Page 27 of We Live Here Now

“Of course I didn’t.” My irritation rises again. “Look, it was probably just a trick of the mind. Dr. Canning says—”

“You called him, didn’t you? He rang this morning, asking questions about if my senses were working properly.”

“I was worried about you, that’s all. I was going to tell you.” An icy draft slinks like a cat around my legs. No wonder it’s always so fucking freezing in here. “I’m your husband, Emily. I’m allowed to worry. And he’s not justyourdoctor. I spent days with him by your bedside. Days and weeks you don’t remember. I have a relationship with him. He helped me too.”

She can’t argue that and instead shrinks back toward the bedroom door, as if afraid of my snippy tone. Always the wounded party. “But honestly, Emily. What’s more likely? That you imagined the nail due to your post-sepsis, or that I snuck up here when I got home to quickly take it out before you woke up? Do you want to check my pockets?”

She doesn’t answer but looks down once again at the tiny hole in the wood. “I don’t understand it, because it was definitely there. And there was that awful smell.”

It’s so typical of Emily to never admit she could be wrong even when all the evidence points that way, but there’s no point in continuing to argue with her. I soften my tone. I’m freezing, and I want to get down beside the fire to warm up with a nice glass of wine. I’ve got enough bullshit on my plate to sort out.

“There’s no smell now, is there?” I reach out and touch her arm.

“No. But therewasone.”

“I’ll take a look under the floorboards tomorrow if you want.” The smell is the clearest indication that she’s been having a post-sepsis syndrome moment, but I’m not going to spell that out. She must know it even if she won’t admit it.

“And as for the doors and windows slamming shut, it must have been the draft that’s always coming through. No wonder I’m always freezing.”

“Maybe we should go upstairs and check the rooms there. See if that’s where the draft is coming from.” She’s almost hopeful as she looks at me. “Or the smell.”

“Not tonight, Em. There’s no smell now, and I’m shattered. Why don’t you have a bath?”

She opens her mouth as if she’s about to push it, but then doesn’t. Finally she nods. “Okay. And thanks.” I guess she wants a truce too.

She’s still concerned, glancing down at the floorboard, not trusting herself, but she looks up at me, grateful and nodding, and I have a pang of how scary it must be for her to not trust her own senses. And then I’m awash with guilt again.I’ll stop, I think as I head to the bathroom, happy to warm my cold hands under the hot water tap for a bit as the bath runs.I’ll stop tonight.

But first I need to get by the fire and get rid of this awful cold in my bones.

35

Emily

I lean over the sink to spit as I brush my teeth, exhausted. Yesterday was a quiet day, Freddie working from home, and I thought I’d sleep better, but I managed only a few hours’ sleep, and they were filled with awful dreams of Freddie standing in the study holding a dead baby covered in blood and looking at me with such horror, moaning,There was a cuckoo in my nest, as books hung in the air around him. When I turned to run, I was back on the ridge on the hike, with Freddie telling me to go faster, and then in my dream I felt his hand on my back and I was falling all over again.

In the humidity of the bathroom, full of steam after my too-hot shower, I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus, and we’ve got lunch with Sally and Joe today. I swear I never felt this bad in the hospital. I splash cold water on my face. It didn’t help that the bedroom was so hot all night; I must be dehydrated. The only cold thing in the room were Freddie’s feet, ice blocks under the covers. Maybeheneeds to see a doctor.

I straighten up, leaning my hands on the sink, and look in the mirror. My reflection is invisible in the steamed-up glass, as if maybe I’m the ghost. Maybe I died back there in the fall and this is all a dream.

You will die here.

Just book titles. Just a coincidence. Just a breeze knocked them out. There’s nothing to find. There was no nail. You cannot trust yourself.

I repeat the sentences over and over until in my tiredness I very nearly believe it. I don’t like this house, whatever, whether it’s my condition or something else. I only went on about how great it wasback then because it had just popped up on Rightmove after Freddie and I had been sniping at each other. I didn’t even remember setting an alert for country homes. I didn’t really want to move here. Not really.

God, I wish we were back in London and going for lunch with our old friends. I could turn up in sweatpants and a hoodie with them.

I’m still staring lost in thought at the blurred mirror when a scratching comes from behind it. No, not a scratching. A squeaking. My eyes widen as letters start to spell out in the condensation, writing from theotherside.No no no, what now?

The three letters have been written in the wetness, but as if frominsidethe mirror, each one backward, right to left, not left to right, scrawled by a finger pressing from the other side of the wall behind. The shapes are shaky, as if they’ve taken a huge amount of energy and effort to write, but the letters are clear.

Freddie. Is it trying to spell Freddie? No sooner have I had the thought then another is shakily and slowly scrawled. It’s thinner, as if the effort of communicating has become too great a struggle.

No, not Freddie. Another letter starts, so faint I almost can’t see it at all.

It fades before the bottom of the last stroke, but I know it’s anM. Free me?Surely that’s what was being written before it stopped.

“What’s the matter?”

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