by S. L. Grey
“Are you sure you didn’t just misplace your stuff? You were really stressed just before we left.”
I’m sure. “Maybe…maybe it was just my imagination. Sorry. You don’t need this right now.”
Mollified, he sighed and patted my arm—the sort of gesture someone would make to a friend, not a wife or a lover. “And I’m sorry if I snapped at you. Listen, you mind if I catch up on work?”
He turned his attention back to the iPad. I made myself a cup of green tea and took it back upstairs to Hayden’s room, the only place in the house where I truly felt at ease. I took comfort from the eggshell-blue walls I’d painted by myself, the chest of drawers with the bumblebee handles that I’d bought for a song from the online classifieds, and the Disney princesses nightlight a cousin had sent me from the UK.
It was the only room in the house that the invaders hadn’t sullied.
When I first moved in with Mark, I’d planned to revamp the whole house and eradicate the ghost of Odette. Her personality was evident everywhere, from the retro fridge to the stripped-pine table and chairs, and even to the goddamned understated wash on the walls. I spent hours scrolling through décor websites, but time slipped away and when Mark left the university we didn’t have enough spare cash to do much more than replace the essentials Odette had whisked away when she moved out. Zoë’s room was a different proposition. It seems strange to me now that I didn’t venture inside it until I was nearly five months pregnant and time began to run out. I knew Odette had taken most of Zoë’s clothes and toys with her when she moved to the UK, but poking around inside it still seemed like an intrusion. I suspected Mark went in there sometimes, and the door was always shut—our version of Bluebeard’s chamber. When I eventually got up the nerve to peer inside it, I was shocked to see how naked it was. There were no rugs on the floor, no curtains at the window. The duvet was still on the bed, rolled neatly at its foot, but the pillow was gone. Tentatively, I opened the wardrobe. It was empty except for a pile of duvet covers folded on a dusty shelf and a single pink anorak hanging forlornly from a wooden hanger.
I’d planned to sensitively broach the subject of redecorating it. But in the end I’d blurted it out one night after Mark had drunk a few glasses of red wine and seemed to be in good spirits.
It was our first real fight.
But now the room was Hayden’s—and mine.
Again I considered just getting in the car and driving down to Montagu to fetch her. At the very least, I should call my folks and let them know we were home already. But I was exhausted, and why worry them? I decided to send them an email saying that I’d see them the next day, as we’d planned. Let them have one last day with their granddaughter. Then it hit me that I hadn’t bought Hayden a present. I thought back to that mortifying scene in the kids’ shop in Paris—I’d meant to buy her something, of course, and the urge to put this right was suddenly overwhelming.
Calling out to Mark that I was heading to the shops, I grabbed the car keys and fled.
The mall was deliciously cool after the summer heat, but everything was too bright and busy. There were too many people, too many shops; I felt self-conscious and clumsy, and colors smudged in front of my eyes. I tromped up and down the supermarket aisles, randomly throwing goods into my basket and desperately trying to remember what the hell we needed: milk, eggs, bread, bacon, yogurt, and cereal for Hayden, as well as something for supper. I ran out of energy when I reached the toy aisle, and it took me twenty minutes to choose what to get her from the display of mass-produced junk. In the end I picked out a Barbie mermaid doll, exactly the sort of sparkly girlie gift I’d vowed never to give her. Reeling from low blood sugar, at the checkout counter I added a Coke and a family-size bar of Dairy Milk chocolate. I consumed both sitting in the stifling car in the parking lot, my T-shirt sticking to my back, then hid the evidence under the passenger seat.
Mark was in the living room when I returned, staring blankly at a rugby match, although he never usually watched it. The sugar rush was making me feel trippy, and my skin was sticky with drying perspiration. I’d have to shower again. “You want something to eat, Mark? I bought eggs and bacon.”
“Not hungry.”
“But you haven’t eaten since the plane.”
Nor had he showered, but I didn’t mention that. In fact, he was still wearing the same clothes he’d worn for the last two days. I didn’t want to think about his cat-blood-soiled coat—I’d give it away to the next homeless man who rang the gate buzzer. “I’m really fine. Thanks, though, Steph.”
“Shall I run you a bath?”
He dragged his eyes away from the screen and yawned. “I can do it. Listen, I think I’m going to crash. You mind?”
“But it’s so early.” And you stink like a fucking dead cat.
“I know. I can stay up with you if you want.”
“It’s okay. Could you check the doors and windows before you go up? And set the alarm?”
I hovered while he did so, then sat in the kitchen and brooded. Bloody Carla. I wanted to take the scissors and slash a hole in her coat. Pour paraffin on it. Set it alight.
I didn’t sleep that night. I streamed a film about a bunch of sex addicts with serious problems that were all magically resolved in the last ten minutes, and then sat through a grim murder mystery series set in New Zealand, keeping half an ear attuned to the house’s creaks and groans. I knew they were just the sounds of an old building exhaling after a hot day, but every one of them set me on edge. I eventually fell asleep as the golden dawn light crept in, and I was woken what felt like five minutes later by Mark waving my cell phone in my face. “Text from your parents. They’ve just got off the N2. They’re minutes away.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost one thirty.”
“Seriously?” Sunlight shafted through the burglar bars, stinging my eyes. My neck throbbed from falling asleep at an awkward angle. “Why didn’t you wake me?” Why didn’t you bloody well come and find me last night?
“I didn’t want to disturb you.”
At least he’d shaved and looked well rested and clean. My mouth was gummy and foul. “I need to brush my teeth. Let them in and tell them I’ll just be a second.” I jumped up, energized at the thought of having Hayden home.
“No.”
“Wait—what?”
“No. Look, Steph. I don’t want to see them. I’ll stay in the bedroom. I’m not in the mood for your father’s judgment this morning.”
“Hayden’s coming back. Don’t you want to see her?”
“Of course I do. But I can see her when your folks have gone. Please, Steph. I’m serious—I just can’t take them right now.”
“Where must I say you are?”
“Tell them I have jet lag.”
There was no time to argue, as seconds later the gate buzzed. When I opened the door, Hayden squealed and ran into my arms and I buried my face in her hair, breathed in the scent of baby shampoo, and tried not to cry. I told my parents that Mark was still sleeping and ushered them into the kitchen. I made them tea while Hayden unwrapped the appalling doll I’d bought for her—she loved it, of course—and introduced it to the far superior Princess Elsa toy Mom had given her.
She didn’t ask where Daddy was.
While my dad prowled through the ground floor, double-checking the burglar bars and griping about the cheapness of the alarm Mark had bought, I lied to Mom about our Paris trip—rhapsodizing about the scenery, the apartment, and the food—and promised to email her the photos as soon as I’d downloaded them (another lie: there were no photos of that god-awful trip, although we should have thought to take some of the Petits’ shitty apartment to send to the house swap site). They couldn’t stay long: they had a couple arriving at the B and B that evening. I hugged them and thanked them and tried not to get irritated at my mom for making a song and a dance about leaving—I knew she was trying to get a tearful reaction out of Hayden—and went onto the stoop to see them out.
> Mark was coming down the stairs when we went back into the house.
“Look!” I trilled to Hayden. “Here’s Daddy. Give him a kiss.”
She allowed him to hug her, then wriggled free and toddled back to Barbie and Princess Elsa.
“She looks happy,” Mark said.
“She had a great time.”
“That’s good.” His eyes slid away from mine. “Look, Steph, you mind if I pop out for a bit?”
“Where to?”
“To see Carla. That okay? Better get the spare keys from her.”
“But I thought we’d do something with Hayden today. She’s only just got back home.”
“I won’t be long. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
He was looking almost like himself; did I really want to start a fight? And if he didn’t go and meet Carla, there was always a chance she’d come here. I couldn’t cope with that. “Fine.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Go. But don’t be long.”
I don’t know what sparked it off, but minutes after Mark left, I started to feel twitchy, and the old anxiety began to build. I sat Hayden in front of the TV, then set the alarm. I paced through the house—double-checking that both doors were shut and bolted. The heat was getting oppressive, but I couldn’t bear the thought of opening a window.
I was considering having a stiff drink when the alarm whooped. The shock of it was so unexpected and sudden that it took me several seconds to process what was happening.
And Hayden was screaming.
I darted into the living room, gathered her into my arms, and just stood there, squeezing my eyes shut, holding her to me. I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed; I was waiting for the cold steel of a knife against my throat. The growl of a voice demanding to know where the safe was hidden. The alarm wasn’t connected to a private security company—we couldn’t afford the monthly subscription. Unless a neighbor called the cops, we were alone. No one was coming. Cell phone—I needed my cell phone. I tapped my pockets but it wasn’t there. Just where the fuck had I left it?
“Mumma! Mumma! Mumma!” Hayden shrieked over and over again. A fresh spurt of panic got me moving. Get out, get out, get out! I ran for the front door, fingers clumsily unlocking the security gate. As we reached the stoop, something clattered from Hayden’s fingers. I looked down to see the panic button lying smashed on the flagstones. Shakily, and clutching Hayden to me, I bent down to pick it up. Inside the house, the alarm shrieked on, then finally died.
“Hayden?” I said as gently as I could. “Did you touch this? Did you press the red button?”
She nodded. “Yes, Mumma.”
I breathed in a lungful of humid air. “You mustn’t touch it again, you hear me, Hayden?”
Her lip wobbled. “Sorry, Mumma.”
“It’s okay. It was just a mistake.” I wiped the tears from her cheeks with the palm of my hand.
“You okay?” a man’s voice called. I shielded my eyes against the sun. A rangy guy about my age was standing outside the front gate. I recognized him as one of the students from next door.
My pulse was slowing. I swallowed. “Yeah. Thank you. My daughter pressed the panic button. Sorry—I hope it didn’t disturb you.”
“It’s cool. Used to it. I’m originally from Joburg.” He grinned at me. “In any case, it’s been happening a lot.”
“What has?”
“Your alarm. It’s been going off a lot.”
A cold fist punched my gut. “When?”
“The last few days.”
“We’ve been away. We’ve only just got back.”
“Yeah. I figured. I called the cops a couple of times, but they didn’t show up. I checked your windows and doors, but they all looked cool. Reckon it’s just a glitch.”
“That is so good of you.”
“No problemo.” He shrugged. “I heard you had a break-in. It happened to my cousin and his family. Dude who broke in held them at gunpoint for…” His voice trailed away as he took in my dismayed expression. “I’m sorry. Not what you want to hear. I’m Karim, by the way.”
“I’m Steph and this is Hayden.” Hayden sniffed back the last of her tears and gave him a shy smile.
“Cool. Cute kid. That guy who lives here, is he your dad?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks, making my already hot face burn. “No. My husband.”
“I can be such a dumb ass.”
I laughed. It felt good to flirt. “Don’t worry about it.”
Someone honked a horn and called his name. “Gotta shoot. We’re going to Clifton. Last-minute thing, you know.”
“That’ll be nice.” Better than nice. A small bubble of envy surfaced: I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be so carefree. Heading off to the beach on a whim, downing beers, talking shit.
“Yeah. Going for a swim. It’s so bloody hot.” He slapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry. Shouldn’t swear in front of the kid.”
“She’s heard worse.” I tickled Hayden and she squirmed and giggled.
“She is seriously cute.”
“Thanks again for checking on us. I owe you a beer. Or six.”
“Hey, no worries. You know where I am if you need anything. Laters.” He gave me another grin and ambled away.
Back in the house I decided against resetting the alarm—if there was a glitch in the system, I didn’t want to risk startling Hayden again if it went off accidentally. To distract myself, I threw myself into playing with her. We played pirates and dress-up and built a Duplo house, and I put on a puppet show with her new Princess Elsa doll and vile Mermaid Barbie. Little by little I felt the stress draining away. When Hayden became irritable, I settled her on the couch with a juice bottle and sat next to her while she napped.
As I sat there, listening to Hayden breathing in her sleep, I let my mind work through everything that was bothering me. The alarm might be faulty, but the house was secure. My dad had seen to that. No one was getting in. And Hayden was fine. That was all that mattered. There was no point dwelling on Paris. What had happened in France was just pure bad luck. And wasn’t it possible that the aftershock of the home invasion had poisoned everything and made it seem much worse than it actually was? Sure, there was no doubt that the Petits were seriously weird, and there was no getting away from what Mireille had done, but the policewoman had said she was mentally ill. Mark and I had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Carla had searched through my stuff, but so what? If her life was so unfulfilled that she got her kicks by nosing through other people’s belongings, then that was her problem, not mine. And I had nothing to hide. No weird sex toys, no diary, no private love letters. Mark was a different story: he was feeling the strain; there was no doubt about that. When he got home I’d insist—for Hayden’s sake—that he seek professional help.
I sent him a text—it was going on four p.m. and he’d been gone for more than two hours—but he didn’t reply.
—
It was almost nine thirty when he returned. I’d fallen asleep in my room reading Hayden a story, and the creak of footsteps on the floorboards woke me up with the usual breath-stealing lurch. But instead of leaping to my feet, I was flooded with inertia—I wanted nothing more than to just lie there: if the men were back, so be it. I remember thinking that perhaps, like Mark, I’d also reached the breaking point. I wasn’t sure how much more of the endless ebb and flow of fear I could stand: the noises in the night, the paranoia.
It took a monumental effort to snatch up the panic button and tiptoe into the shadowy hallway, telling myself, It’s just Mark, it’s just Mark.
The light was on in Hayden’s room, the door half-open. “You in there, Mark?”
I stepped cautiously toward it. He was hunched over her bed, pulling her duvet out of her coverlet. Another cover lay crumpled at his feet. “Mark.”
He turned and looked at me blearily, like a sleepwalker who’d been rudely awoken.
“What are you doing?”
The sec
onds ticked by, then, “I thought this might be dirty. I thought I should change it.”
“It’s fine. It’s clean. I washed it before we left.”
“God.” He gave a forced laugh. “Don’t know what’s got into me, Steph. Maybe I’m turning into one of those germophobes. Probably had too much sun today.”
“Mark…”
“Really. Don’t look at me like that, Steph. I’m fine.”
I helped him shove Hayden’s duvet back into its cover. His breath reeked of stale wine; he must have been way over the limit when he drove home.
“Mumma?” Hayden came toddling out of our bedroom.
Mark stepped toward her. “I’ll put her to bed.”
“It’s okay. I’ll do it.” I swept Hayden into my arms. I didn’t want him to touch her. She slipped a thumb in her mouth and buried her head in my shoulder, a sign that she was upset. She’d clearly picked up on the tension strumming through the house. “Why don’t you go to bed, Mark?” I was putting on an over-cheery voice. Look, Hayden, we’re all one big happy family. Your daddy isn’t going mad, oh no, no, no. “You need your rest, Mark. Especially after…and you have work tomorrow, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Yeah. You’re right.”
I gave him a spectacularly fake smile and took Hayden down to the kitchen with me. There was no sign of Mark when I carried her back to her room, but our bedroom door was shut. Good. I lay down next to Hayden and snuggled as close to her as I could get. There was no point talking to him tonight. He was drunk. Tomorrow I would insist that he go to see some kind of head doctor. That or…or what? Ask him to leave until he’d sorted himself out? No. We were a family. We’d been happy once, secure.
Hayden kicked the duvet off her legs, rousing me. I sat up, knocking Princess Elsa to the floor. The spare duvet cover Mark had been fiddling with was curled in a ball in the corner of the room. Patterned with garish zigzags, it wasn’t something I would have chosen for Hayden. I stood, made my way over to it, and shook it out. It was bobbled and faded in places, and dust bunnies clung to it. Where had it come from?