh Jesus Christ. No. No. Why would you say that? Christ, I’m just tired. Can’t that be enough? Where would I find the time, or even the energy to have an affair?’

  He sits in the chair, his body doubled over, leaning on his knees. Clasping his hands together.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just can’t imagine what’s wrong. I’m scared I’m losing you.’

  She looks down at him. At the broad plank of his back, the dark hairs on his neck. The secret synapses zapping in his head. All she can know about her husband is what he tells her or demonstrates. Knowing him is an act of faith, a decision to apply a set of ideas suggested by him and to believe in them. What else is knowing a person? Particularly a polite, caring man. They are attached. He loves her. It is a legal bond; she belongs to this marriage. It is an edifice they must maintain. He will not shirk his load; neither must she. She must bear it; brace herself. Dig in her heels. There is a way. She has no choice. She is feeble, lacking in the small amount of moral fibre to do what really OUGHT to be done. But she doesn’t even dare think what that is. She reaches out, her hand hovers over his head, riding on the haze of energy around his body. Her scalp is numb; she is drunk. Cora strokes his soft hair. He takes her hand and kisses the palm.

  ‘I’ll have a shower, but I’ll come back down. OK? We could watch some TV together.’ He nods, relieved.

  She leaves the kitchen, and enters the hall, retrieving her bags. Outside, the dark is relieved by the moon; a couple of police officers, unsexed by their knife-proof vests, slowly walk by, their gait altered by their official boots. She walks up the stairs, her bags in one hand, the other hand resting on the banister, soft against the grain of the polished wood. There is no way forwards or back. She must learn to stay put.

  She reaches the bedroom before she realises he has followed. She moves around the platform of the bed to the safety of her side of the room. Where her things are placed, her nightstand with clock, contraceptives, hand-cream and lamp. Where a pile of books waits to be read, like sand bags piled up to protect her from his attentions. She reads to while away the moments until he is safely asleep. Not seeing the words. Remote, like snow or sunlight or flowers. She switches on her lamp and drops the bag into the drawer just in time. He pushes open the door, contrite but pleased with himself.

  ‘You don’t mind? I thought I’d join you.’ He smiles, exposing his teeth. His shirt is undone at the neck, the hollow at the base of his throat pulses. He moves towards her, around the bed. She sits, removing her shoes, blocking him. It’s too hot. She knows that he wanted her to stand waiting for him, face upturned, ready for his arms to fold around her. For him to kiss her. That was what she ought to have done. She missed the choreography. She is out of step with the chorus. He stops by her side, fumbling at her back for the fastening of her dress. Leaning over her, his breath assaulting her cheek. She continues to remove her shoes. Placing each ugly bare foot on the carpet.

  ‘I can do it.’ She reaches up and unzips her dress. Lifting it up and over her head. He stands next to her, not touching, unsure what he should do next.

  ‘I thought I’d come in the shower with you. Soap your body and wash your hair. You know, be close to you. Would you like that?’

  ‘I’m really tired. I just want a quick wash. Then I’ll come down and join you. OK? Maybe another day.’

  He resists. He is in love. He is in love with her loose skin, her sagging breasts, her scar tissue. He desires her. She is young, still in her thirties. He wants to deposit his love inside her. Remind her of old pleasures. His body signals his love. He wants to reach inside her and feast on her organs. Gorge himself on her inner workings. He is in love with her.

  ‘Let me pleasure you. I’ll do anything you want. Let me spoil you, darling.’

  ‘No. Honestly, I just want to be alone for a minute. I want a shower and I want to relax. I’m tired, I’m sorry. I know you are doing something nice for me and I’m sorry. I just need some peace for a minute. OK?’

  They are sliced apart. The room intervenes. He backs away, moving towards the door.

  ‘Of course, no problem. I’m sorry. I should just let you be for a moment. I didn’t mean to be selfish...’

  ‘I know, I wasn’t...’

  ‘It’s fine, Cora. I understand.’ He turns and leaves the room. She hears him hurry down the stairs, away from her. The TV is turned on, the hollow sounds of recorded laughter rise like heat through the floorboards. She takes the box from the drawer. Pulling her robe over her underwear she walks down the hall to the bathroom. She turns on the light and locks the door behind her. She must maintain the happy household. She reaches into the shower cubicle and turns on the water. A mirror reflects her movements. She turns to it, dropping her robe and removing her bra and knickers. The light is harsh, clinical. The room shifts position. The machinery of her eye readjusts. A trick of the light, you can’t believe what your eyes tell you. She watches herself. Her rib cage rising and falling.

  Opening the box, her hand steady. A gift, a promise, lies within. A promise worth making can’t be kept. But it’s too late now. Twinned, her image in the mirror apes her gesture. She is doubled, split down the middle. She lifts out the small objects; they glint in the palm of her hand. The street outside is reduced to a muddle by the patterned glass in the window. Forced out of focus, nothing can be seen clearly, only the impression of a tree remains. She is isolated. In the middle of two opposing sides. She opens the mouth of one of the silver clamps and fits it over her nipple. With her forefinger and thumb she twists the tiny screw that draws the bars on either side closed. It lays flat against her skin, unobtrusive except for the bulging breast tissue. She fits the other one.

  The water runs behind her, steam unfolds and condenses on the cold mirror. She disappears from view. She tightens the screws, making the necessary adjustments, fixing the machine. She steps into the shower, the water hot on her head, running into her eyes. Blinded, she can feel everything. She is an animal, feeling nothing more than physical sensation. She is annulled by the pain that threads through her. She is wiped out. She tightens the clamps even more. Her breasts burn, her blood races through her system, she is finely tuned. Suffering, unthinking, comprised only of sensation. She suffers, offering her pain to the water that washes it down into the sewage. She is water, air, mass. She is the sea. Salty and poisonous. She is alive, a sea sponge, without a nervous, digestive or circulatory system. The water possesses her, feeds her, nurtures her. It flows through her, unchanged. Laughter penetrates the bathroom from downstairs. Her relief flows through the cracks. She is released and gulps air. Blameless, she is a configuration of cells that mutates and replicates. She is what nature made her.

  Stepping from the shower, she wraps the towel around her body. The clamps pinch her skin, innocent as history. She undoes them, slowly, reversing the pressure. Purple bruises ring her nipples. She drops the clamps into her pocket, wraps her hair in a towel. Freshly washed, she is purified. Newly punished, she has paid her debt.

  I like driving, especially at night. Feeling safe in a warm, enclosed capsule, other cars and drivers reduced to nothing more than the rapid approach and then fading away of light. Music on, blocking out all other sounds. I hold the steering wheel and feel powerful and competent. I love this car. We’re free and safe. My fingers curled around the smooth leather, following the road. Clearly defined, practical. Everything within reach and perfectly designed. I like the thunk of the door closing and the click of the seat belts. The immensely satisfying sounds and smells of a good car. The kids asleep in the back seat, little heads too heavy for their necks, their chins on their chest, drooling. Dreaming their multi-coloured dreams, tired out after racing around all day, their faces sticky with sweat and sugar. And you next to me, q
uiet, sometimes handing me a mint or one of the kid’s fruit sweets or reaching for the volume dial to turn the radio up. I glance over at you, your face in shadow, turned towards your window, unsure if you’re asleep or not, I reach over and stroke your thigh, cup your knee. My thumb testing the texture of your skin. You take my hand, stroke it twice and move it from your leg.

  You don’t stir, you don’t startle. You don’t move. The children are stirring. I can hear Jessica talking to her teddy. I must keep all this to myself. This misery, this rage. How dare you? How fucking dare you? The children must be protected as best we can. How fucking dare you. This isn’t just about us; it’s about them, their future, their happiness. We were happy. We were so happy. Remember?

  When we were first together, I did all the driving, you’d not got your licence then, you used to say ‘what do I need to drive for, I’ve got you’. I liked driving you around. Waiting outside your flat, engine ticking over, watching you as you ran down the steps outside your door, your hair still damp, gloss on your lips. Smiling. You smiled for me that slow sweet smile, a cat-like smile, looking me straight in the eye, your brown eyes reflecting the orange light. You’d stretch out on the seat, putting your feet up on the dashboard, your skirt sliding down to your lap and I’d rest my hand on your skinny thighs. Sometimes we’d drive out of town with no particular place in mind, just driving, music on, you liked Daniel Johnston and would insist on playing the CD over and over. We’d drive out till we spotted something we liked, taking it in turns to pick a turning at a junction or a slip road off the motorway. We left things to chance, to serendipity. We trusted fate and ourselves; nothing fazed us then, getting lost and discovering something new was fun. We had time, time to waste. You smoking cigarettes with the window down, your tanned feet tapping out the tune and I would drive you, us.