The Girl in the Mirror(55)
I remember the crocs lay still and cold and patient in the sun as the chicken came nearer and nearer. So, so close. The leap and snap were like a bolt of electric current. Croc thrashed against croc, fighting for the prize, tearing it to pieces. The bloody frenzy haunted my dreams for years, but Summer insisted that it was “the natural way of things” and that the chicken “had a more painless death than most of the food on your plate.” I could see her point of view, but I was still angry with Dad for making us watch, and I wished I could forget the incident. But Summer kept bringing it up.
It’s one of the few times I remember being angry with Summer, when she waxed lyrical about the chicken’s dramatic demise. She would read me gory scenes from her books, too, unable to believe that I was frightened by them. From her short lifetime of selflessness, these are the moments I find myself remembering. I hate myself for it.
Each day I am more bewildered by the thought that Summer didn’t have a maid, even though Seacliff Crescent is filled with glass and marble that shows the dirt, and keeping this peach carpet clean with a toddler around is a full-time job in itself. When I put Summer’s Australian SIM card back in her phone, I start getting her reminders. The phone pings multiple times every morning, reminding me to swing by the Little Gourmand to pick up Tarquin’s organic blueberry mush or to start marinating the beef for tomorrow’s boeuf bourguignon. The reminders are great for a day or two, but then they start to drive me up the wall.
It’s a nightmare getting Tarquin out of the house, but once I’ve strapped him into his car seat, I do enjoy cruising around town in Summer’s immaculate white BMW. I drive to the far side of Wakefield to buy pregnancy tests, even though it’s probably too early to start testing, and I take one every morning straight after Adam leaves for work. I time one minute on my phone, forcing myself not to look at the result until the timer goes off. Then I wrap the test in toilet paper, hide it in my pocket, and walk to our outdoor rubbish bin, where Adam never looks. I stuff it down as far as I can reach.
Adam comes home one evening to find that the pool filter is clogged with leaves and I’ve ironed burn marks into three of his business shirts. Tarquin and I are lying on the unmade bed, surrounded by picture books and browning apple cores.
“What’s got into you?” he asks when I point out my handiwork; I’ve left the shirts on the floor with the burn marks strategically facing upward. “You used to be so good at this stuff.”
I try to squeeze out a tear. “I’m so tired these days,” I say. “I have to choose whether to put my energy into cleaning the house or meeting Tarky’s complex emotional needs.”
“I guess we need to rethink having a maid,” says Adam, “but I don’t want hired help touching Helen’s piano. Please promise me that. I’ve always appreciated the way you care for it.”
“Of course not,” I say.
“All right, then,” he says. “You organize it.”
I waste no time.
The Steinway’s black lacquer shows every mote of dust, so even after I hire the maid, I polish it every day, while resisting the urge to play a single note on the damn thing, even when no one is around except Tarquin. One moment of weakness could give me away.
As well as single-handedly cleaning the mansion, polishing the piano, and maintaining the pool, Summer must have spent hours making dinner for Adam every evening. His favorite recipes are annoyingly complicated and use ingredients from about six far-flung specialty shops. Adam doesn’t like eating out. I’m keen to reeducate him, but I can’t change things too quickly. He and Summer were in a comfortable routine.
Then there’s the rapey sex. Adam wants it morning and night. Every time, I’m more humiliated, not by what he’s doing to me, which, despite everything, my body always responds to, but by the thought that he has done this to my sister. I know things she never wanted me to know.
I could stop him if I had to. I have guessed the safe word, I think. According to the web, most couples choose “red” or a fruit, and Adam and Summer were so unimaginative that I am sure they would have chosen the most obvious red fruit, even if they hadn’t already been crazy about the way she smelled of apples. The word hovers on the tip of my tongue, but I never say it. Each time is one more chance to conceive.
Worse than the sex is the day care, or rather the lack of it. At least the sex is over quickly. Each day at home with a toddler is an eternity.
I phoned around the day Annabeth moved out, only to find that all the local day care centers were full. Now I try some centers farther afield. At last, a center half an hour’s drive away offers to emancipate me for six hours every weekday, for a very reasonable rate. The hours are a bit disappointing, but beggars can’t be choosers. No boarding school in Australia takes kids before the age of eight.
When Adam gets home, I present him with the good news over a meal of confit de canard, paired with a gorgeous Burgundy that I have stolen a few sips of in the kitchen.
“But is it worth you going back to work now that you’re pregnant?” Adam asks.
I nearly choke on a mouthful of duck. My spine prickles at the thought of going “back” to work. If I ever find myself in the neonatal unit, expected to display my nursing expertise, it will surely be my Waterloo. Another reason I need to get pregnant fast.
“Of course not,” I say. “We can’t afford to risk this pregnancy with night shifts! But what about Tarky? He needs to get used to classrooms now, or he’ll be behind when he starts school. I wish I could keep him home forever.” I hug my arms to my chest in a can’t-let-go gesture. “But he needs more than I can give him. Other kids his age are reading and writing already.”