Chapter 12 - The Woman of the House

I stare at the vaulted ceiling above our bed while Brian sleeps next to me. His rhythmic breathing should bring me comfort, but all it does is make me grind my teeth until my head hurts. Even though he’s on his side of the bed, he’s taking up too much space.

When Brian got home from work last night, he went on and on about one of his projects, some new hospital he was building on the South Side of Chicago. As I finished cutting up some vegetables for the salad, I tried to listen, but my mind was still on Angela.

“The permits finally came through today,” he said as he did an impromptu downward-facing dog in the middle of the living room. “That means we can start construction as early as next month.” He snaked his body so that his back was arched and his head was looking up toward the ceiling. He took a deep breath. I could tell he was proud of the job he’d done and knew I should be too.

“That’s great,” I said as I put the salad bowl on the dining room table.

“Tom and Ben are going to celebrate tomorrow night, and I told them I’d join,” Brian said. I heard him get up from his spot on the floor.

“Who?”

“Tom and Ben? The two other engineers I work with?” he said, joining me in the dining room.

“Oh, right, right. Tom and Ben.”

I had met both of them at Ben’s house when he and his wife hosted a dinner party. Tom was forgettable enough, but Ben kept a picture of his mom in the top drawer of his nightstand. Aside from that interesting little fact, they were both blank faces with bad jokes to me. I couldn’t let Brian know that, though. I cleared my throat and sat up straighter in my chair, reminding myself that the woman Brian married would be interested in his coworkers. What would that woman say now? She’d inquire about their wives. What was Ben’s wife’s name again? I bit my bottom lip and tapped my finger against the dining room table.

Admit it. You don’t know her name. You’re too stupid to remember something as simple as—

“How’s Sara doing? Didn’t they just have a baby?” I asked.

Brian was checking an email on his phone. I held my breath while I waited for him to respond, hoping I said the right name.

“She’s good, I think,” Brian said at last.

I let out a sigh of relief, feeling like I passed some sort of test.

“You don’t mind if I stay in the city tomorrow night so I don’t have to drive all the way back here, right?”

I shook my head. “Of course not.” I forced myself to smile through the idea of being alone in the house overnight. I pictured myself lying awake in bed, the darkness spreading through each room like a disease and the lake thrashing around outside, threatening to overtake the glass windows that hovered just above it.

“Rose?”

“Yeah?” I said, remembering what I was doing.

“You forgot the silverware.”

I looked down at our plates, naked without a knife and fork.

“Oh, right. Sorry, I’ll be right back.”

I walked into the kitchen and stood at the kitchen sink. I turned on the tap and let the cold water wash over my wrists in an attempt to rid myself of the afternoon, but when I closed my eyes, I saw Vick’s pained face, Angela’s blonde hair. Vick’s words rang in my ears. “We all knew we wouldn’t find her.” I let the water move between my fingers and up my forearms as I tried to relax.

I took another breath at the sink before I wiped my hands and grabbed some silverware. Then the light above me flickered. A coolness tickled my back. My throat tightened while my heart pounded in my ears. The cold air grew stronger behind me. I closed my eyes while I gathered the courage to turn around.

“It’s all in my head,” I said through shallow breaths. “It’s all in my head.” I tried to conjure up Brian’s certainty. “It’s all in my head.” There was only one way to prove he was right. I took a deep breath, tightened my grip on the silverware, and turned on my heel. With the two butter knives pointed out in front of me, I faced whatever was behind me.

“What are you doing?” Brian said, standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

“I thought you were in there…” My voice trailed off as I lowered the silverware.

“I went to the bathroom,” he said. “Everything okay?”

I looked past him and saw the source of the cold air. The sliding glass door was open.

“The back door,” I said. “It’s open.” Through the cracked door I saw a sliver of the lake that looked like melted black tar. Blood drained from my face and pooled at my feet.

“I must have forgotten to close it,” Brian said.

“When did you go outside?” I ask. When Brian got home he came in through the front door, not the back.

“Come on, let’s eat. I’m starving.” Brian closed the door, ignoring my question.

Now, he’s sleeping, and I’m staring at the ceiling thinking about why the back door was open. Unlike some of our more trusting neighbors in the area, I always keep the doors locked. After more than thirty years of living in Chicago, it’s a habit I don’t think I’ll ever break. And if Brian was at work all day, then that means someone else unlocked the door.

I tap my phone to bring it to life. I type in Angela’s name and search for her social media accounts, but I don’t find anything. I type her husband’s name, Jonathan Walsh, and an account pops up. While Brian sleeps next to me in the dark, I scroll through Jonathan Walsh’s pictures. He hasn’t posted anything in the last year, but before that there’s a picture of Angela with their kids, Teddy and Sara. They’re gathered around a bonfire in the backyard, holding sticks with marshmallows at the ends, smiling up at the camera. I scroll past Jonathan’s fishing trip with his friends and a large family reunion until I find another picture of Angela with Sara. They’re on a boat wearing matching life jackets. My heart quickens, beating in my chest like a caged bird. They’re the same life jackets I found in the boathouse. Angela has her arms wrapped around her teenage daughter, while Sara looks up at her, pretending to be annoyed. My face gets hot as I hover over the picture of Angela and Sara’s embrace. I scroll past graduations, birthday parties, and the opening of her boutique in town. The more I scroll, the younger Teddy and Sara get, but Angela stays the same. Happy and beautiful.

Feeling restless, I slide out of bed. I walk through the hallway and down the stairs until I’m standing in front of the windows looking out onto the lake. The dark sky makes the water beneath it look black. Earlier today, the waves crashed against the shore, before pulling rocks and sand back into its depths. Each wave pulled more and more chunks of land back into its deep abyss. One day, maybe decades from now, the waves would have their way and take the house nestled above the shore back into the water. But for now, the darkness beneath the moon is still, sleeping along with the rest of the world.

I fall into one of the plush chairs in the living room. When I close my eyes, I see Angela in the kitchen. She’s making dinner while dancing the waltz. Her blonde hair flies behind her as she glides over to the oven. She meets the turkey roasting inside with a curtsy before sashaying around the island with her arms draped around an invisible partner.

My eyes still closed, I see Angela and Brian together, laughing in the guest bedroom. The beige walls have been replaced with a bright yellow. Brian has his arms around Angela, and she looks over her shoulder at him, smiling. They sway back and forth slightly, their bodies moving as one, until she detaches herself from his embrace and turns around. That’s when I see it. She’s pregnant. Brian runs his hands along her swollen stomach. Her fingers are interlaced with his. When their eyes meet, they kiss, their unborn offspring the only thing separating them.

My body twitches. When I open my eyes, all I see is darkness. I’m not curled up in the chair by the window. There’s a hard wooden floor where the soft cushion should be. I hold out my hands to try to feel my way, but I can barely see them in front of me. My heart picks up its pace as I remind myself to stay calm, but the harder I try to relax, the quicker it beats. I hear the sound of tiny nails scratching against the wood floor as something scurries past me on my right. I touch my eyes, thinking they’re closed and this is all just a bad dream, but they’re open. I’m awake and I’m not in my house.

With my hands on the floor in front of me, I slowly crawl my way around. I hold my breath with every inch of progress, until the tip of my pinky finger brushes up against something rough. My arm recoils into my body, but whatever it is doesn’t react to my touch, so I reach out and grab it. It’s a rope. I move my hand along it, following it to the edge of the room, where my fingers meet cardboard. I’m in the boathouse.

I feel my way up the cardboard boxes to stand up, and as I do, the edges of the room come into focus: the door on the adjacent wall, the wicker chairs in the corner, and the piles of unorganized boating rope scattered around the floor.

With my hand on my chest, I take a deep breath and feel relief rush through my body. Then, my feet navigate their way through the disorganized clutter until my hand grabs the cool metal doorknob. I fling the door open and fall onto the lawn.

Upstairs, I climb back into bed next to Brian. He’s lying on his side, facing away from me. I curl up next to him, like I imagine Angela might, and try to enjoy the warmth of his skin against the coolness of my own. His chest slowly rises, reaching capacity, before falling once again. He’s in a deep sleep. When he wakes, he’ll think I was here the whole time.

Maybe in some ways, I was.