You didnt have to do that, I say. Then, thinking better of it, I add, But thank you.
He gets up and pushes his chair back against the table, then Cecilys chair, then mine. You and Cecily can share the bed. Im going to sleep on the divan in my uncles library. Ill set up Bowens bassinet in the bedroom, but you wont have to worry; he mostly sleeps through the night.
Youre really staying the weekend, then? I say.
Itll be good for Cecily, he says. Shes been stir-crazy lately. He lingers in the doorway for a moment, his back to me. Itll give both of you a chance for a proper good-bye. Itll help her to let go of you.
6
CECILY STANDS at the bedroom mirror, frowning. Her shirt is rolled to her chest, and she dusts her fingers over the pink ribbons of shining skin that run up her stomach. Horrible, arent they? she says. Bowen stretched me out as far as I could go.
Im sitting on the bed, staring at the book Ive taken from Reeds library. He doesnt have as many books as his brother, and theyre all tattered and old. I get the sense that he inherited the rejects of the collection. Some of the history books have pages ripped away, and passages that are blacked out. There was a book about the discovery of AmericaI was drawn to it by the image of a ship on the coverbut the pages were filled with furious notes calling the text a lie, theories scrawled in smudged, sloppy lettering I couldnt read. I didnt want to read it anyway; I just wanted to look at the ships and try to remember Gabriels fingers in my hair.
I turn the page, staring at yet another photograph of a cargo ship. Gabriel would have something to say about it, Im sure. He would know how fast it could move across the water. This ship looks burdened by the weight of its cargo, though. I bet that if I stowed away, it would be easy for me to hide among those towering crates, but it would take me months to reach Gabriel. It would be torturous, feeling myself drag across the water so slowly.
But slowly would be better than not at all.
Cecily is still going on about how shes lost her youth, and how her body will never be the same, but how happy she is to be a part of it all. Some kind of miracle, reinforced hope. I dont want to look at her naked stomach, which is starting to take the shape of an upside-down question mark; her knuckles and cheeks and feet are always bright red. She gave birth to her first child with difficulty, fazing in and out of consciousness, crying when she had the strength, white from blood loss. I dont want to think about her going through it all again. The whole thing terrifies me.
But its unavoidable. Since Cecily arrived with her son, this room has smelled like a nursery. Powder and some indeterminable sweetness that lingers on infant skin. It has taken over the room like it has taken over her life. The child here is no longer her.
Arent you tired? she asks, falling onto the bed beside me and kicking off her socks before getting under the blanket. Dont you want to change into your pajamas?
Not yet, I say. I think Ill read for a while. I could go somewhere else if the light bothers you.
No, stay, she yawns, and rests her head on my knee and closes her eyes.
Within minutes shes breathing that disquieting pregnancy snore that makes me worry. We were brought to Linden as breeding machines, and Vaughn saw no greater opportunity than in the most naïve among all the girls to tumble from that line: Cecily. Ive no doubt thats why she was chosen. He saw that determination in her eyes, that vulnerability. She would do anything, anything to belong to his son after a lifetime of belonging to no one at all.
What is happening to her? What does it do to a young girl to birth two children in less than a years time? Theres a rash across her cheeks; her pianists fingers are swollen. In sleep she clings to my shirt the way Bowen clings to hers. The way a child clings to its mother.
I rake my fingers through her hair as I go on flipping the pages.
Ive gone through all the pictures of boats a second time, never bothering with the words, when theres a soft knock at the door. I know its Linden. Reed never comes upstairs at night. In fact, Im not sure where he sleeps, or even if he does.
Come in, I say.
Linden inches into the room through the slight gap in the doorway. His presence is barely there. He looks at Cecily and me, and I feel like a model in an unfinished portrait. The Ashby Wives. There were four of us once.
Is she asleep? Linden asks.
Im awake, Cecily murmurs. I had a dream we were ice-skating. She sits up, rubbing her eyes.
I wanted to see how you were feeling, Linden tells her, looking right past me. Im nothingcandlelight on the wall. Did you need anything to drink? Are your feet sore?
She says something about needing a back rub, and I take my book and slip out of the room just as easily as Linden slipped in.
Ive memorized which floorboards in the hallway dont creak, thereby leaving Reed undisturbed as he toils about his mysteries below me.
The window is open in the library, and the books and walls and floorboards are all cool with the nights breeze. I hear crickets as though theyre in the shelves. The stars are so bright and unobstructed that their light fills the room, making everything silver.
I replace the boat book and run my fingers over the spines of the other books, not really looking for anything. I think Im too exhausted to read, anyway. Theres a pillow and a blanket on the divan, and it looks inviting, but I dont feel right about getting into the bed Linden has made for himself. I focus on the book spines.
My uncle used to let me pretend they were bricks, Linden says, startling me. He eases a thick hardcover from the shelf, hefts it in either hand, and then places it back. I liked to build houses out of them. They never came out exactly like Id planned, but thats good. It taught me that there are three versions of things: the one I see in my mind, and the one that carries onto the paper, and then what it ultimately becomes.
For some reason Im finding it difficult to meet his eyes. I nod at one of the lower shelves and say, Maybe its because in your mind you dont have to worry about building materials. So youre not as limited.
Thats astute, he says. He pauses. Youve always been astute about things.
Im not sure if thats supposed to be a compliment, but I suppose its true. So much silence passes between us after that, with nothing to sustain the atmosphere but impassive crickets and starlight, that I become willing to say anything that will end it. The words that come out of me are, Im sorry.
I hear his breath catch. Maybe hes as surprised as I am. I dont look up to see what his expression is.
I know you think that Im awful. I dont blame you. Thats itall I have the courage to say. I fidget with the hem of my sweater. Its one of Deirdres creations, of course. Emerald green embroidered with gold gossamer leaves. Since having my custom-made clothes returned to me, Ive been sleeping in them. Ive missed how comfortable they are, how getting dressed into something that fits every angle and curve feels like rematerializing into something worthwhile.
I dont know what to think, Linden says quietly. Yes, Ive told myself that youre awful. Ive told myself you must bethats the only explanation. But my thoughts always go back to the you I remember. You, lying in the orange grove and saying you didnt know if we were worth saving. You held my hand then. Do you remember?
I dont know what to think, Linden says quietly. Yes, Ive told myself that youre awful. Ive told myself you must bethats the only explanation. But my thoughts always go back to the you I remember. You, lying in the orange grove and saying you didnt know if we were worth saving. You held my hand then. Do you remember?
Something rushes through my blood, from my heart to my fingertips, where the memory still lingers. Yes, I say.
And about a thousand other things, he says, pausing sometimes between his words, making sure he has them right. I get the sense that words are not sufficient tools for him to build whats going on in his head as he stands before me. While you were gone, I tried to take all of those memories and turn them into lies. And I thought Id done it. But I look at you now, and I still see the girl who fed me blueberries when I was grieving. The girl who was in a red dress, falling asleep against me on the drive home.
He takes a step closer, and my heart leaps into my mouth. I try to hate you. Im trying right now.
I look at him and ask, Is it working?
He moves his hand, and I think hes going to reach for a book on the shelf above me, but he touches my hair instead. Something in me tightens with expectancy. I hold my breath.
When he pushes forward, my mouth falls open, expecting his kiss even before it comes. His lips are familiar. I know the shape of them, know how to make mine fit against them. His taste is familiar too. For all the illusions and colors and sweet smells of that mansion, and of our marriage, he has always tasted like skin. His breaths are shallow. Im holding his life against my tongue, between my rows of teeth. Hes offering it up.
But it doesnt belong to me. I know that.
I draw back, gently step out of his hands that gripped my shoulders and were just edging their way to either side of my throat.
I cant, I whisper.
One of his hands still hovers near me, a satellite. I imagine what it would be like to tilt my head into his open palm. The flood of warmth bursting through me.
He looks at me, and I dont know what he sees. I used to think it was Rose. But shes not here with us now, in this room. Its just him and me, and the books. I feel like our lives are in those books. I feel like all the words on the pages are for us.
I could kiss him again. I could do much more than that. But I know it would be for the wrong reasons. It would be because my family is far away, or else dead, and because I miss Gabriel; in my dreams hes something small I dropped into the ocean, and I wake knowing that I might never find him again. But Linden is here. Brilliantly here. And it would be too easy to make him a substitute for all those things, to take advantage of his desire for me.
But then logic sets in. Logic and guilt.
I wont hurt him the way I did before, manipulating his affections while I worked for the freedom I wanted.
He seems to understand. His fingers close into his palm, and he lowers his hand from my side.
I cant, I say again, with more certainty.
He steps closer to me, and my nerves bristle like the long grass outside. Everything is rustling with expectancy.
We never consummated our marriage, he says softly. At first I thought you only needed time. I was patient. He presses his lips together for a moment, thinking. But then it didnt matter so much. I liked just being with you. I liked the way you breathed when you were asleep. I liked when you took the champagne glass from my hand. I liked how your fingers were always too long for your gloves.
A smile tugs at one side of my mouth, and I allow it.
Looking back, those feel like the most important parts. They were real, werent they?
Yes, I answer, and its the truth.
He touches my left hand and looks at my eyes, asking permission. I nod, and he holds my palm flat against his and then holds my hand between us. His other hand traces the slope of my wedding ring and pinches either side of it between his thumb and index finger. When I realize whats happening, my pulse quickens, my mouth goes dry.
He slides the ring down my finger, and it hitches on my knuckle, like part of me is still trying to hang on. My body lilts forward, tethered to the ring for only an instant more before letting go.
This was it. This was why I kept wearing my wedding ring, why it never felt right to remove it myself. There was only one person who could set me free.
Lets call this an official annulment, he says.
I cant help it. I throw my arms around him and pull him tight against me. He tenses, startled, but then he puts his arms around me too. I can feel his closed fist where he holds the ring.
Thank you, I whisper.
Minutes later Im lying on the divan, watching my ankle swing back and forth over the edge like a guillotine. Linden paces the length of the room, tracing the book spines.
I look for the moon through the open window, but its hiding behind clouds.
Linden says, Whats your brother like?
I blink. Its the first time hes asked me about Rowan. Maybe hes trying to get to know me, now that he knows Ill give him the truth.
Hes smarter than me, I say. And practical.
Is he older? Younger?
About ninety seconds younger, I say. Were twins.
Twins? he says.
I hang my head over the arm of the divan, looking at him upside down. You sound surprised.
Its justtwins, he says, leaning against a row of paisley cloth-bound books. That changes the entire way I look at you. He keeps his mouth open, struggling for the right words.
Like Im half of a whole? I say, trying to help him.
I wouldnt put it like that, he says. Youre a whole person by yourself.
I look out the window again. You know what scares me? I say. Im starting to feel like youre right.
Linden is quiet for a long time. I hear his clothes rustling, the chair creaking under his weight. I think I understand, he says. When I lost Rose, I kept going, I still do, but Ill never be what I was when she was alive. Itll always feel like somethings not right, without her here.
Thats sort of what its like, I agree. Even though my brother and I are both still alive, the longer were apart, the more I feel myself changing. Its like Im evolving into something that doesnt include him. I dont think I can ever be the person I was before all this.
Its quiet again after that. Its a comfortable quiet, though. Peaceful. I feel unburdened, and after a while I start to imagine that the divan is a boat moving over the ocean. Sunken cities play music beneath the waves. The ghosts are stirring.
Someone turns on the light, and my thoughts scatter away as I blink at the brightness. This is one of the few rooms with functioning lightbulbs, though they flicker.
Linden? Cecily says.
Shes standing in the doorway, her knuckles white from clutching the frame. Everything about her is white: her face, the quivering misshapen O of her lips, the nightgown that shes got bunched up to her hips as though shes unveiling her body to us.
But sliding down her thighs is an abundance of red. Its pooling at her feet, from the trail of blood that followed her into the room.
Linden moves fast. He scoops her up by the backs of her knees and shoulders. She comes alive with a scream so awful that he has to brace his hand on the wall to keep from falling. Shes whimpering while hes rushing her down the stairs.