How to Be a Good Wife

by Emma Chapman

  ‘When you are on your own,’ he said, ‘this is as far as you are to go. You are never to leave the valley.’

  I lifted my head up. ‘I don’t want to be on my own,’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘Don’t look so frightened,’ he said. ‘I only mean later, when you are feeling better.’

  I put my head back on his shoulder.

  ‘I’ll always be here,’ he said.

  * * *

  When I reach the outskirts of the city, it’s night time. The clock reads 21:55. In the dark, it is harder to watch out for Hector. The road has widened out and there are many more cars now, speeding past and cutting in front, their lights glaring.

  Grey industrial buildings and long shop warehouses line the road, their brightly lit signs offering computers, fitness equipment, electrical appliances. Reaching a roundabout, I circle it three times before I remember the way. I pass a tall white block of flats, and then I am in the city streets. There are so many houses, so many people.

  Wide old trees stand at the roadside, their few shadowy leaves shuddering in the evening wind. There is a huge brick building with a flag on a long white pole outside. The terraced town houses, lit up inside, look familiar. Even in the darkness, it is as if nothing has changed, like seeing a forbidden old friend again. I am sure that the answers are waiting here, and I am glad I came back.

  Stopping at a red light, my leg begins to shake on the accelerator. There is a crowd of people standing at a bus stop, huddled together in the cold. As the lights turn green and I start to move off, I see a girl wearing a red coat, a sports bag slung over her shoulder. Under the street lamp, her blonde hair glows.

  I slam the brakes on, ignoring the blasts of horns from the cars behind me. My heart beats faster. There are no other people at the bus stop now, no cars on the road, only her. She looks down the street, both ways. I can tell she is worried, and as she turns her back, I see a pink ribbon escaping from her bag, caught in the zip, the end fluttering in the wind.

  She rocks back and forward on her heels, wraps her arms around herself, rubs her shoulders. Her breath leaves a misty trail, making it hard to see her face. She slides a box out of her pocket, slipping out a cigarette, white as bone.

  Then I see the car, driving along the road towards her. It slows as it approaches the bus stop, and the window begins to wind down. She leans, her blonde hair falling forward. She shakes her head, and I see her smiling. I watch her lips move. No, thank you. Then she stops. She shrugs, drops her cigarette onto the floor, opens the car door, and slides in. The door shuts and they drive on, disappearing into the darkness.

  The cars are zooming past me now. Some beep their horns, some don’t, but I can barely hear them. I sit and stare at the bus stop for a long time. I remember coveting that red coat in the window of a department store, buying it once I had saved up. It was the first thing I bought for myself, with my own money, won in competitions. My mother told me the sleeves were too short, that I should have got a bigger size, and I was annoyed with her. I feel the cold air against my cheeks on the walk to the bus stop that evening. Another night practising late and things hadn’t gone well, and now I had missed the last bus. I didn’t want to call my parents: I was still annoyed with my mother. Then the car pulled in, and the man inside offered to give me a lift. He was older, and he looked concerned, his blue eyes clear and unsettled: he reminded me of my father. He didn’t look like he would harm anyone, so I climbed in, and told him my address. He nodded. He drove at a normal speed, in the right direction.

  ‘What are you doing out so late?’ he said.

  It was nearly ten o’clock. ‘I had ballet class,’ I said.

  ‘Ballet?’ he asked. ‘What kind of a studio is open at this time?’

  I smiled. ‘I have a key.’

  ‘I was worried about a young girl like you, out so late,’ he said. ‘You should be careful.’

  I shrugged. ‘I always catch the bus home about this time,’ I say. ‘Except tonight I was a little late.’

  ‘Lucky I was passing,’ he said.

  We were heading into my suburb now, and I began to relax, to think about making some cheese on toast when I got home. The man handed me an open bottle of something which smelled like aquavit.

  ‘Would you like some?’ he said.

  We were close to my road now: only a few moments, and we would be pulling up in front of my house. I liked the idea of my mother smelling the alcohol on my breath, of her wondering what I had been up to. I took a big swig from the bottle.

  The man smiled. ‘I would join you,’ he said. ‘But I don’t like to drink and drive. I wouldn’t want to get pulled over.’

  The low lights of the familiar houses flashed past as we circled my neighbourhood. As we approached the turning for my road, he didn’t slow down.

  ‘That was it,’ I said, my voice strangely thick.

  The man didn’t seem to hear me.

  ‘It was back there,’ I said again.

  I remember the outline of his nose, his tight lips against the suburban lights: his hands clenching the steering wheel. Then all around me the world began to fade, dimming like the failing light of winter, until everything was dark.

  20

  I have to pull over and check the address several times, but eventually I find the road and park the car.

  Carrying my bag, I walk along the street until I reach the right number. The building is the only red one in a long row of terraced houses. A low black fence runs along the front. I open the gate, walk up three stone steps, and press the buzzer for Flat 3.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Kylan?’ I say. ‘It’s your mother. Can you let me up?’

  I hear the buzz of the door opening. When I reach the top of the stairs, he’s standing at the door.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ I say, reaching forward to give him a hug.

  He stops me. ‘Mum, have you been crying?’ he says.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say.

  He hugs me then, and stands aside so I can walk in. The walls are painted red and the floors are wooden. I follow Kylan down the corridor and through a door. It’s a small kitchen with a generous window on the far wall, through which I can see the lights of the street below.

  Kylan gestures to a chair at the table and I sit down.

  ‘I thought you’d be more surprised to see me,’ I say.

  ‘Dad rang,’ he says. ‘He said you might turn up.’ He steps over to the kitchen counter, flicking the switch on the side of the kettle. ‘Tea?’

  I nod. ‘What did he say?’ I ask.

  ‘He was worried,’ he says, reaching into a cupboard for some mugs. ‘Said you’d gone out to the shops and hadn’t come back. He found your wedding ring on the kitchen table and most of your clothes were gone.’

  He puts a mug of tea in front of me and sits down.

  ‘What’s going on, Mum?’

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ I say. ‘Something about your father.’

  He blows on his tea, his sandy hair falling messily across his forehead. I remember a picture he drew when he was a little boy: a man and a woman with their arms around each other and a little boy standing in the middle. I hear Kylan and Hector laughing from the other side of the study door.

  I wonder how to continue. ‘He’s not—’ I start. ‘He’s not who I thought he was.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Things haven’t been easy.’ This is impossible. ‘I’m going to go to the police,’ I say. ‘Tomorrow. But I wanted to talk to you first.’

  Kylan’s eyes widen. ‘The police? Why would you need to go to the police?’

  ‘I’ve stopped taking my pills and I’ve started remembering things,’ I say. ‘Your father made me take them.’ I pause, trying to find the right words. ‘He’s a bad man.’

  Kylan is staring at me, the line between his eyes deepening. ‘Mum, I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ he says. ‘What has Dad done?’

  ‘For a long time, I coul
dn’t remember where your father and I met.’ I laugh. ‘Isn’t that strange? He always says we met on holiday, and I could remember being there with him, but I didn’t remember meeting him there. I remembered him taking care of me, after my parents died.’

  ‘There are photos of you,’ he says. ‘On the island. Sitting at a restaurant by the water. Your first date.’

  ‘But I’ve started remembering things before that,’ I say. ‘I never chose him, not how you chose Katya. He chose me.’

  He’s staring at me blankly. ‘Mum. I don’t understand. What are you saying?’

  ‘He said he found me on the doorstep,’ I say, slowly. ‘That I was ill. But I think he made me like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He made me ill. He told me there was a car crash, but it isn’t true. He told you that too. I’m so sorry, Kylan.’

  I start to cry then. Kylan doesn’t come and put his arm around me. He sits across the table and stares.

  ‘Perhaps we should talk about it in the morning,’ he says. ‘You’re obviously very tired.’

  I grasp his hand. ‘I don’t want to tell you this,’ I say, the tears coming again. Since they started at the bus stop, I can’t seem to stop them. ‘I’m not even sure if I’m right. Perhaps I should be taking my pills.’

  ‘Why have you stopped taking them?’

  ‘I suppose I wanted to see what would happen,’ I say.

  ‘But you know what happens. You’ve done it before.’

  ‘I wanted to know what I was like without them,’ I say. ‘And I’m starting to think that maybe they’ve been stopping me from remembering things.’

  Kylan gets up, puts his arm around me, pulls me to my feet. ‘Come on, Mum,’ he says. ‘We can talk about it all in the morning.’

  I grab hold of his arm. ‘I need you to help me, Kylan,’ I say. ‘I need to figure it out.’

  Kylan stares at me. ‘Figure what out?’

  ‘What really happened.’

  ‘I’ll help you as much as I can,’ he says. ‘But I think you should get some sleep. It might feel different in the morning.’

  I let him lead me down the corridor and into a small square room with just enough room for a double bed. There is a dresser squeezed in alongside it, with a pot of dried lavender on the top.

  ‘Is Katya here?’

  ‘She’s gone to bed. Do you want me to get you anything?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, sitting on the edge of the bed. He stays standing there, as if unsure what to do next.

  ‘Well, the bathroom’s at the end of the hall,’ he says. He turns to leave.

  ‘Kylan,’ I say. He stops in the doorway and turns back. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘What for?’ he says.

  ‘Just please don’t tell him I’m here.’

  Kylan looks at me for a moment, and then leaves the room.

  * * *

  I dream of the blonde girl.

  Smiling, she dodges me, and I see her running across a beach. She doesn’t look back, but I can hear her laughing. She is young; the sunlight glances off her still-blonde hair. All is light there: it shines on her and from her.

  It’s warmer where she is. I can tell by the way her image shimmers and blurs at the edges. It is where I would be now. If, if, if.

  Finally, I catch up with her. She’s trying to tell me something: I watch her mouth move, hear the sounds, but I can’t make out the word she is saying.

  She splashes into the sea and plunges underwater, her body like an arcing seal. Rushing into the water, I swim deeper and deeper, my eyes stinging with salt. I force them open. I swim for a long time, but I can’t find her. When I return to the surface, I look down at my body, touch my blonde hair. It is hers. I have found her at last.

  The word is on my lips when I wake up.

  Elise.

  21

  The first thing I see when I open my eyes is Kylan. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed wearing a red dressing gown. He smiles at me, a tight, wary smile. For a moment, I see him as a little boy again, his hair pushed up away from his forehead, messy with sleep.

  ‘Morning,’ he says. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes.’ I remember Hector and look at the door.

  ‘He’s not here, Mum,’ he says. ‘I told him not to come.’

  ‘Did he call?’

  ‘I called him,’ he says. ‘I’ve taken the day off work today. I thought we could spend it together.’

  ‘Where’s Katya?’

  ‘She’s gone to work,’ he says. ‘It’s just you and me.’

  I smile then, embarrassed to feel the tears rise. With difficulty, I bring my eyes up to his. They are clear and blue. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he says, his voice breaking. ‘I didn’t realize things were so bad with you.’ He pauses. ‘I should have done more to help.’

  ‘I’m fine now,’ I say, looking around the clean, white room. ‘I’m safe here.’

  Kylan looks uneasy. ‘You’re safe at home, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t make me go back there, Kylan,’ I say.

  He is looking at my hands and looking down I see I’m clutching the duvet cover, both fists tight.

  ‘Let’s get dressed and go out for breakfast,’ he says. ‘There’s a cafe nearby that Katya and I like.’

  I let my hands relax and try to smile. ‘You have the first shower,’ I say.

  * * *

  We leave the house at quarter past ten.

  The sunlight bounces off the tall row of terraced houses opposite, the different colours melding brightly together like rock candy. For a second, I feel a sweet stickiness between my teeth: hear the roar of waves, the sound of seagulls. Then there is the smell of the sea. I shut my eyes, trying to draw the memory out, but just as quickly as it came, it’s gone again.

  There are people in the street, going about their daily business. The shopkeeper across the road is standing outside his shop smoking a cigarette. I feel the smoke filling my own lungs, the cigarette shaking between my fingers.

  ‘Mum?’

  Kylan is ahead, waiting for me. I must have stopped walking. It is as if the city itself is trying to help me, dropping clues which are impossible to ignore.

  After a while, we come to a cafe, and Kylan holds the door open for me. Inside, it’s warm and smells of frying bacon. There are wooden tables and a blackboard above the counter announcing the menu in spindly white letters.

  I follow him to a table. A red-headed waitress comes over, and we order coffees.

  ‘This is nice,’ I say, smiling at him.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, looking around the room. ‘We come here most Sundays for breakfast.’

  I look around at the dusty wooden floors.

  ‘What’s it like being back in the city? You grew up here, right?’ Kylan asks.

  ‘I’ve always been so worried about coming back here,’ I say. ‘Your father told me so often it was bad for me.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ he says. ‘It’s strange you’ve never seen my house, my life here.’

  ‘I wanted to, Kylan,’ I say. ‘Your father wouldn’t let me. I’m so glad I’m here now.’

  Kylan smiles. ‘I don’t think Dad would have minded.’

  ‘He told me I was only safe in the valley,’ I say. ‘But he didn’t want me to remember. He knew it would be easier to remember here.’

  ‘He just cares about you, Mum. He wants to protect you.’

  ‘He’s scared that someone will find out what he did,’ I say.

  ‘What do you think he’s done, Mum?’

  I take hold of Kylan’s hands across the table.

  ‘Kylan, I know this isn’t easy to hear, but I don’t think I can live with your father any more. I need to be far away from him.’

  ‘I don’t understand what’s changed,’ he says.

  ‘I told you,’ I say. ‘I’ve started remembering things since I stopped taking my pills.’

  Kylan squeezes my hand. ‘Mum, I remember what you were like whe
n you stopped taking your pills before. You weren’t yourself. You were seeing things, hallucinating. I think you need to start taking them again.’

  ‘Maybe I need to remember these things, Kylan,’ I say. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘But what if you’re not remembering?’ he says. ‘What if your mind is playing tricks on you?’

  ‘I need to be able to trust myself,’ I say.

  ‘All I’m asking is that you think about it. About taking your pills again.’

  ‘I just need a bit of time to think things through,’ I say.

  The girl arrives with our coffees and we sip them in silence. I think of the wide bright streets outside the window, the colourful buildings. I think of a life without Hector.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll move back here,’ I say.

  Kylan stares at me.

  ‘I could get a little apartment here, near you. Get a job in a shop or something.’

  ‘But, Mum—’ He stops. ‘What about Dad?’

  ‘Perhaps I could stay with you,’ I say. ‘Until I get on my feet. You have that spare room after all.’

  Kylan looks away, sips his coffee. ‘We’ll see,’ he says. ‘Just think about what I’ve said.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ I ask, as he stands up.

  ‘Mum, don’t look so worried. I’m just going to the toilet.’

  Kylan starts to walk away. I want to stop him: I hold my breath until he is gone. Then I look around the cafe. There is only one other table occupied, taken by two well-dressed women in their mid-forties. They talk and smile. I long to hear what they are saying over the sound of the coffee grinder.

  I look down at the table. It has changed: it’s white Formica now, with a solid metal rim. Beneath it are my legs, pink and opaque, the contours of the muscles visible through the material of my tights. I am still wearing my ballet shoes and leotard under my coat. In front of me is the biggest bowl of ice cream I’ve ever seen. There are several different flavours, piled high, covered with hundreds and thousands and lashings of chocolate and strawberry sauce.