Chapter 9 - The Woman of the House

After Frances leaves I take a deep breath, letting the remnants of cigarette smoke fill my lungs. Then I light a peppermint candle to hide the smell from Brian; I quit smoking after we started dating. I flap my hands around to move the smell of peppermint through the air so he doesn’t think I’ve picked up the habit again.

I pace around the house. As I move from the kitchen, through the living room, up the stairs, into our bedroom and back down again, my fear is replaced with anger. The flicker of irritation inside me is small at first. But it’s persistent. It burns through my cold dread, and soon its flames are engulfing me from the inside out. Anger seeps out of my armpits and wets the palms of my hands. As soon as I understand why, I sit at the kitchen island and wait.

A quiet calm washes over me as I watch the minutes on the oven’s digital clock tick by. My teeth grind against each other in my mouth. 5:05 p.m. Brian should be on his way home by now, listening to a financial podcast and drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. 6:10 p.m. He’s in Hartford, wondering what we’re having for dinner. 6:45 p.m. Headlights dance along the floor in front of me. Outside, I hear an engine cut out. Then a key turns in the lock.

This won’t be like all our other arguments: one-sided and existing only in my head.

Tell him that you know he lied by omission.

The Realtor would have disclosed how the woman who lived here before us went missing from the house.

A lie is a lie is a lie. Confront him.

Even when we sat at the kitchen table, my fingers wringing with self-doubt as I told him what I’d experienced in this house, he said nothing about the missing woman. Instead, he made me believe I was sleepwalking. This wouldn’t be like one of our imaginary fights. No, this fight would be real. Our first as a married couple, actually. When Brian walks in the door and I hear his cheerful greeting, I know exactly what to say.

“How was your day?” Brian asks while he loosens his tie and sets his bag down on the floor next to his feet. His eyes scan the kitchen behind me when the smell of dinner cooking on the stove doesn’t greet him.

“Frances stopped by earlier,” I say.

“Your new friend? That’s nice,” he says, but the seriousness of my voice doesn’t seem to register as he rummages around inside the fridge.

“She told me about the previous owner.”

I wait for him to face me, defeated because he’s been found out, but he doesn’t. Instead, he cocks his head. His face is a mix of confusion and concern, which only makes the anger pulsing through my veins grow hotter. It swells up my neck and onto my face, turning my pale cheeks red. I push back my stool and stand.

“Rose, what’s this about?” Brian reaches out for me, but I take a step back.

“It’s about the previous owners. The wife went missing from here. And this house was what, a crime scene?” I watch as he works out how my words pair with my anger, but confusion still clouds his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I’m not sure I want to know the answer to this question, but I ask it anyway. Maybe he didn’t think I could handle it. Maybe he kept it from me for my own good. Maybe he wanted to move here so badly, for reasons I don’t know, that not even a missing woman would stop him.

“Tell you what? It was all in the paperwork,” Brian says. His hands are up in front of him, palms out in innocence.

I think about the stacks of paperwork we signed at Sonja’s office several months ago. A window unit hummed next to us, but the room was still warm. Sonja’s tweed blazer scratched against itself as she organized the documents before handing us each a pen. Sonja used a handkerchief to wipe sweat off her forehead. I tried to read the fine print in front of me, but my phone was buzzing incessantly in my pocket, every vibration a reminder of what I was leaving behind in Chicago. Distracted, I skimmed the pages, but Brian analyzed every word. His finger turned the page cautiously, and the tip of his pen pressed against the paper with intention. Sonja’s hot breath filled the already warm room. The legal jargon spun incoherently around my head as my buzzing phone rattled my bones. It was impossible to read every word, much less understand it. Anxious to get out of the office that seemed to get smaller with every buzz of my phone, my hand flew across the dotted lines. But Brian remained focused and didn’t look up until he had read every word.

“I…” I try to say something. Anything. But the words don’t come out.

“Rose, I thought you knew,” Brian says.

His sincerity makes me look away. He grabs my hand, but I can’t meet his gaze. My face flushes red with embarrassment. Now it’s Brian’s turn to be angry. Angry that I would accuse him of lying to me, even if not outright. But he’s not angry with me. He’s calm and collected, just like he always is, which only makes me feel worse.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He takes a cautious step toward me, and when I don’t move, he wraps his arms around me.

“What’s this really about?” He speaks into the top of my head. My face is warm against his chest, and his rich cologne fills my nose.

“Nothing,” I say as I bury my head in his chest, my face obscuring the lie I’m telling.

“I know moving here has been an adjustment. We’ve both been stressed, but I think we should give this place a chance. Promise me you’ll let all this nonsense go?”

I try to find solace in his smell and touch, but I can’t. Instead, I focus on the fact that I’m not alone. I’m married to a man any woman would be lucky to have, while standing in a home anyone would be lucky to live in.

“I promise,” I say, still wrapped in his embrace.

“Good. Now, let’s eat. I’m starving.”

“I can make us some pasta?” I offer.

Brian winces. “Maybe something a little healthier?”

I rack my brain as I think about what’s in the fridge. “Baked chicken with broccoli?”

“Perfect,” he says as he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling.

I grab a pan from the cabinet and realize Brian is right. I have been stressed, but not from the move. A twinge of guilt nestles itself into the pit of my stomach. I’ve just accused Brian of doing the same thing to me that I’m doing to him. Omitting the truth. Lying.

I wonder if my reasons for lying to him are for his own good, or mine.