We’d driven to Stockholm and checked in to the hotel. The room was clean and simple, nothing overly plush. Sam lay down on the bed, patted the duvet. Come over here and test this out with me.
He has been overly affectionate, tender and attentive, these past few days. Trying hard. Or making amends.
No. It doesn’t matter. His focus is back where it belongs.
At six o’clock, we took a shower and got dressed.
You look fantastic, he said. I was wearing a new dress, black and lace, a delicate sheath that hung softly to my ankles.
The restaurant was a few minutes’ walk away. The streets were full of tourists, boatloads of them off the cruise ships, set loose to buy Viking trinkets and plastic trolls. We headed away from the crowds and found the restaurant nestled up a cobbled side street. Inside, it was more charming than I’d imagined, all low lighting and carved art nouveau wooden booths. The waiter was a young man with a thick Spanish accent. He brought us menus and a tray of amuse-bouche.
We ordered our starters and mains and Sam took my hand.
This is nice.
Yes.
You’re happy.
Yes.
That’s what I want. That’s the reason I do everything I do.
I nodded. I looked at my husband, my too-handsome husband. Too handsome for me, I know that’s what people must think. But he chose me, didn’t he. Of everyone, me.
To my wife, Sam toasted. To our beautiful family. To expanding it, too. He smiled.
I felt a wave of guilt, shame low in the belly, at the root of me. Mild panic, too. There was an email just before we left the house. For once, different words inside. This time only two: I know.
I swallowed.
To our beautiful life, I said.
The food arrived, wooden boards with three kinds of herring and tiny glass pots of mustard. The waiter brought over a small basket of fresh bread rolls. The food was delicious, flavorful and delicate.
The chef uses only local ingredients, Sam said. Apparently he goes foraging in the forest for a lot of it. Berries, mushrooms. The herbs.
Those Swedes, I said. They really do take it to the extreme.
There was a couple seated across from us. The man looked exactly like my father. Sam looked over. A Swedish Gerald, he said.
I nodded.
You miss him.
No, I said. You can’t miss what you didn’t have.
Don’t know, Sam said. I missed my father. I felt his absence.
It was a rare moment of vulnerability. Sam showing his cracks. I took his hand. I wanted to do better at being his wife. At being his.
The waiter came over with the mains, put down the plates, and arranged the little dishes of sides between us. Spinach, roasted carrots, sweet potato fries.
Everything all right? he asked, and we nodded, yes, wonderful, thank you.
You’re beautiful, Sam said. I don’t tell you enough what you mean to me.
I nodded. I know, I know.
And still, I have wronged him in unthinkable ways.
Merry, he said. About Frank.
What about Frank, I snapped. I did not want to think about Frank.
He took a bite of his food. Nothing, nothing serious, it’s just. I really think it’s time for her to go.
Why? I said. What’s happened?
What has she done. What have you done, I thought.
He shook his head. No, nothing. It’s just been almost a month.
Over a month, I said.
Yes, too long. I want our space back. I want you back all to myself. The way it’s best.
He flashed that smile. I let out a breath.
I’m so happy you mentioned it, I said. I feel exactly the same way.
Good, he said. Then you’ll talk to her.
I took a bite of food. I chewed slowly.
This is nice, Sam said. You and me. Time alone.
He’d finished his food. From under the table, his hands found my lap, pried me open, forged ahead.
Feels good, doesn’t it.
The second bottle of wine was almost finished. I lifted my glass and emptied it. My head floating, my body singing. The thrum of music from the hotel bar, the hands pressing me, burrowing into flesh.
Yes, I said. It feels good.
It did. Like the old days, the early weeks and months when it was all new and thrilling. A new kind of life with a man who looked at me like he knew exactly what was in store.
It was just us two then, and that was more than enough. Sam and Merry. Two halves made whole. Two halves, nothing else. No one else in the picture to confuse things.
The dessert came, little rounds of chocolate mousse with basil ice cream and honey wafers. I dropped the fork on the floor and Sam substituted with his finger, chocolate into mouth, harder than it looks. We laughed and hid behind the napkins. I wiped mousse onto my lips and gave him a chocolate smile.
We finished off dinner with double espressos and the bill; Sam tipped handsomely and the waiter wished us a good night.
There was a bar a few doors past the hotel, down a winding staircase and into a tiny, cramped basement. The barman wore a suit and stood behind an old wooden bar, pouring gimlets into crystal glasses. We ordered a couple of drinks and settled into the velvet-upholstered sofa; hands on thighs, tongues loose, smiles largely unforced. The freedom was heady; I think I must have felt happy. The relief of Frank leaving, the relief of knowing that when it was Sam and me, it was all just right. It would all be just right again. I would make sure of it.
The email, the words, they faded into the haze of smoke and candlelight, fine as gossamer, and then altogether vanished. Yes, I thought, I would make all of that go away.
In the hotel room, Sam and I fell onto the bed, fumbled, kissed, partially undressed, made love or attempted to do so. We slipped heavily and quickly into sleep, the pair of us lying cupped against each other like two soup bowls on the shelf.
You forgive me, he mumbled, almost incoherent, into my ear.
What?
You forgive me for bringing you here, and we’re happy. The three of us. We’re happy.
Mm, I said, or nodded, or groaned. Some passable sound came from me and he squeezed me further into his knees so that I was pinned in place.
I’m trying, he murmured. I’m going to be a better man, I promise.
We’d returned home the next day smiling.
It would all be good again. I knew how to make it so. To clear the slate. To start over. No secrets. No mysteries. No doubt.
I looked at the house against the trees as we pulled up in the car. Beautiful. Wonderful. The day was overcast, but it looked as though the rain would hold off for a few hours yet. I took in a few deep breaths, the mossy smell of the damp woods. The end-of-summer rot, as the leaves started to fall and the last of the summer berries grew fat and sweet on their branches. I made a note to do a final berry picking, to stock up on blackberries to turn into the jam that Sam likes with his morning toast.
I thought of Frank leaving.
I smiled.
Merry
The baby was on the bed. I had the windows open, the day outside was all pastels and hazy light, like a watercolor. John Coltrane was playing in the background; Sam’s favorite. Earlier, I’d poached him eggs, made hollandaise from scratch, and buttered thick slices of sourdough toast. Frank stayed in her bedroom, out of the way. Perhaps she senses that she has overstayed her welcome.
I looked at the baby on the bed, studied his face and form. I traced his features with a finger while he watched, big eyes following my movements. Suspicious. Always suspicious.
I suppose he ought to be.
I put my head to his belly, inhaled the smell of newly changed child, talcum powder and soap and innocence all blended together.
A wave of dread, a flicker of doubt.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry. He didn’t ask for this.
In the kitchen, Frank was making coffee, still in a robe.
She looked up. She rubbed her head. I couldn’t sleep last night, she said. I have a lot on my mind, I guess.
She looked awful. I thought about the way the air prickled when she and Sam were in the same room yesterday and shook my head. What does it matter? She will be leaving soon.
I cleared my throat. Frank, I started. Sam and I were talking the other night.
She set down her mug, her face searching mine.
It’s great you visited, I said. But now it feels like time to get our space back. To return to our regular routine. We think it will be better for all of us.
We think it’s time.
We think you need to leave.
She looked at me, the hurt registering in her eyes.
I see, she said. You want me to go.
No, Sam and I. Both of us, I said. We both want it.
I watched her expression. That look. Wanting. Yes, this was how it was meant to be. Frank wanting.
I stood taller, held my head high.
I felt good. Powerful in the way I can only ever feel around Frank. Whatever might have happened, I am the one who has won.
She was picking at her nails, frowning. She shook her head. I know what you’re doing, Merry. I know—
I was enjoying it too much. I was being cruel. For old time’s sake, I said it. Because I’d said it before.
You don’t belong here, Frank.
You don’t belong anywhere, I almost added. Her face was twisted, the hurt spreading like a rash, red and raging. Woman in flames. Burn, I thought, burn.
Inside, I felt alive.
Frank
He was on top of me, grunting his pleasure, trying to contain it so he wouldn’t come. We were in the barn; around us the smell of untreated pine, the feel of cold wood. Like animals, I thought.
And why not. Why not go all the way. Make it even more base and sordid than it is already. Naked bodies entwined, a dirty secret in the dark.
This is my go-to remedy at times like these. When feeling at my lowest, I always like to go lower still. Numb the pain with shame. I like the sting of it. The loathsomeness is my only comfort.
But you’re married, I had protested, as though such a thought was shocking to me.
Yes, he breathed in my ear, hot and urgent, and when has that ever stopped anyone before?
His hands were on me, squeezing everywhere, pushing and prodding with his fingers and tongue. Yes, oh yes.
Lust, I have realized over the years, makes men horribly unattractive. It’s just the same repetition of primal urges. Insert here, press this, pound that. All roads lead to Rome. We’d met out at the recycling bins; he was disposing of the week’s plastic.
Come with me, he pleaded.
I didn’t require much persuasion.
I closed my eyes. I felt neither pleasure nor pain. I didn’t want to feel much at all.
This has always been my problem. Heightened emotions.
Feeling too much.
Loving too much.
Merry wants me gone. No, correction—Sam and Merry. We, she made sure to say. We. Us.
To be expected, I suppose. And she is right. I don’t belong here. She doesn’t either, but that isn’t any of my business. Everyone has made this crystal clear.
Sam, well, I can’t blame him for wanting his little family to stay intact. If I had a family, it’s all I’d want too. Perhaps he was just bored. Perhaps I am as irresistible as I’ve been told. Men who say that don’t mean it as a compliment. It’s more of an accusation. For leading them astray. For stealing them from their wives.
Fuckable. That’s the word. The kind of woman a man wants to have sex with. Not marry, mind you. Just fuck.
Yes. I am good at sexiness, the performance of it. Pout, pose, push it up into their faces. Tease them with an illusion of the pleasure that awaits.
He was hurting me now, aggressive with his movements. Rough was how he liked it. No surprises there. That’s usually the way with married men. A gentleman with the wife between the Egyptian cotton sheets, and a sadist with the mistress.
How many married men does this make it? It doesn’t really matter. I once worried that it would. That karma would find me out and do the same thing to me, make me the woman whose husband cheats or leaves. But there is no husband. And the men always leave.
They’d stay if you weren’t so needy, Frank. That’s what Merry told me a few years back.
You suffocate them with the ferocity of your need. Of course they want to run a mile.
She was trying to be helpful, I think. Or spiteful. She has always been good at the latter. Reminding me of what I’ll never have. How I’ll always be deficient. Maybe this is the marker of the truest friend, the teller of all the things you don’t want to hear.
It was cold in the barn. Pitch dark, too. I could make out only the whites of eyes and teeth. Vampiric was how he looked.
I wondered about spiders. Nests of wasps in the rafters. Rats in the corners. I shuddered against him. Perhaps he thought it was an orgasm.
Yes, oh yes. He had my hair in his fist, pulling my face away from his, gaining speed; he’d be done soon.
Merry and I in high school, how we’d laughed over the diagrams of the female body during sex education classes. Look, here is where the eggs are; here is where the baby grows.
Ejaculation, erections; we blushed at those words, imagining the boys we knew, trying and trying not to picture their penises. They didn’t even teach us girls that we had a way to our own pleasure. That we might fuck for any other reason than to procreate or please a man.
Look, Merry had said, snickering at the splayed female torso, legless and truncated, just a great red gaping hole. It’s like an open mouth, she said. Like someone screaming for help.
Mrs. Foster shushed us and pulled the baby out of the plastic woman on her desk.
It is settled: I will leave Merry and Sam to their island paradise. I will return to the life I have waiting for me, the life I have built and made beautiful with nothing but sheer force of will. I’ve achieved, haven’t I? More than most. Brown University, Harvard, one covetable role after the next. A partner in the firm, a life in London—well, it can’t get better, can it? This is the stuff of dreams.
And what has Merry done with her life? Found a husband and given birth. As though that qualifies as success!
I am not Merry. This is not my life. And my God—after the other night, that awful and indelible moment when I felt what she must feel and revel in every time she mistreats her son—well, if that is what it means to be Merry Hurley, I thank the heavens I am not, nor will ever be, her.
His body convulsed against me. He pulled out and came quickly over my chest in thick bursts.
I could hear the ferocious beating of his heart, the exertion required for his pleasure.
I imagine your wife doesn’t let you do that, I said coolly.
In the dark he found his clothes. I heard the zipper of his jeans.
You’re right about that, he said.
He bent down to kiss me on the mouth. So we’ll need to do this again.
He grabbed his jacket from off the floor and left. I wiped myself with my shirt and slipped on my coat. I walked back across the field, naked underneath, the soft echo of birds in the dawn, the tickle of grass under my feet.
Yes, I will leave. But first, I will see to it that she cannot hurt Conor again.
Sam
Italy, Frank was saying. We were sitting in the kitchen, each of us standing with a mug of coffee in hand. She was smiling, more chipper than she’s been in days. Like nothing happened and we’re just a couple of old friends having a chat.
Good, good.
Well, I leave on Friday, she said. The flight takes me directly to Florence and from there I’ll pick up a car. I hear it’s the best time to visit, after the crowds.
Merry was nodding.
Anyway, Frank continued, I have had a wonderful time here, and I hope I haven’t overstaye
d my welcome too much. I really didn’t want to cause any trouble, she said.
Merry said nothing.
It’s been good to have you, I chimed in.
I left the women and headed outside to the barn, pretending to look for tools, but really just needing a drink. Something bothering me. An idea not yet fully formed.
The doctor had called a few days back.
Simple issue, he said, relatively easy to solve with a prescription. Should fix the problem.
It’s not a big issue, he reiterated, to be reassuring.
I took a long drink and left the barn. I looked back into the house, saw the women standing very close, their heads bent together, as though in conspiracy.
Oligospermia. Low sperm count.
Not a big deal. Not a big deal at all.
Karl’s front door burst open across the way. Freja came running out as though she was being chased.
What’s happening? I called.
She ran over, breathless, shining with excitement.
Ebba, she said, Ebba is getting her baby.
She took my hand and pulled me along with her. We ran across the fields, down to Mr. Nilssen’s place. Come, she urged.
I followed her around the back to the stables, where Nilssen was crouched down a short distance from one of his mares. She was on the ground, calm and unmoving, as a slippery white membrane made its way slowly out of her body.
Ebba, I said. Now I understood.
Karl arrived with Elsa, said something in Swedish to Nilssen, who nodded.
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