Chapter 29 - The Woman of the House

The October afternoon sky turns to night in an instant as I pace around the house. Outside, wind whips against the shingles, and as I move through the hallway upstairs, down to the living room full of windows, it feels like the house is swaying in the breeze. I try not to think about Helen, Angela, Frances, or the house, but Helen’s words ring in my head like a chorus: Angela’s gone.

Soon, Brian’s headlights flood the living room. After a few moments, I hear him walk through the door.

“Hi,” he says when he reaches the kitchen.

“Hi,” I say. Relief fills my body when I see him. While he opens the fridge and grabs some grapes, I’m reminded of the stable, predictable life he’s tried to give me. He bought this house so we could start a family and let me quit my job so I could be home with that family. He’s unknowingly tried to give me everything I didn’t have as a child, and all I’ve done in return is screw it up every chance I get.

It would be easy to turn away and go upstairs without another word. Over the last few weeks, we’ve been living like ghosts, quietly floating around each other, busy nursing our own pain and resentment. This time, I don’t turn away. Instead, I walk toward him.

Don’t bother. He doesn’t want you.

I wrap my arms around him to see if it’s true. For a moment his arms linger at his sides, but then I feel him embrace me. The weight of the day leaves my shoulders. I let myself relax into him. I can’t remember the last time we stood like this. Him, holding on to the person he thinks I am, and me, letting him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into the softness of his gray cotton sweater. “For everything.”

“I’m sorry too,” he says.

“I’ll be better. I promise I’ll be better.”

“Shh. It’s okay,” Brian says into my ear. “We’re okay.”

Brian’s ringing phone pulls us apart.

“Sorry,” he says, reaching into his back pocket before he answers. “Hello? Vick, slow down…”

The lump in my throat grows.

“Oh my God, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry…”

My knuckles turn white as I grip the granite countertop and try to steady my breathing. With one phone call, the solid ground I was standing on with Brian just a moment ago is gone, and once again the floor begins to fall out from beneath me. The bridge of my nose is tight with pressure. Visiting Helen was a mistake. Breaking into Jonathan’s house was a mistake. Moving here was a mistake. It was stupid of me to think I could just run away from everything that happened in Chicago. I want to slap myself across my face once, twice, three times. I want to feel the sting of my hand lingering on my cheek.

“Of course we understand. Take all the time you need. Let us know if there’s anything we can do…Okay, you too. Take care.” Brian hangs up the phone then looks at me. “That was Vick. He can’t work on our lawn for a while.”

“Oh, really?” I say, trying to sound like the perfect mix of concerned and nonchalant.

“His wife died.”