How to Be a Good Wife (12 page)

Walking down the stairs, I open the front door. Outside, the world is white. Our stretch of drive, usually so flat and grey, is covered: the cars a line of freshly made beds. Bright blue morning light reverberates, leaving no room for darkness; it spreads across the fields, masking where the hills begin, where they meet the sky. The flat bowl of the valley is marked out by spindly telephone poles, fences, and the low-hovering ghosts of leafless bushes and trees: white shadows of the former world.

Winter has come suddenly and my world is no longer the same place. The air out here feels brand new: I need to be where everything is hidden, away from the staleness of the house.

I pull my snow boots out of the hall cupboard, lacing them around my bare legs, then slip into Hector’s huge cushioned green coat. It smells of dried dampness: of spruce needles and a thousand winter walks.

The snow sticks to my boots, leaving a heavy black trail. It’s not too thick on the ground yet, just enough to cover everything. I use my sleeve to remove the worst of it from the windscreen and climb in, rolling down the windows, turning on the engine, surprised when it fills the air with sound. The snow crunches under the tyres: I should put the chains on. If I get myself stuck, Hector will be angry.

I pull out into the lane, indistinguishable from the fields around it. White-trimmed fences mark out where I should manoeuvre the car, though I almost lose my bearings several times. Once I am out on the bigger roads, tyres of earlier cars have marked out straight grey paths through the whiteness. I follow them, starting to increase my speed, feeling the chilled rush of the wind. I drive faster.

The glow of the shop emerges out of the lowering fog. My headlights make it swirl, the light losing itself in the opaque white air. When I turn off the engine, the silence is total. Sweat prickles under the neck of my jacket. Even if I were to scream at the top of my lungs, I know that the sound wouldn’t be heard.

Ta king a deep breath, I open the car door. The cold wind hits me. I move towards the square of yellow light.

The door is heavy and as I lean against it, a bell rings through the silence, making me jump. I clomp across to the refrigerator and pull out a large carton of milk. I see her reflected in the glass doors: the messy hair, the purple marks under her eyes like bruises, white pyjamas, bare feet. I turn away and look back quickly but it is only me in the reflection: a middle-aged woman, swamped by a huge coat over her nightdress.

The man at the counter is watching me. His dark hair is flattened by his hat and his ears are red; he is still wearing his jacket and gloves. He has a dark little brush of a moustache and his smile tremors beneath it like something hiding under the bed.

I put the milk onto the counter, feeling the sweat on my hands as his moustache lifts into a smile.

Once I have handed him the money, he gives me my change. Soon, I am out in the snow, the wind whipping my hair out of my face. I get back into the car quickly.

A red vehicle comes out of the white fog: bumper glinting silver, huge headlights sending out tunnels of yellow. Scraping metal, a heavy thumping: the sounds of spraying grit escaping onto the road. The noises stay, changing, getting louder as the gritter retreats. Even when it is gone, I still hear the horrible familiar churning of stone against stone, of darkness moving, over and over. Shoving my fingers in my ears, the sounds fill my head.

Through the fog, the light of the shop flickers for a moment. I shut my eyes, but the light remains, intensifying into a long bar, flashing into life. A sharp pain twinges in my temples, behind my eyes, travelling round the back of my head. It is an electric strip light, running across a grey ceiling. As if I am getting used to the new light, the room begins to form: the bed, the toilet, the sink. I see her, tucked into the bed sheets, blinking, her black eyeliner smudged.

I follow her gaze back to the ceiling, where the sounds were coming from. The edges of a metal door begin to drop, jerking awkwardly. A square of dim light appears slowly. Then the ladder. Cargo pants streaked with white dust. A faded green shirt with a rip at the elbow and paint splattered across the front. The brown hair at the back of his head.

He stops on the ladder and pulls the door shut, clicking the padlock into place. He puts a key on a yellow key ring into his breast pocket.

At the bottom of the steps, he turns around. She looks up at him.

‘In this room,’ he says, ‘you must keep your eyes down.’

She shifts her eyes to the ground, looking at his boots. The big metal eyelets, the brown laces, tied in neat double knots. He stands above her, his head almost grazing the ceiling.

The boots walk over to the chair. He sits down.

Standing again, he reaches out and places his hand on a crack on the wall above his head, as if he is rubbing the flank of an animal.

‘I hope you like the room,’ he says.

She keeps her eyes on the grey carpet.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

She can’t answer.

He takes something out of the pocket of his cargo pants.

‘I can’t give you this unless you tell me your name,’ he says. ‘I want us to get along.’

She lets her eyes flick upwards: it is a chocolate bar. Her stomach growls.

‘I know you’re hungry,’ he says. ‘It will be much easier if we can be friends.’

Eventually, the boots move towards the ladder. He stops.

‘It’s your choice,’ he says. ‘Just remember that.’

Then he slips the chocolate bar back into his pocket and climbs the ladder, pulling it up after him. As the door is shutting, she gets up from the bed, tries to reach up after it. It swings shut, jarring into place. She jumps and her fingers graze the top of it, but it is closed now. She sits back onto the edge of the bed. After a long time, she begins to mutter something under her breath, closing her eyes tight. I strain to make out the words.

Elise, Elise, Elise.

And then there is only the whirr of the car heaters, the whiteness outside, and the lights of the shop. I can’t see the car or the road or the trees or the mountains.

I listen for her, and I think I make out her voice, floating in the dense air.

Please let me go.

Just let me go.

Please.

I sit there for a long time, listening. She can’t hear me, and after a while I stop trying to make her.

*

The house glows through the white that has fallen on the valley. I see the lights before anything else, vague yellowness emerging through the car windscreen.

As I climb the steps to the front door, I decide that Kylan and Katya can’t go back today. I know it’s not too bad, but it’s bad enough. We’ll all have to stay put: shut out the cold. The house will be filled with noise and life again.

As I open the door, I smell bacon. In the kitchen, Matilda is at the stove, wearing my red apron. Hector is sitting at the table, reading the paper. There is a clutter of pans, utensils, and bowls on the surface and the hob is spotted with grease. I sigh inwardly, knowing I will have to clear it up later. I want to tell them to get out.

‘Where’s Kylan?’ I ask.

‘In the living room,’ Matilda says. She opens the cupboard above the sink. ‘I don’t know why you had to move things around. I can’t find anything.’

Hector looks up.

‘Have you been out dressed like that?’

I look down at my wet nightgown, the huge coat.

‘I went to get some milk,’ I say.

He leans over and opens the fridge door. ‘We have plenty of milk,’ he says. ‘We’ll end up throwing half of it away, as usual.’

‘We have guests,’ I say.

Hector stares at me. ‘They’re leaving today,’ he says.

‘I think they should stay here,’ I say, looking at my bitten fingernails.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘Marta, it’s only the first snow,’ he says. ‘A light dusting.’

‘There’s a fog,’ I say.

‘It’s forecast to get worse tonight. They wanted to go when they woke up, but they didn’t want to miss you.’

‘Don’t you want them to stay?’ I ask.

He sighs. ‘Of course I do, Marta, but they’ve got lives to get back to.’

‘Aren’t you worried about the snow, Matilda?’ I say.

Matilda looks up from the stove. ‘Why would I be? It’s not even bad yet.’

I sit down at the kitchen table, my hands in my lap. I imagine reaching forward and smashing Hector’s head onto the table, over and over.

There are little etchings of frost on the window which I trace with my fingers. Hector has gone back to his paper. Matilda concentrates on frying the bacon, curling patches of wet pink leather. I remember that my fingertip might leave a mark on the window and stop.

‘I still think it would be safer if Kylan stays one more night,’ I say.

Hector doesn’t look up. ‘We’ll see what he says.’

Just then, I hear Kylan in the hall. I go to the kitchen door. He is pulling on his coat.

‘Where are you going?’ I say.

‘I’m just going to put the snow chains on,’ he says. ‘We should probably get going after breakfast.’

‘It’s dreadful out there,’ I say. ‘Perhaps you should stay here tonight.’

‘It’s not too bad,’ he says. ‘And we have work tomorrow.’

I put my hand on Kylan’s arm. ‘Don’t you think you should wait until the snow passes?’

‘They say it’s only going to get worse.’

‘Then you should probably stay here,’ I say.

‘We can’t, Mum,’ he says. ‘You know that.’

Matilda calls through from the kitchen. ‘Breakfast’s ready.’

Hector comes through with two plates and hands one to Kylan. ‘Shall we eat in the living room? Marta, yours is in the kitchen.’

Kylan nods and they head in. Matilda carries two plates through from the kitchen.

I stand in the hall for a long time, listening to the chatter continue in the other room, before I follow them.

The living room is warm: Hector has lit the fire, and there is the sound of wood cracking in the fireplace.
Always light the fire in the winter: make the home as cosy as possible for your family to enjoy.
It seems like without me, everything has continued as normal.

Katya is sitting on the sofa with Kylan. He looks up and sees me standing there.

‘Not hungry?’ he asks.

I don’t answer.

There is nowhere for me to sit anyway.

After they have finished eating, I can feel the restlessness in the room rising. Everyone is getting ready to leave. Kylan fetches the overnight bags and Hector leads Matilda out to her car. The front door is ajar, and a chill spreads through the room.

I cross my arms, moving to the small hall window. There are swirls of flakes dropping from the sky.

‘It’s snowing again,’ I say, but no one is listening.

Kylan and Katya have their coats on. I stand rigidly in the middle of the hall.

‘The roads are sure to be icy,’ I say.

‘The main ones will be gritted,’ Kylan says. I think of the huge red gritter whirring past me on the side of the road and feel sick. He comes forward and embraces me stiffly. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ he says. ‘We’ll see you soon.’

‘Thanks for having me, Mrs Bjornstad,’ Katya says. She doesn’t try to hug me, and I am glad.

‘Please call me Marta,’ I say. I look at Kylan. ‘When are you coming back?’ I say.

He runs his hand through his hair. ‘A couple of months,’ he says. ‘I’ll let you know if we’ll be back for Christmas.’

Hector comes back in from outside, blood high in his cheeks.

‘Mother’s safely in her car,’ he says. ‘The engine’s running, and the windscreen is clear. Everyone ready to go?’

‘Yeah,’ Kylan says. He doesn’t look at me.

I go through to the living room and look out of the window. Hector’s mother is sitting with her hands on the wheel, and I can hear the dull moaning of the radio voices. I watch Kylan and Katya climb into Kylan’s car, parked in front of Matilda’s. Katya is laughing at something Kylan is saying.

Hector stands in the driveway, waving his big gloved hands as they drive out.

He is going now, I think, he is really going. I didn’t do enough. He won’t ever be coming back, not properly. I think of Hector and me in the house, indefinitely, trying to find things to fill the time, and I feel like a hand is closing around my throat.

The car headlights uncover hundreds of tiny white flakes, flying like insects in the light.

Standing by the window, watching the empty drive, I hear the front door slam. Hector comes into the room behind me and I quickly wipe away a tear.

He is still wearing his raincoat, the hood pulled up. Stopping by his armchair, he slips his gloves off his hands, one by one.

‘I don’t know what you’re so upset about,’ he says, his eyes dark. ‘You made that dinner as difficult as you possibly could. I don’t know how you expected them to stay longer.’

I stare at him.

‘It’s not just yourself you’re ruining things for, you know,’ he says. ‘This is my family too.’

He takes a step towards me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to keep the tears out of my voice. ‘I wanted everything to be perfect.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ he says. ‘You need to let him live his own life. We’ve had our time, can’t you see that? It’s Kylan’s turn to be happy.’

Are we happy? I think.

‘You can never just make things easy,’ he says.

Why can’t you make things easy?

I’m doing this for both of us.

Hector’s mouth doesn’t move but the words echo around the living room, scattered with the remains of breakfast. Plates, crumbs, crushed cushions out of their places.

I stand there, in the light from the window, another tear coming. I have failed him again. I can never make him happy. No matter what I do, it will never be enough. And now Kylan is gone, and it’s only Hector and me.

He turns and walks out of the room.

Once he is gone, I stand staring at the space where he was, feeling something black and ugly rise up in my chest. I see him again, outside the school, embracing the student. This is not all my fault, I think. I can’t let him blame me for everything that is wrong.