Chapter 18 - The Woman of the House

“What was that?” Brian asks as I walk down the stairs.

“I have no idea,” I say. I reach for his coat and help him out of it.

“You invited her over?”

“No,” I say from the closet with Brian’s coat in one hand and a hanger in the other. “She just stopped by.” I don’t want to tell Brian she broke into our house. It will only complicate things. I promised him I’d forget about Angela, that I’d let it go.

“That’s strange. What did she want?”

“She said she was in the neighborhood and wanted to see the house again. Who knows with teenagers, though. Maybe it was a dare.”

“Huh,” Brian says. I follow him into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and pulls out leftover chicken and rice from the other night. “Listen, about this morning.”

I try not to think about the woman I saw in the reflection of the window. The hot coffee. The broken mug. I could tell him how I’ve really been feeling lately, how I’m afraid of what I’ve seen inside this house. I could tell him about how I visited Angela’s store and how her friends said Angela was different before she died. I could tell him I feel different too, because I do. My body doesn’t feel like my own. I could confess the thing that’s been kneading its way through my brain since I learned of Angela’s disappearance. It’s a thought I can’t shake no matter how much I try to reason with myself: I’m afraid whatever happened to Angela might happen to me. I open my mouth, but none of those words come out.

“I’m sorry I broke that mug and made such a mess.” I smile.

“Rose,” Brian says. His eyes search my face for answers but find none. “Tell me what happened this morning.” He takes my hand, giving me a chance to tell the truth, to open up, to trust him.

I want to, but there’s so much I’ve lied about, I don’t know where to start.

When we got married, Brian was sick of dating; he told me so himself. He was ready to settle down. And I was there telling him all the things he wanted to hear. I shaped myself into the woman he was looking for: an upper-middle-class graduate of a prestigious liberal arts college, whose mother was a teacher and whose father passed away after being struck by a drunk driver when I was just a little girl. Even though his passing was tragic, it brought me closer to my mother. I thought about the family photos Brian had on his mantel when I told him how she was my closest confidante and best friend. How my fondest memories were of the two of us spending the day at the Brookfield Zoo, naming all the animals and seeing Hootie & the Blowfish in concert when I was thirteen. Growing up, this was the life I had dreamed of having. The lies tasted so sweet on my tongue and sounded so good to my ears that even I started to mistake them for the truth. But the reality is, Brian doesn’t love me. He loves the person I pretend to be: easygoing, uncomplicated, amenable Rose. Our relationship is built on a foundation of lies that is slowly rotting with age. But I can’t tell him the truth now. I’ve come too far.

“It was nothing.” I squeeze his hand before letting go, unable to reveal myself to him. There’s just too much to lose.

Brian holds my gaze longer than he normally would. I’m afraid he’s going to press me on it, but instead he nods, accepting what I tell him instead of what’s right in front of him. Silence spreads between us. My throat tightens. Before more lies can come out of my mouth, Brian opens his.

“I think you should see a doctor,” Brian says, his voice soft and gentle.

Something inside me sinks while Brian looks at me with big, unblinking eyes.

“Brian, I’m fine. Really.” I want my voice to sound final, but it shakes on the way out, revealing my fears.

“You’re not sleeping much, and when you do, you sleepwalk. A doctor could help with that.” Brian holds on to my forearms and starts stroking them. I think he means for it to be comforting, but it feels constricting.

“It’s just from the move. I lived in Chicago for so long, it’s a big change for me.” I try to hide the panic spreading through me like a virus. It heats up my skin and lights my insides on fire.

“This isn’t about change, Rose. I asked my mom about it. When Michelle had postpartum blues, she went and saw someone. My mom said it really helped.”

“Brian, that’s not the same—”

“She gave me this doctor’s number and I made you an appointment.” He leans in and kisses the top of my head as I do my best not to scream. “It’s no big deal, okay? Just someone to talk to. It’ll be good for you.”

I nod. That’s what I told Mother when she was committed. I knew it was a lie then. I wonder if Brian knows he’s lying now.

—

That night in bed, the ceiling in our bedroom feels like it’s pressing down on me. It sits on my lungs, restricting my breath. The weight of the roof is on the side of my head. If I lie on my back, I’m afraid the tip of my nose will be pushed onto my right cheek. It doesn’t matter which side I lie on or how hard I try to keep my eyes closed, I can feel it.

Brian’s chest rises and falls next to me. For the first time, I wonder if Brian is lying to me just as much I’m lying to him. Conveniently, he has an explanation for everything. He insists that the weird things happening around here are all in my head. He knew about Angela’s disappearance and kept it from me. Does he know something about the house that I don’t? What doesn’t he want me to find out? And now he wants me to see a doctor. I picture myself in a straitjacket, wheeled away into a dark room, never to see the light of day again. That’s one way to get rid of your wife, I think as Brian twitches next to me. I can still smell the blood on my face, hear the footsteps outside our bedroom door, and see the woman standing behind me in my reflection. Is it all in my head, or is it something more sinister?

I wiggle my way out of the bed, careful not to wake Brian. Before I know it, I’m in the hallway, down the stairs, and out the back door.

Only when I’m safely inside the boathouse do I drop to my knees and cry. Hollow, half-hearted sobs rise up from my chest.