Chapter 22 - The Woman of the House

While I get dressed, I take a mental inventory of the food we have in the kitchen, but I can’t think of anything to make. Whatever I cook has to be quick. I don’t have a lot of time. I pull my wet hair into a ponytail and go downstairs. I catch my reflection in the mirror along the staircase. Since we moved here, the fine lines around my eyes have deepened. Any color that was in my cheeks is gone, leaving my skin looking dull. In this light, the tip of my nose looks sharper and my jaw looks more defined. I don’t look like myself. I look like Mother.

“I choose to let go of the past and embrace the future,” I say through a deep breath. I don’t believe it and neither does the stranger staring back at me. I pinch my cheeks to bring some color back to them and smooth out the flyaways on the top of my head before descending the rest of the stairs. Once I’m in the kitchen, something stops me. A blue plate with half a dozen cupcakes is sitting on the counter. My breath catches in my lungs as my eyes move around the room, but no one is there. I’m alone. I approach the cupcakes slowly, as if they’re going to explode. Yellow cake with bright pink frosting. My favorite. Growing up, there was a small Italian bakery in between our apartment and the bus stop that made the cold winter air smell like the perfect mix of butter and sugar. Whenever Mother and I walked by, I would slow down to get a better look at the colorful pastries behind the glass, hoping against hope Mother would take me inside, but she never did. Instead, she yanked my arm and pulled me along as I struggled to keep pace with her wobbly strides.

Once, on my way home from school, I took my time walking past the bakery. I could almost taste the sugar cookies and the cream-filled cannoli just by smelling the air. The owner, Mr. Grazatto, came outside. Even though it was January in Chicago, his golden skin was still perfectly tanned. He wore a white apron draped over his shoulders and a single gold ring on his pinky finger.

“Where you headin’?” he asked.

“Home,” I said as I pointed up the street toward our apartment complex.

“You know, I see you walk by here a lot, but you never come in. Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. My teeth chattered from my thin coat.

“Well, you like desserts?”

I nodded.

“So why don’t you take a little something with you?” He pulled out a single cupcake with yellow cake and pink frosting from behind his back.

“I don’t have any money,” I said, my mouth watering.

“This one’s on the house,” he said with a wink. “And hey, do me a favor? Don’t let that mother of yours see it, okay?”

In the kitchen, I ignore the urge to shove one of the cupcakes sitting on the counter in my face. Instead, I pull out the note tucked under the plate. When I open it, four words in slanted handwriting stare back at me.

To Rose
From Frances

I don’t remember telling Frances the story about the bakery in our old neighborhood, or the fact that pink cupcakes are my favorite, but I must have. How else would she know?

My eyes sweep the kitchen for signs of Frances. The door to the back porch is closed. The pillows are propped upright on the couch. And the chairs are pushed under the kitchen table. I wonder how she got in. Did I forget to lock the doors? And once she was in, why didn’t she wake me? Did she walk up the stairs and see the wreckage on the bed and get scared? Surely she would have screamed if she saw all the broken glass and the blood.

Even though I’m confused about how the cupcakes got here, I’m thankful for Frances. At least now I have dessert to serve after dinner tonight. I feel the cupcakes behind me and turn to look at them once more. The pink frosting sparkles against the midafternoon sun. I’m lucky to have a friend who seems to know exactly what I need, right when I need it. I just wish she would have rung the doorbell instead of letting herself in.

—

The only noise at the dinner table is the silverware clinking as if in conversation. Brian, sullen at the head of the table, has been moving the same piece of chicken around on his plate for the last few minutes. Every time he pierces it with the end of his fork and brings it to his mouth, he changes his mind, puts it back on his plate, and moves it around some more. When Brian got home earlier tonight, his kiss on my forehead felt empty and habitual. I keep trying to catch his eye to try and silently apologize again for the corn maze, but even with his parents here he won’t meet my gaze. My in-laws sit between me and Brian at the dining room table. Deborah wears a cream-colored turtleneck with a silver cross around her neck, and Richard dons a button-down that looks the same as all his other button-downs.

I open my mouth, then close it. I catch Richard’s eyes. We smile politely at each other. The longer the four of us go without speaking, the more awkward it gets. I want Brian to break the silence, but he’s still staring at the same piece of chicken on his plate.

“You know, in Alaska the salmon is just incredible,” Deborah says, holding a piece of chicken at the end of her fork like it just offended her. I clench the end of my knife.

When Deborah and Richard had first arrived, Brian and I gave them a tour of the house. Deborah walked around with pursed lips while she said things like, “Well, aren’t those interesting curtains,” and “I can help you find a decent decorator.” I bit my tongue, waiting for Brian to defend me and the choices I’d made in an effort to make this house a home, but he didn’t. “We’d love the name of your decorator,” he’d said. In her own way, Deborah is worse than Mother. Deborah will tear you down slowly, bit by bit, and she’ll do it with a smile. At least with Mother there was no pretense about how much she hated me.

When we reached the guest room, Brian stood in the doorway and explained that this was going to be a nursery. Deborah squealed while Richard clapped his hands.

“Oh, Rose, this is just the best news,” Deborah said as she grabbed my shoulders and squeezed. Brian shook his head, immediately understanding his mistake, but his mouth was slack.

“No, no, Brian didn’t mean it like that. I’m not—”

“It’s okay if it’s early. Don’t worry, I won’t say a word.” Deborah twisted her fingers at the corner of her mouth, pretending to lock it.

I shot Brian a wide-eyed look, and for a split second I didn’t think he was going to correct himself. I thought he was going to let his parents believe I was pregnant. I thought he was going to lie.

His eyes blinked and he snapped out of his trancelike state. “No, Mom. What I meant to say is that one day this is going to be a nursery.”

“Oh,” Deborah said, taking a step back from me. “So, you’re not…”

“I’m not pregnant,” I said, feeling both relief and regret.

“Ah, I see,” Deborah said as she made no attempt to hide the disappointment in her voice.

“But we’re trying,” Brian said, putting an arm around me. “Rose is desperate for a baby.” I forced a smile, but Brian’s words couldn’t be farther from the truth.

While I cut a piece of chicken on my plate, I picture the dull blade in my hand running across my mother-in-law’s throat, blood splattering over the white linen tablecloth. It would seem impossible to remove, but the trick to removing tough stains is to just rub a little vinegar on them. Then they come right out. Deborah taught me that.

“Brian,” Richard says. “How’s business?” I put down the knife and turn my attention to my father-in-law. He takes off his glasses and rubs the lenses with the linen napkin on his lap.

While Brian tells Richard about the Oak Street building, how he’s had to spend a lot of time down at the construction site because he’s the lead civil engineer on the job, I catch myself in the reflection of the glass cabinet behind him. My face appears between the china set that Deborah insisted on buying us when we got married and a set of crystal wineglasses we’ve never used. I look as tired as I feel. A few strands of hair that escaped my tight ponytail hang in my face. A little mascara is smeared underneath my eyes, and the lipstick I put on an hour or so ago has dried, making my lips crack. Then something in the shadows behind me moves. I watch through the glass reflection, frozen, as I see the outline of a woman sway in the entrance to the kitchen ten or fifteen feet behind me. Her shoulders are slight and her head is bent downward. I blink. She’s gone.

“Rose?” Brian asks.

I’m standing. “Um, anyone need anything from the kitchen?” I leave the room before anyone has time to respond.

I scan the kitchen. “Who are you? What do you want?” I say to myself like a prayer. Laughter erupts from the dining room. I walk around the kitchen with my arms out in front of me. She’s in here, waiting for me. I can feel it. “Just tell me what you want,” I plead. A wave of dizziness washes over me. The room is slanting at the edges. I stagger toward the glass doors. It’s too dark to see the water, but my reflection in the glass stares back at me. There’s four of me. I grip the sides of the door to steady myself. Slowly, my breathing regulates. Before my arms have a chance to fall to my sides, I see her. She hovers over my right shoulder, tucked in the corner of the kitchen. She starts to look up. My eyes are glued to the reflection in the window, trying to get a better look. Her chin is sharp. Long wisps of hair cover her face.

“Who are you?” I whisper. Bony hands reach up from her sides until they’re gripping her throat. A dry, gasping noise comes out from somewhere deep inside her. Her body jerks. The gasping gets louder and more desperate. Her hands claw at her throat, searching for air, until suddenly they change course and reach out toward me. Her nails are like claws. They fly at me, her head tilts up, and that’s when I see her eyes, they’re like—

“Rose!”

I turn around. The woman is gone and Brian is standing in her place. “I asked you what you were looking at?” Brian says. I stare at him, unable to form words.

This isn’t like the other morning when I wasn’t sure who, or what, I saw. Now I’m certain. There was a woman there. I saw her.

“Is there something outside?” he asks without taking his eyes off me. His voice is flat, but his tone is leading. He’s telling me what he wants to hear.

I nod. “Something outside.” I repeat his own words back to him. My mouth is dry.

“An animal?” Brian says as he opens the door. Cold air moves through my thin skin, straight into my bones. He steps onto the porch with his chest puffed.

My intestines rattle against each other, shaking just below my rib cage. With Brian outside looking for an animal that doesn’t exist, I run to the freezer and pull out a bottle of vodka. Since I can’t leave dinner to run my nerves off, this will have to do. I take a long, deep sip. It’s not all in my head. My chest burns. My skin warms. I’m not crazy.

Are you sure?

I swallow some more vodka. A small cough escapes from my lungs as the alcohol makes its way into my bloodstream.

“I don’t see anything,” Brian says, closing the door behind him.

I return the vodka to the freezer.

“Ready?” Brian says. He’s standing in front of me again. There isn’t a hair out of place. His blue button-up fits him like a second skin, but it’s loose where he undid the top button. He has no idea what just happened to me in the kitchen. Or if he does, he’s doing his best to ignore it. Ever since we met, I’ve been afraid of him knowing the real me. With so much to hide, I never wanted to look into his eyes for too long, afraid he’d see I wasn’t good enough for him. Or worse, he’d catch a glimpse of the scared girl from the West Side of Chicago and see the truth about her, about Mother. For the first time I wish he’d look into my eyes, see the real me, and know. But that’s not possible. No matter how badly I want this marriage—this love between us—to be real, it’s not.

I search his face for a twitch of understanding or a flash of compassion, but find none. His look is blank. He puts his arm out in front of him, directing me back toward the dining room, where his parents are waiting.

“So, Rose, how are you two liking the neighborhood?” Richard asks once Brian and I are seated at the table again.

“It’s nice,” I say. I bring my glass of water to my mouth, craving the burn of the vodka I left in the kitchen.

“Lots of interesting characters live around here, though,” Brian says as he folds his napkin neatly in his lap.

I snort.

Brian looks at me and stops folding his napkin. Deborah’s mouth parts. Richard clears his throat.

“Something funny, Rose?” Brian asks. His jaw tightens. Is he afraid I’ll bring up the people gathered around us at the farmer’s market? The quiet whispers and silent stares.

“No, no, you’re right,” I say with a small giggle, a result of my rendezvous with the bottle of vodka. “Lots of interesting characters around.” I don’t know the people who live here, but now they know me. At least, they think they do.

“This house really is something,” Deborah says through squinted eyes as she scans the room. I smile. This house could burn to the ground and I wouldn’t feel a thing.

“It sure is.” I draw out my words like I imagine the women at Deborah’s country club might, the ones who have martinis for lunch and play pickleball in the afternoon. She asks me about the floors, but I don’t want to talk about the floors. I glance across the table at Brian, who’s talking to his dad about the work he wants to do in the basement. Resentment gathers in my gut. He was the one who told me the things I experienced were all in my head, but he was wrong. It wasn’t stress from the move, or lack of sleep, or some latent, primal desire to have a baby that made me imagine things.

Deborah clicks her tongue. “It’s a shame the previous owners didn’t keep the original crown molding, though.”

Tell Deborah about Angela.

The burning in my chest has dulled, but it’s enough to give me the courage to move the conversation away from crown molding. “You know,” I say, leaning over the table, “one of the previous owners disappeared from here.”

“Disappeared?” Deborah asks like she didn’t hear me.

“What did you say, Deborah?” Richard says, turning away from his conversation with Brian.

“Rose just said that the person who owned this house disappeared,” Deborah says.

“Rose, please,” Brian says with a sigh. Now I have his attention.

“She’s missing,” I say.

The look of shock on Deborah’s face makes me smile. The tightness in my shoulders gives way, just a little, and I can feel myself getting lighter.

“Now that you say that, I think I remember seeing something about this in the news,” Deborah says. “Wasn’t there something about dropping her kids off at school?”

Tell them how she disappeared.

“Yep, she dropped her kids off at school and then Angela Walsh walked right out that back door,” I say, pointing my fork over my left shoulder toward the kitchen. “And I think I know why.”

Deborah laughs. “How could you possibly?”

Go on, prove her wrong.

Deborah and Richard lean in slightly. Brian shakes his head; it’s a warning.

Tell them what living here is really like.

I open my mouth, but the words don’t come out.

Deborah raises a knowing eyebrow. “I bet she just ran off with a lover,” she says, waving her wineglass in the air.

“She would have turned up by now if that were the case,” Richard says.

“You’re right, Richard,” Deborah says. “I bet it was the husband who was the one having an affair.”

“Jonathan?” I ask, but no one seems to hear me.

“I bet he was the one having an affair, got sick of his wife, and then”—Deborah snaps her fingers—“the wife goes ‘missing.’ How convenient for him.”

“Oh, sure, blame the hardworking husband. Poor guy is probably so broken up he doesn’t know what to do with himself,” Richard says.

Deborah shrugs. “All I know is that the husbands always have something to do with it. Just watch any true crime series.”

“Listen to her,” Richard says, his eyes shifting between me and Brian. “She’s a regular detective!” Richard chuckles to himself and I feel my face flush.

“Okay, who’s ready for dessert?” Brian says with his palms on the table, eager to change the subject. “Rose, I saw you made cupcakes?”

“Right, the cupcakes,” I say. I’d forgotten about them. I consider admitting that they’re from Frances, but decide against it. I bring out the plate and set them in the middle of the table.

“These look amazing, Rose. I didn’t know you baked,” Richard says, taking one for himself.

I offer one to Deborah. She protests at first, something about trying to cut out sugar, but eventually concedes and puts one on her plate. Brian does the same. My head aches in the spot between my eyeballs. I need another drink, but I’m stuck at the table. Brian is telling another story about his day at the jobsite.

“So I said, ‘Unless we’re building the next Leaning Tower of Pisa, this isn’t going to work,’ ” Brian says.

Deborah’s head flies back with laughter. Richard’s stomach bounces up and down with joy. He grabs another cupcake. Brian’s fingers are covered in pink frosting. Deborah wipes some crumbs from the corner of her mouth before helping herself to another. Richard’s tongue is pink. Brian takes another frosting-filled bite. More laughter. Vodka jostles around in my empty stomach. I reach for one of my cupcakes from Frances, but it’s too late. They’re all gone.

“I can’t believe how much I enjoyed those,” Deborah says as she wipes crumbs off her shirt. Pink frosting is stuck in the creases of her mouth.

I force a smile.

—

Once my in-laws leave, I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of dessert. The bottle of vodka is nowhere near as full as I need it to be, but it’s enough to make me feel lighter. Brian won’t be happy when he sees me drinking, but with every swig I care a little less about what he thinks. Tonight was supposed to be about repairing things with Brian, but I’ve just made them worse. Might as well give him another thing to be mad at me about.

“You didn’t have to tell my parents about that,” Brian says when he’s back from walking his parents to their car.

Some of my drink splashes onto my wrist.

“About what?” I ask, licking the vodka off my hand.

Brian takes a breath so deep his eyes close. “You didn’t have to tell my parents about that woman, Rose. You know, the one who disappeared. What’s her name?” He looks up above my head, trying to remember.

“Angela,” I say quietly.

“Right. Angela. My parents don’t need to know about that.” He sounds impatient, like he’s trying to explain something to a child.

“It’s not like you to keep secrets from your parents, Brian. Besides, they seemed interested in what I had to say.” I sip from the glass.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brian searches my face for an answer but finds none.

“Nothing,” I say as I walk by him. He turns around. I can feel his eyes on my back as the power scales of our relationship tip in my direction. I’m always the one to apologize, always the one willing to look like an idiot, and always the one who backs down. Always trying to keep him happy. Not this time.

“I thought you said you were going to let all this stuff about Angela Walsh go,” Brian says. “Whatever happened to her has nothing to do with you, with us. Remember?”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, defiant.

“You know what I think? I think your friend Frances is filling your head with crazy ideas.”

“That’s not true. This has nothing to do with her,” I say. Spit gathers at the corner of my mouth. I wipe it away with my sleeve, not caring if Brian notices or not.

“That’s when this all started,” Brian spits back. “When you two met.”

“No, no, you’re wrong,” I say. My voice is unsteady from the alcohol. “I saw a figure, a woman. I saw her in my reflection. And I think Angela saw her too. Don’t you see? This woman scared Angela away, and she’s doing the same thing to me.”

“Rose, please. See, this is exactly why I want you to see Dr. Smith,” he says. “You sound—”

“What?” I ask. His eyes are the same as the ones I saw in the crowd at the farmer’s market. Full of pity and disbelief. “Crazy? Is that what you were going to say? Go ahead, say it.”

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

“Where are you going?” Brian asks as I navigate the laces of my right sneaker.

“For a walk.” The left one is even trickier than the right. Once I stand up, I’m out of breath.

“It’s late,” he says, but I don’t hear the rest. The front door slams behind me.