Dead to Her(57)

She’d cried then, really causing a scene, emotional exhaustion brought on by her Valium comedown, too much alcohol, and too much fear. Where was it coming from? She hadn’t been this bad since she’d been a teenager, and now her moods were spiraling out of control. She felt sick all the time. She needed an anchor to keep her tied to this world, and if it had to be William for now then she had to try harder. She wanted to be forgiven for things she’d done and not yet done. She wanted it all to go away. She’d try to love him. She’d try to be good.

She’d gone to the restroom, queasy once more, and sent various texts to various people, cries for help wrapped in laughter, but no one had answered. When they’d gotten home, she’d napped for an hour, the house finally mercifully silent and pristine, and when she came downstairs, her head calmer and less noisy, too tired for fear, she found William asleep in his study. The day had exhausted him too.

Zelda was absent; maybe William had given her the evening off, not wanting any more histrionics in front of the staff, and so Keisha made dinner, mashing the potatoes rich with cream and butter and frying some steak and large shrimp with a token gesture of a side salad. Food to break a heart, just as he liked it.

When it was ready, she woke him and even though they ate in relative silence, she thought perhaps he was calming down. “I’m sorry about this morning,” she said. “I know I overreacted. It was that ball of mud or whatever, something about it reminded me of Auntie Ayo. I never told you but she’s into some—”

“Your aunt isn’t here.” William cut her off. “And it was nothing to do with her.”

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the tightly bound plastic bag of pills that had been hidden away upstairs in her Tampax box, where she thought he’d never find them. He placed it carefully on the dining table between them. “I knew you were taking something. I’m not a fool.”

She grabbed for the bag, but he was too fast, repocketing it. “It stops now.”

“You don’t understand,” she started softly, scared and desperate. “I’ve always . . . I have some problems. I need . . . It’s not to get high . . . It’s . . .”

“I won’t be married to a pill-popping lush,” he said. “You have to straighten up. No more day drinking unless you’re with me and then only two glasses. I’ll get you some therapy. Whatever you need. But no more pills. No more incidents like this morning.” He stared at her and it dawned on her that he meant the look to be affectionate, but all she could see was control. Irritation. A man who’d decided he was in love and was determined to stick to it. “London is gone,” he continued. “None of that exists here. I want you to be happy, Keisha. You’ve come from nothing and I’ve given you everything. Don’t let me down.”

His sentences were guillotine blows and the bottom fell out of her world. Happy? How could she explain what it would take to make her happy? How could she explain that she needed those pills? She couldn’t control herself without them. Anything could happen. She could do anything and that terrified her.

“Eat your food,” he said, nodding at her plate. “It will make you feel better. And let’s say no more about it.”

Say no more about it. Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe that worked when you were the one calling the shots. The one who’d been born with so much money the world was presented as a play toy. She scooped a forkful of potato into her mouth and tried to ignore the way it clung to her dry throat. Maybe he’d give them back to her later. Maybe he’d ration them when he realized she needed them. She could cut down on the drinking, she could do that, but she couldn’t do without the pills. Another wave of nausea washed over her, leaving her unsteady.

She was meek and humble as best she could be but he still flushed the pills down the toilet and still the sex was rough—purposefully rough, as if he was making a point rather than losing himself in the moment—and it went on and on, becoming a wearing trial for the both of them, slaves to his Viagra.

Afterward, while he snored, exhausted and lying in his sweat-soaked sheets, she wondered again how much hate there was in this new marriage. She hated him, that was for sure. She could barely hide that now, how would she cope without chemical help? She snuck out into the gloom as had become her habit, the night her only friend, the safety of it worth her nervousness about what spirits might emerge from the shadows, and poured herself a large brandy from his cabinet, sure that he’d have checked the level on the half-full wine bottle left from dinner. The ants in her head were starting to emerge from where they’d been sleeping in their nests and soon they’d be pouring free.

She made a call but there was no answer. No answers to any of her earlier texts either. Alone. She was entirely alone. It was a dizzying feeling, as if she were already dead and forgotten. She poured another drink and headed out to the garden, unable to breathe in the house that stank of William and cloying cut flowers and where all she could hear was the ghostly thud of the conjure ball on the stairs, Eleanor watching it fall from her place on the wall where she hung frozen in time.

Outside, at least the air was fresh, if still, and she could walk on the grass and pretend she had the strength to run far, far away from all of this and be free. This situation could not continue. Something had to break and she was afraid it was going to be her, snapped in half by her own greed. The shell she’d built around her crazy mind was cracking. They’d all see her for who she was soon enough—cursed. A wife to be kept in the attic not out on display.