Where’s Sam? she asked.
In the studio, I said. Editing footage for that Gothenburg project.
I’ll just go and see how he’s getting on, she said, and wandered off, leaving me to my vomit-colored vegetables.
I want her to leave. I need her gone. She is too much. It is too unnerving. That she might send this whole house of cards tumbling down, everything I have worked to build. Everything from which she has always been excluded. It cannot be otherwise.
I will need to think of a way to do it, something that doesn’t make me seem overly childish, petulant for being left out. Otherwise, Sam will tease me. Oh, someone is jealous, he’ll say. He’ll be thrilled. He’ll be vindicated.
You women, he’ll say.
He thinks women need to be held in check. Guided, he calls it, because women are no good at making up their minds. I’m never sure if he means all of us. Or just me.
I heard Freja call out from the living room. Conor has made a poo-poo, she said.
I went over to where they were playing and picked him up. He was angry at being removed from his toys and started to cry.
Freja looked up at me and laughed. Ha-ha, she said, and made a face. See, he doesn’t like you.
Sam
Outside, under the stars. After a few chilly days, those first signs of autumn, this evening’s sky was clear. Pink and wide and magnificent.
Merry had stayed awhile on the lawn, before Con started to cry. This teething, she said. Frank looked at her and smiled. She did not get up.
The two of us were left outside alone. Something hot in the air between her and me, daring, dancing on the edge. I’ve been a naughty boy. Not playing fair. Too many lingering looks, lingering hands. She has the idea in her head. That this is something.
A few nights ago, I saw her passing through to the bathroom, nightgown open, naked beneath. She is shaved everywhere, smooth as stone and white. Beautiful breasts, high and full, dark nipples, the rest of her lithe like a dancer, the muscles clear under the surface, like an anatomical illustration. A woman waiting to be devoured.
Oh, sorry, she said, making as if to cover up. But her movements were slow, reluctant. She wanted me to see. To know.
She smiled. I smiled. What’ve you got there, I teased.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t, but I do. I’ve been ignoring Malin’s texts. I failed to show up at her place this week. Last time we saw each other, we’d had an argument. I told her I was trying to get Merry pregnant, which probably wasn’t the right thing to say.
She shook her head, disapproval or disbelief.
I made some comment about how long it’s taking to happen, and she seemed to snap.
Not everything has to be everyone else’s fault, she said. What if the problem is with you for once?
I guess she wanted to have her little dig. Can’t blame her, I suppose.
Now she must be feeling bad. She’s texted twice already. No response from me.
Not fair to her, but some things I don’t want to deal with right now.
Maybe I’m a coward. Like my mother says, all men are when it comes down to it. She sent more money. At least she’s good for something.
Frank’s eyes, holding mine. Smiling; a secret, knowing smile. How many I’ve seen before just like that. The moment before the prize.
I’ve probably pushed this too far. Should have drawn a line. Pulled back, pulled out. This is what I was thinking when she leaned in, her lips on my mouth, the softest kiss.
Jesus, she was like something sweet and melting on the tongue, warm breath, warm everything. Old pleasures, the forbidden kind. I felt myself surrender. She pushed closer, panting, pawing, my hands were pulling at her, under fabric, into flesh. Urgent, hungry.
Then the scream.
Piercing the dark, shattering the moment.
Conor. My son.
Like a cold shower. Like a rude awakening. My son.
Stop, I hissed, pushing Frank away.
She held on. Sam, but Sam.
I gripped her hands. Stop, I said. Stop.
Her face crumpled. She didn’t understand. Sam, it’s okay. It’s what we both want.
Hideous now, pleading and begging.
The spell was broken.
You’re not making sense, Frank, I said.
No, Sam, she said, the only thing that doesn’t make sense is you and Merry. Look at her. Look at her with Conor. Sam, listen—she doesn’t want this. It’s all wrong, it’s all—she’s.
I held her face in my hands. Firm, too firm, perhaps. She tried to pull away.
Frank, listen.
She squirmed. I held her in place.
Merry and Conor are the only things I’ll ever care about. Not you.
Understand? Never you.
She looked at me like I’d cut her with a knife, a fatal wound. Her cheeks shocked red and wet.
In the kitchen, I poured a glass of water, looked out toward Frank still on the lawn, lying on her back, staring at the stars, lit by the moon.
Fuck, I said. Idiot.
The house was in darkness. The crying had stopped. I slipped into Conor’s room to see if Merry was with him, soothing his tears. He was alone, already fast asleep, the heaving chest slow and steady under his little gray romper. My son, my heart. All that matters.
In my pocket, my phone beeped.
Malin again. Not letting up.
Come by tomorrow?
I touched a hand to Conor’s forehead and went back out to the kitchen.
Outside, Frank lay motionless, a discarded pool toy left on the lawn to fade and crack in the elements.
I spat into the sink. Whore. Trying to seduce a married man. A man with a family.
Another text came from Malin. 10 a.m.?
I thought of her face, that soft smile, her eyes the color of chocolate and just as warm. The smell of fresh-cut flowers and hot coffee, her perfume and her laugh and everything about her that feels like an embrace.
No. Enough. They are all the same. My head throbbed with blood and panic.
I texted back. Can’t. Sorry.
I stood in the dark a while longer.
I’m trying, I said to myself. At least I’m trying.
Sam
A new day. A new day. I reconsidered what Malin said. I made an appointment for myself at a fertility clinic in Uppsala. Just in case.
I’m tired of waiting. Of wanting and not getting it. It’s time to take responsibility for my life, to stop blaming everyone else. Malin’s said this to me more than once, in that way she has that makes it all sound reasonable and gentle. She is a rare one. I probably owe her more than I let on. Maybe that needs to change too.
After I made the appointment, I booked a hotel for Merry and me. Anniversary celebrations. I want to go all out. To fix it. To set it all right again.
Frank wasn’t even up by the time I was ready to leave. Merry had Conor in his high chair. She was cool toward me. Borderline hostile. Maybe she saw something last night. Maybe she got the wrong idea.
I love you, I said. You know that, right?
I pulled her close. I kissed her mouth, put my hands on her, under her.
We should really work on this baby some more, I said. Seems we’ve not been trying hard enough lately.
She smiled. This is what she wanted to hear.
There’s my girl, I said. That’s how I like you.
Samson Hurley, I told the receptionist at the front desk as she handed me a form to complete.
Taking charge. That’s what needs to be done. No more weakness, but action.
Yes. This is how you do it.
Frank was only a distraction. Noise. Nothing that matters.
I handed the form back to the receptionist and she pointed me to the dimly lit room.
Frank. Frank. Her tits, the feel of them under my hand, and her cunt, tight and wet, so fucking wet—I’d pushed my way in, two fingers, three, and she’d moaned, grabbed for my cock, over my jeans, bursting ou
t, wanting, wanting, imagining already how it would feel to be deep inside and she was imagining it, too, wasn’t she, writhing and pushing and forcing my hand deeper, all the way, far as it could go.
Frank, Frank, dirty bitch.
Quietly, in the darkened cubicle, I came into the little plastic cup.
Frank
All is lost. Perhaps it was too soon. I should have waited. Or I should have said more. Given Sam something more solid on Merry and what she’s been up to.
Oh, I don’t know, it’s all too much of a mess now. He’s acting like I made the whole thing up. I’m wondering if I did.
But how could I? I’m not blind. I have eyes that have seen things. Too many things.
My only consolation is that dear, beautiful child. Conor, son of my heart, if not my flesh.
Yes, I’ll say it. I am a better mother to him than she’ll ever be. I love him, with every fiber of my being. And I thought there was a way for— Well, no use now.
Silly, silly me.
Sam is being deliberately cruel. Making his point. He can’t take his hands off his wife. He’s arranged elaborate anniversary celebrations in the city. And I am to babysit. Nothing more than the hired help.
I’m sure you won’t mind, Frank, he said. You’re great pals, you and Con.
They left in the early afternoon, to make the most of it. He booked them a fancy dinner, a night in a hotel. Merry wrote up a list and stuck it on the fridge. Meal times, meal combinations, bottles, different medication for different ailments, favorite toys, bedtime routine.
Like I don’t already know it all. Like I haven’t been doing it for weeks.
I was feeling spiteful. After they left, I rifled through the drawers and wardrobes in the house. What did I find but birth control pills, hidden in a pouch in the very back of Merry’s underwear drawer. Another titbit Sam surely knows nothing about.
I pawed through her underwear and bras. Plain, cotton, mostly faded from the wash. No wonder Sam is so easily led astray. She has a box with letters and a few photographs in a bottom drawer. A photo of her with her father, a photo of Sam as a student, somewhere overly exotic-looking, posed beside a man covered in white ash or mud. A photo of her mother, from some professional shoot she had done, by the looks of it.
My other daughter, Maureen always called me; the daughter I ought to have had.
She was easy to win over. All you needed to do was tell her how good she was looking that day.
Oh, you are a dear, she would say, feigning embarrassment, acting as though she hadn’t laid it all out for you on a platter with her titivating and preening and never-ending nips and tucks.
Not too much? Not too young?
Oh, no, Maureen, that miniskirt is splendid on you, what with those legs for days.
You learn the tricks, then soon enough they come naturally; your default setting. Flatter, fawn, find your way in.
You’re a leech, Frances.
I can remember Merry saying that to me over and over again when we were teenagers.
No, I said, I just know how to get what I want.
I always thought that was a good thing. A true life skill. But Merry’s never known what it means to want. To long for something that’s out of reach. How could she, when all of life has been handed to her on a platter? Anything she’s ever wanted, or toyed with the idea of wanting.
Anniversary dinner. I pictured the two of them, celebrating their idyllic life in the woods. How can she fool him so? How can he fool himself?
Well, I’ve decided. I have no choice but to tell Sam everything I know, everything I’ve seen these past weeks, the strangest and most seductive of my life.
Conor deserves this, if nothing else. Someone to look out for him. Poor mistreated boy. Yes, I’ll deliver a full report. Let them find all their secrets revealed. Let them drown in a sea of truth. Let it rise up slowly and wash away all this murky falsehood, the great facade of their lives. It will be better for everyone.
I stood in front of her bedroom mirror. I had found her wedding dress, stashed in the back of the wardrobe and covered in plastic. Strange that she carted it all the way over here when she left so much else behind. I remember how she looked in it, the corseted body pinching in her waist, the wide lace skirt billowing out all the way to the floor.
A princess dress, the one I dreamed of for years. I put a picture of it on the dream boards we made once—the things you do at seventeen—cutouts of houses and cars and baby strollers, the engagement rings we’d be adorned with, the beaches where we’d vacation with our handsome husbands. The dresses we would wear on our wedding days. It was mine. She had stolen it and worn it and walked down the aisle in it, beguiling, ethereal Merry with her painted-on smile, while I stood in the corner in my apricot-colored bridesmaid dress and tried not to burst with rage.
I slipped the dress out of the plastic. Felt the material in my fingers, the stiff bone of the scalloped bodice. I pulled off my clothes. I stepped into the dress. It was difficult to get to the buttons at the back, I swiveled the dress around so that it was backwards and fastened up three-quarters of the buttons. Then I shifted it slowly back. The bone of the corset was pressed too tight, constricting around my rib cage, forcing out the air. I held my breath.
I looked at myself in the mirror. No. I was not beautiful in the dress. I was not anyone’s bride.
Conor began to scream from his bedroom. He had woken from his nap. I tried the buttons to remove the dress but they were too finicky.
I went to Conor’s room. He was standing in the crib. He beat his hands against the bars, angry and urgent. Uppy, I said, and he held up his arms.
It’s okay, I said. Aunt Frank is here. Aunt Frank loves you.
Loves you loves you loves you, I said again, into his belly to make him laugh.
The sound was a tonic for the soul, a reminder of all that remains good and beautiful, even in such darkness.
How lucky they are. How many blessings they have been dealt.
Conor grabbed at the beads on the dress and pulled.
Isn’t it a silly dress? I said. It was too tight. I could feel the sharpness of the metal fasteners digging into my side, cutting at the flesh.
In the kitchen, I reached up to grab one of Conor’s bottles out of the cupboard. I felt a tear of fabric.
Oh dear, I said. These things happen, don’t they?
It was easier to breathe. I found a bottle of wine for myself and poured a glass. I checked the time. I set Conor on the rug and brought him a stack of his wooden blocks.
Let’s build a house, I said.
He was soon bored, and a little cranky. I hauled out some pots from the kitchen cupboard and let him bang them with a spoon. He liked that. I removed one of Merry’s little jars of baby food from the fridge and heated it up. I tucked a dish towel into the top of the wedding dress and fed Conor with a spoon. He watched me and smiled, waiting for me to make the noises of the trucks and the planes and the rocket ships.
How natural it felt, just us. He looked at me with great love.
The phone rang as I was lifting Conor out of the bath. It was Merry.
Just checking in, she said, full of sweetness and cheer. How is everything going? All okay?
Yes, I said. We’re just peachy. Enjoying the celebrations?
You know, she said. We’re having a great time. A really great time.
I hung up the phone. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the big glass window. Woman in a twice-stolen dress. I did not recognize myself.
I looked down at the baby, naked on his back. Staring up at me with those fiercely trusting eyes. Wondering what I’d do.
I stared a long time, in a daze I think, a delirium of rejection and injustice. Conor was tired, rubbing his eyes, yawning. The fat belly, the chubby thighs, the kneeless legs that kicked at the air. His feet, familiar feet belonging to Merry. Long toes, narrow and tapered. He kicked at me. He wanted to move, to be lifted up and loved.
What possessed me, I’
ll never know. Maybe it was her. Merry. I looked at Conor and I held his legs. I held them down. I squeezed. The flesh in between my fingers was squishy, boneless, almost. All fat.
I was in a trance, a somnambulist. A woman outside her body.
I clenched and he cried out and I clenched harder, briefly—only a brief moment—and then pulled my hands away; shaking, weak. The skin was red. The child was screeching. My heart pounded frantically as I lifted him up.
He swatted at my face and I welcomed it. Oh God oh God, what monstrous thing did I do. I wept and wept, I bounced and rocked and hushed and kissed.
You’re okay; you’re okay. Conor’s heart was racing, too; I felt it against me, like the batting wings of a moth caught under a glass.
Oh baby, oh baby. A rush of too much love and endless regret.
I checked his legs for bruises. I kissed him all over and rocked him in the chair until he fell safely to sleep.
I must have slept too, curled on the soft carpet at the foot of his crib.
In the morning, I woke to the sound of crying. I was still in the dress. At the place between two of my ribs, a thin gash of blood had leaked out and stained the fabric red.
Merry
I feel like a new me. Or the old me, perhaps. Lighter, happier, more clearly defined. Restored. Because everything is going to go back to how it was before.
Our anniversary celebrations went surprisingly well. They were even fun.
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