The Girl in the Mirror(44)
I know who I am because I didn’t call Annabeth or Ben myself. Summer would have faced up to them. Isn’t this how she snared Adam, because she didn’t shy away from his grief?
I know who I am because, as Adam spoons me in the warm night, his sleepy, trusting left hand snakes across my torso and nestles against my right breast, and I watch the right side of my chest pulse with each beat of my wayward, loveless, twisted heart.
I’m Iris, the spiky purple flower, not the sweet round rose. I’m the irises in your eyes, the twin rings of aqua around the two black pupils, the windows to my own missing soul.
I wake in the darkness, jolted into sweaty awareness not by a nightmare but by the stark truth of my waking life, piercing my sleep like a hot blade. Bathsheba rocks in the breeze, and I imagine I’m still at sea. I’ll make landfall today and tell Adam the truth. Of course he’ll help me. He’ll deal with the police and call his cousin, Dr. Romain. And I won’t have to refuse to be examined. I’ll let the doctor check me over.
How can I carry on like this? I’m bound to slip up. If only I could get back to Wakefield. Summer’s closet holds files of her whole life. I wouldn’t make mistakes with those to guide me. I’d read every page. adam’s favorite meals. The Millennial Kama Sutra.
If only I hadn’t covered myself with that apple perfume. Or was it the sarong or the wedding rings that I was already wearing when Adam swept me into his arms? But I could have explained those away. If only he hadn’t spoken so lovingly, held me so warmly, smelled so very good.
It went back further, though. Dropping my own ugly green ring overboard along with the notes I wrote, the plans for how this could work. If only I hadn’t, out of pure love for Summer, cut open my upper thigh to the groin. Then I couldn’t have done this no matter how much I longed to. Without the scar I would have had to tell the truth.
Adam would never marry his dead wife’s twin, but maybe there would have been a man, among the many Romains or the other men of the Seychelles, or somewhere in the world, who might one day have loved Iris Carmichael.
No. Right now, she would be lying here alone, the unloved bearer of the worst possible news. Or perhaps, without Adam’s intercession, she would be in prison already. Perhaps Adam would have asked Iris, in front of Inspector Barbé, whether that spattered blood belonged to his dead wife?
Even if he hadn’t, even if everything had gone as well as it could have, even if Adam gave me Bathsheba, even if the first man I laid eyes on when I set foot in the Seychelles fell in love with me, by the time my divorce came through, Virginia would have produced the heir.
Francine would have won.
Adam slumbers on as the light turns golden. I slip out of bed. I’m sure there’s nothing left for me to hide, but the sheets I pulled off the bed last night need to be washed. Adam might not be able to tell, but I know that they smell of Iris.
The laundry hamper is full of Summer’s beautiful new underthings and Iris’s faded old knickers, which I suppose I can throw away. Now that we’re in the marina, there’s unlimited power and water. It’s time for me to start being Adam’s perfect wife.
I yank open the door to the laundry closet, and the big machines gleam at me. The things Summer loved most on the boat. She was always so content with ordinary things: tying on a sweet apron and washing Tarquin’s nappies, cooking Adam’s favorite meals.
There’s a whiff of old clothes, a scent like skin and decaying fruit. The laundry hamper is sitting on the top-loading washing machine. I move it to the floor and tug at the lid of the machine, but I can’t get it open. Summer said something about locking it so it didn’t bang open and shut at sea, but surely it won’t be hard to figure out how to release the lid now. I push my head into the shallow space above the washing machine and below the dryer. Everything is cramped on a boat. I’m bent over the machine, reaching to the back, groping for some kind of release lever, when it happens.
He presses against me. His muscled thighs are hot against the backs of my legs, and I feel a hardness pushing against the strap of my G-string.
“You little cocktease,” he says. There’s a sharp edge to his voice. “Wiggling your sexy little butt at me.”
I can’t believe it’s Adam’s voice. This isn’t how he talks to Summer. He knows. He knows it’s me. Gritting my teeth, I try to turn to look in his eyes. If the game is up, I’m going to face it.
But he grabs my hair and jerks my face away from him. My body slams against the lid of the machine. My chin hits the control panel.
“What are you doing?” I cry. “You’re hurting me!”
“You want it,” he says. “I’m gonna sexyrape you and you’re gonna love it, you dirty little whore.”
Pressure on my G-string. He doesn’t even bother to pull it aside. He thrusts against the fabric, and I feel it give way. Adam is inside me.
I can’t breathe. I’m not ready. I’m jammed between his hard body and the grim machine. He pushes with such force that the whole yacht seems to move. Hot spikes shoot up my spine into my brain. My feet lift off the cabin sole.
I don’t care about being Summer. Maybe I’m meant to play along, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Adam’s not supposed to hurt Summer.
He’s pulling my hair, and my hips are jammed against the steel edge of the machine.