The Wife Before Me(36)
‘You want to be Amelia. I’m giving you the opportunity.’ He hasn’t raised his voice, yet she shrinks back, as if deafened by its force.
‘I have to feed Joel―’
‘Do as I say, bitch.’ He lays the dress across the bed and grabs a handful of the hair he had brushed with such deliberation. When she is standing he encircles her neck with his hands, his touch threatening in its gentleness. ‘You’ve tormented me for long enough with your inane questions about Amelia. Now’s your chance to wear her skin. Put her dress on.’
Her throat tightens, as if her air is already restricted. She removes her jeans, then pulls the sweater over her head, noticing as she does so that briars have snagged some of the threads. Her hands are also scratched and there is a line of dirt under the bitten stubs of her nails. He stands behind her as she slides the dress over her hips. The fabric flattens her breasts but he is able to close the zip before steering her towards the cheval mirror. His head tilts slightly as he studies her from all angles. Perspiration trickles under her arms, beads her forehead. Her stomach strains against the fabric.
The weight she has yet to lose is obvious to both of them. She averts her eyes, unable to look at her reflection.
‘You disgusting, filthy whore. You’ve contaminated her dress. Take it off immediately,’ he breathes into her ear and she, already knowing what she will see, brings her eyes back to the mirror. A damp aureole darkens the fabric and she is shamed by the telltale tingle in her breasts. She covers them with both hands and sways forward, nauseated by his words. Can they hurt more than his fists, she wonders, as he begins to unzip the dress. The zip eases down to her waist before catching on the fabric. Unable to pull it any further, he sits down on the bed and watches her attempts to wriggle the dress down over her hips. In her haste, she breaks the zip and the dress slides to the floor. The energy has gone from the fabric. It looks cheap, gaudy, stained with her secretions. Is it possible to hate herself more than she hates him? Yes, she thinks, as she lifts the dress and flings it at him. It hits his face before he can move and, for an instant, he is contoured in its sheen.
He moves swiftly, a snake uncoiling, and she folds at her stomach before collapsing. When she recovers consciousness, he is kneeling by her side, weeping. All this talk of ghosts had triggered a severe panic attack, he says. What he did was inexcusable. Can she find it in her heart to forgive him? He, too, is haunted by Amelia’s ghost. He senses her reproach, her unspoken accusation that when she needed him, he did not accompany her on that last, fatal journey. Yvonne’s phone call, Elena’s talk of hauntings, triggered his attack of post-traumatic stress. He will seek treatment first thing in the morning.
Joel, in the next room, is awake. His cry is the only sound Elena hears. The only sound that matters. Her head feels light when she sits up. She allows Nicholas to help her to her feet. His touch is repellent but necessary. She sinks onto the side of the bed and pulls on her jeans, hides her face in the sweater. She must concentrate on becoming strong again if she is to escape from a relationship that has become intolerable. She is familiar with the pathways of this thought, which always ends in a cul-de-sac. The impossibility of managing on her own with two babies and no income is exacerbated by the knowledge that their children are his possessions. He will not give them up without a fight to the death.
Nineteen
She dreams about ice and awakens shivering. Nicholas has turned in his sleep and pulled the duvet from her. Six in the morning. Unable to listen to his steady breathing, she leaves his side and goes downstairs.
Dew soaks the thin soles of her slippers as she walks towards the ice house. Spiders have silvered the bushes with cobwebs, lamé strands suspended on fragile stems. Her torch sweeps across the empty shelves and upwards towards the arched roof. No one else is here, yet the air seems alive with a shivering presence.
‘Amelia.’ The name escapes on an exhalation. ‘Amelia… Amelia…’ She repeats it like a mantra until a gust of wind slams the door closed and shocks her into silence. She reaches into the shelf and pulls out the folder. This time she does not bother replacing the documents in their right order. Nor does she pick up the ones that slip to the floor.
Her disappointment grows as she unearths utility bills, the stubs of chequebooks and Christmas cards from a man named Leo Byrne.
She has examined the entire contents and has learned nothing new about Nicholas. Bending down, she gathers up the fallen pages. Some are stapled together and belong to a file marked ‘Tax Returns’. As she is replacing them, she notices a sealed envelope. The postmark is Irish and shows that the letter came from Kerry. Amelia’s name is on the envelope but it is addressed to her interior design studio in Dublin. She draws out a page with the number 3 written on top. The handwriting is flamboyant, exaggerated flourishes that jolt her memory. Where has she seen that handwriting before? She flicks through the stapled tax returns to check if the other pages of the letter have been caught between them. Unable to find them, she begins to read.
…a charade. Each time you write my fear grows for your safety. Nicholas’s excuses ring increasingly hollow. It’s time you stopped pretending you can force him to leave. You can’t. Stop trying. I want to help. I’m not crazy, as you suggest. I’ve never been more clear-headed about anything. All I ask is that you listen to me. Think beyond yourself. Is Woodbine worth it? No! His violence is inexcusable… please… please listen. The chronology of your letters outlines a pattern that is becoming even more destructive and I can only hope that you have the courage to make that final decision. Only then…