How to Be a Good Wife Read online

  Letting go, I move the ironing board and rise up onto the tips of my toes in one motion, feeling the arch of my foot. Stepping from one foot to the other, I lift my curved arms backwards and then forwards. My body knows what to do. I rise onto one leg, sweeping the other in a semicircle, raising my arms and turning, turning, turning, always bringing my head back to the same point.

  Just as I am beginning to overbalance, I feel a hand catch my leg and hold it, helping take the weight. There is another hand on the small of my back. I open my eyes and the girl from last night is there, smiling, swaying a little to the music as she supports me, her eyes closed.

  I stay very still, not wanting her to go. Her blonde hair isn’t as messy, tied up high on her head. The white pyjamas she was wearing the last time I saw her are clean now, too short at the arms and legs, dotted with tiny pink hearts. Her body is more filled out, and I can see the muscles of her legs, and the definition of her stomach. She opens her eyes and looks right at me.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I jump, and turn towards the living-room door. Hector is standing there, watching me. I feel my cheeks redden. When I look behind me, she is gone.

  ‘I didn’t think you were up yet,’ I say, my heart pounding.

  A smile cracks the corner of Hector’s mouth. ‘You look ridiculous,’ he says. ‘What was that supposed to be?’

  I look down at the floor.

  He laughs then, short and sharp. ‘You looked like a crazy person. Dancing in your nightgown. Whatever next? Just wait until I tell Kylan.’

  I shoot him a look. ‘Don’t, Hector,’ I say. ‘Please.’

  He smiles. ‘I won’t,’ he says, moving closer, putting his hand on my back where hers was a moment ago. ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’ He rubs my back, up and down. ‘Have you taken your pill?’ he says.

  ‘Not yet,’ I say.

  Hector leaves the room, returning with the bottle.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ he says.

  He takes out a pink pill and puts it in my mouth. I mock-swallow, letting the pill slip underneath my tongue, then open again. He nods.

  Once he has left, I spit the pill into my hand, going to the fireplace and dropping it into the grate. Then I move the ironing board back into place and continue to work.

  There is something, just out of reach, which I can feel shifting inside me. I shut my eyes, willing it to come forward. It’s a smell first, of detergent and sweat, and a rapid image that shuttles before my eyes too fast for me to grasp. Hard, shiny wood floors, a wall lined with mirrors. The tight material against my legs, my hair scraped back and held aloft with too many sharp pins. Then the chords: classical music played softly, a few bars and then nothing. The picture spreads for a moment like ink through blotting paper, and then, just as quickly, it is gone.

  After what feels like a long time, Hector re-enters the room. He walks slowly to his chair, easing himself into it. I hear the newspaper open. The only sound is the rustle of the pages and the hiss of the iron. The palm of my hand is slippery with sweat, making it hard to get a good grip.

  Some time later, when I am finished, I turn to lift the pile of ironed clothes into the basket, and catch a glimpse of him. He holds the newspaper up, but he is staring straight past it, at the far wall. He looks so tired and old and drawn, his half-moon spectacles resting on his nose. His face is clouded with something I can’t read. I almost don’t recognize him.

  I stand by the ironing board and watch as he lets the newspaper crumple in his lap, dropping his head into his hands. The iron hisses.

  He lifts his head and looks at me. I can barely stand it. He is expecting something. I should know what to do.

  Comfort him in times of stress. Speak in a low, soft voice to reassure him of your support.

  ‘Hector?’ I say. ‘Do you want some eggs?’

  He gets up, lifting himself out of the chair. Standing behind me, he puts his arms around my waist, resting his neck onto my shoulder.

  ‘We’ve been happy together, haven’t we?’ he asks.

  I nod, my hair brushing against his cheek.

  ‘Don’t ever leave me,’ he says softly.

  ‘I won’t,’ I say.

  ‘Tell me you love me,’ he says.

  ‘I love you, Hector,’ I say.

  He turns me around, pulling me towards him and kissing me on the mouth, his eyes still open.

  He releases me, then he smiles and walks towards the door. There’s the sound of the front door slamming, and the car starting up in the drive.

  7

  Hector leaves the house at eight thirty. After getting dressed in some old clothes, I fetch the duster and cleaning spray from under the sink and return to the living room. Starting at the bay window, I wipe down everything, making sure not to miss a spot.

  I reach Hector’s chess set, in pride of place on the table in the centre of the room. Sitting on the floor, I rub one piece at a time, turning to look out of the window as I work. Behind me, I hear the sound of a marble chess piece sliding across the board. I turn and see her sitting cross-legged on the floor, her legs so thin that the gaps between them are vast. Her hand is still on a white pawn, which she has pushed forward two spaces.

  I look at her face: the dirty, narrow cheeks; the matted hair; her glowing grey eyes. She smiles as I slide a black pawn forward to meet hers, her white teeth too large in her head. She takes her turn, her legs jigging in the white pyjamas.

  As I am wondering what has happened since the last time I saw her, I feel her hand over mine. Looking down at our two hands together, I see both sets of fingernails are bitten to the quick, raw at the edges. I put my other hand on top of hers, and suddenly, her hand is gone and the room is empty.

  The pieces on the chess board are paused, mid-game. I wonder if that proves that she was really here. It felt real: I can still feel her cold hand over mine. I imagine telling Hector about it, and I see his face falling, then hear the rattle of the pill bottle.

  I think of the house, of Kylan coming home, and I want to make him proud of me. I don’t want to disappoint them again.

  One after another, I move from room to room, cleaning everything in sight, until the whole house shines. I don’t stop to look around or to check my progress. A few times, I remember the hidden cigarettes under the mattress, but I am not tempted to take a break. It feels good to be busy, to be working hard, and I barely think about Hector or what he is doing out for so long. It is like the old days, when Kylan was young, and I never had a moment to myself. It’s not until I am wiping down the final stretch of kitchen surface that I look up at the window in the kitchen and realize the light is fading already, that the day is nearly gone. It’s four p.m.

  I pour myself a glass of wine and go to stand by the patio doors. I feel better, more like myself. Looking out at the garden, I see the dark line of the trees on the horizon, lit from behind by the pure blue of the failing sky. Kylan and Katya will be getting ready to leave, preparing themselves for the long drive from the city, through the shadows to the warm light of the house. I feel my excitement and hold on to it: Kylan is coming home.

  As I stand at the sink, washing out the cleaning cloth again, I hear the sound of footsteps running across the landing upstairs. Walking out into the hallway, I catch the sound of laughter.

  ‘Hello?’ I call. I climb the stairs slowly. I hear a door closing and hurry up the last few stairs. Everything is still. The only door closed is that of Hector’s study and I find myself opening it. We have an unwritten rule that I don’t come in here, that this is Hector’s place.

  The big black tree outside the window blocks the light. Flicking the light on, the room is empty. I see sheets of unordered paper; strange lists of symbols, numbers and equals signs, with Hector’s red marks in the margins; piles of journals; the sheaves of an old newspaper. There is a coffee ring on the faux mahogany which I trace with my fingers, and a nearby mug, still half full, with a thick white scum forming on the surface.

&nbs
p; The notice board glares down at me from the far wall, studded with colourful postcards from old students neatly lined up, held on tight with a drawing pin in each corner. It has been here since I moved into the house: one of the first things Hector showed me. They were important to him, these young women, and the cards they sent were a sign that he was important to them too. I sensed that whatever it was they gave him was something I was now expected to provide.

  I walk over to it, reach up and unpin a postcard: a black-and-white print of a girl sitting in a cafe, a cigarette in her hand. Turning the card over, I see slanted blue writing. Thanks for all your help … I wouldn’t be here without you. I place it back on the board, being careful to line it up with the others. I turn over another, a blue Matisse woman. Different writing on the back. Interview went well … lucky we went over differential equations! When I see the kisses on the end of this one, I pull it off the board and let it go, watching it drop towards the ground.

  Underneath, there is a photograph I recognize. My younger face smiles out at me, looking straight into the camera. My hair is short and dark, level with my chin, and I have a dark fringe which almost covers my wide grey eyes. I can see the buds of new life on the bare trees in the background, and the valley rising behind me.

  I have seen this picture before, many times, and I remember the story of it. Hector has always said it was a Saturday morning. We had followed our usual routine: Hector slept in while I fried his eggs and bacon. I had spinach and one poached egg. I remember that the pregnancy demanded a strict diet, which Hector had written out and stuck on the fridge for me. We wanted to give Kylan the best possible chance of being healthy and strong. We had discussed it, and I understood, taking a huge amount of satisfaction from having a new, important reason to take care of myself, of my body. As usual, we took our walk around the valley at exactly ten o’clock.

  Before, when I have seen this picture and listened to Hector’s words, I could picture the valley in a general way: the leaves, the green fields. Hector told me that we walked arm in arm, and so I saw us doing that. I can’t usually remember any smells or feelings, but as I look at the photograph now, I remember a particular day, the one this photograph was taken. I can hear the birdsong and the sound of gravel underfoot. Hector had brought his camera, an old Nikon, and took pictures of the beginnings of spring. The crisp, clean light made everything feel untouched. There were orange crocuses bursting through the sterile brown earth; the trees were punctuated with green. Hector took my picture as I put my hand out to touch the new leaves emerging from dark bark. I looked at him, surprised, and he smiled.

  We always followed the same route, but that day, I felt odd, my usual energy slipping away as I watched Hector’s walking boots march on and on. Looking upwards at the stretches of green and the blue sky beyond them, I had vertigo, as if I was standing on top of the mountains looking down, rather than the other way around. My knees buckled and Hector caught me, his strong hands grasping my arms.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’re safe.’

  He led me over to a bench by the side of the road, and we sat down.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Is everything all right?’

  As I caught my breath, I looked up at him, his brow furrowed. He put his hands out and touched my stretching stomach.

  ‘We shouldn’t have come out today,’ he said. ‘Shall I go and get help?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I just felt a bit dizzy, but I’m OK now.’

  Hector looked at me sternly. ‘You should be more careful,’ he said. ‘If you feel ill, please tell me. It’s important.’

  I looked down at his hands, still on my stomach.

  His face changed then, a smile spreading. ‘I just want what’s best for the baby,’ he said.

  Just then, I felt Kylan moving in my stomach, shifting against Hector’s hands. ‘I love it when he does that,’ he said, ‘it’s as if he’s telling us that he’s here, waiting for us.’

  I put my hands over Hector’s, surprised to see a tear forming in his eye.

  ‘I’m so happy,’ he said. ‘We’re going to be a family. It’s what I’ve always wanted.’

  ‘I’m happy too,’ I said, touching my proud belly.

  ‘Mother was so worried I wouldn’t find a wife,’ he said. ‘She was always saying I’d left it too late, worrying about who would take care of me when she was gone. I heard her talking to my father once, wondering if there was something wrong with me. But then I found you. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s all worth it now.’

  He kissed me. As I waited for him to pull away, Kylan shifted again. Then we got up and walked back towards the house, our home, Hector supporting me with one arm.

  Back in the study, I can feel one of my headaches starting. I rub at my temples, but the pain is spreading already and there will soon be little I can do. I feel something, then, pressing against my back. It’s her, I can smell her breath, feel it on the back of my neck. I long to turn around, but I am afraid she will disappear again. I feel her thin body against mine, her breath warm, close to my ear now. She whispers something that I can barely make out.

  ‘Marta?’

  Hector is standing next to me, his hand on my arm, the fingernails long, the thick skin crisscrossed with lines. The sharp smell of fish is in the room, and I see the bag in his other hand, thick with something solid. The halibut. He has been to the market for me.

  ‘You got the fish,’ I say.

  His hand is still on my skin. As he stares at me, he begins to tighten his grip, slowly, almost as if he doesn’t realize he is doing it.

  ‘Hector,’ I say, ‘you’re hurting me.’

  He lets go. ‘What are you doing in here?’ he says.

  I look at the notice board, at the photo, then at the floor where the discarded postcard lies. ‘I was cleaning,’ I say.

  He follows my gaze, and bending down awkwardly to pick up the postcard, he slots it back into its place, covering up the photograph again.

  I reach out for the halibut and he passes it to me, still staring at the notice board. He shifts the postcard slightly so it lines up with the others. Then he looks at me, and something hangs in the air between us, something thick and dark like smoke. Standing here, I am finding it hard to breathe.

  ‘Hector?’ I say.

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He nods. I wonder, then, if he has been seeing things too.

  ‘Hector,’ I say, ‘I want to talk to you about something. Have you noticed anything odd in the house? I’ve been hearing things.’

  ‘What kind of things?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know – noises. My doll was turned the other way yesterday.’

  Hector smiles. ‘Is your imagination playing tricks again?’ he says.

  ‘I don’t think I’m imagining it, Hector.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d have grown out of this by now: making up stories.’

  ‘But I’m seeing things too,’ I say. ‘A blonde girl.’

  Hector’s eyebrows rise. ‘Have you been taking your pills?’

  I swallow. ‘You know I have, Hector.’

  He takes my wrist again. ‘If I find out you’ve been missing them again—’ He stops. He pinches the flesh at my waist. ‘You’re losing weight,’ he says. ‘Have you eaten today?’

  ‘I haven’t had time,’ I say. ‘There’s been so much to do.’

  Always put the needs of the rest of the family above your own.

  ‘Eat something before they get here,’ he says. ‘Is everything ready?’

  ‘Almost,’ I say.

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  Never bother your husband with domestic matters.

  I shake my head. ‘I just need to make the halibut stew.’

  Hector looks at his watch. ‘I’ll go and get ready then,’ he says, turning around and leaving the room.

  * * *

  Some time later, after I have
finished in the kitchen, I listen in the hallway for signs of Hector. After a few minutes, the floor creaks and I know he is in his study. I climb the stairs. In the bathroom, the fan whirrs. I shut and lock the door, turning on the shower, watching the water begin to flow, turning the air to steam. Removing my clothes, I feel disgusting, itchy with accumulated dirt, and I long to be clean again. In the mirror, my collar bones rise through the white skin, my breasts suspended, small and flat, from my chest. The sagging skin of my stomach is loose and wrinkled.

  The water runs hot, and already the edges of the glass have begun to steam up. It’s excruciating, but I make myself bear it. My hair dampens and clings to the back of my neck. I lather the soap between my palms and wash my body slowly, making sure not to miss an inch of skin. When I am clean, I close my eyes and focus on the darkness behind my lids, the hot wet flow of the water on my chest. I stand there as long as I can.

  When I open my eyes, I’m outside the shower cubicle, looking in. I can hear the rush of water, and through the misted glass I make out the girl’s silhouette. She is singing to herself: no words, just a hummed tune, vibrating under the water and through the echoey bathroom. I peer through small clear circles in the glass. She has her eyes shut, but she’s smiling, her skin white and smooth under the bathroom lights. Her blonde hair has darkened, slicked back, moulding itself smoothly to the shape of her curved shoulders and back. Her hips jut out from her waist and her ribs protrude from her chest. She has no breasts. I can see the thick blue veins beneath her white skin, and there are fine hairs all over her body.

  Her eyes snap open, clear and grey, and I step backwards, out of sight. The humming has stopped now, and I listen, trying to hear her again. But there is only the sound of the water drumming into the empty base, and when I step forward, her pink silhouette is gone.

  I reach back into the cubicle and switch off the water, looking around me at the duck-egg blue of the tiles, Hector’s shaving things by the sink, his robe on the back of the door. I am shivering; my teeth chattering, and I pull a towel from the rail and rub myself with it, hard. I stand there for some time, watching the empty shower cubicle, tracing my wet footprints across the carpet.