Page 50 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
Somehow, we polished off the second bottle of wine while I told my story.
I’m not drunk, I’m drained. I feel flat and empty. I don’t talk about what happened to me. But on the rare occasions when I do, I feel this way—like I’ve been hollowed out.
I glance at Emily. She, I think, is buzzing.
She gives me a woozy half-smile and says, “It’s getting late, and I need to wake up early to write while it’s daylight. Unless you think the power will be back on in the cabin tomorrow?”
There’s virtually no chance of that happening. But I tell her, “Maybe.”
“So, are you still up for showing me how to make a fire?”
I look at the clock. It’s late. It’s dark. It’s going to be freezing cold in that cabin.
“Why don’t you stay here? I’ll make up the guest room.”
“Oh, no. I don’t want to put you out.”
“You’re not. I’m offering. It’ll only take me a few minutes to make the bed, and you’ll be more comfortable here,” I say firmly. “I’d be a bad host if I sent you back to that cold cabin.”
She hedges. “Well, if you’re sure?”
“I am.”
We carry the empty bottle and the glasses out to the kitchen. It’s true. She’ll be more comfortable here, and I don’t need a bad review on Stay Your Way. But it’s more than that. I don’t want her to be alone after the conversation we had. And I don’t want to be alone. This truth surprises me because I’m accustomed to wrestling with my ghosts and demons by myself. I mean, Robert’s always there for me emotionally. But he’s not usually actually physically here for me. I find Emily’s company comforting.
“Come on, I’ll show you the guest room,” I tell her.
As I lead her down the short hallway to the spare bedroom, she asks, “Does your husband know?”
I don’t have to ask does he know about what. I stop walking and turn to her.
“Yes. Robert knows.”
She gnaws on her bottom lip. “I think about it all the time—telling Tristan. But I just can’t make myself talk to him about it.”
“That’s understandable,” I tell her. “Like you said, He doesn’t see you as The Girl Who Found Her Dead Roommate. You don’t want to lose that.”
“Still.” She wrinkles her nose, unconvinced.
“There’s something to be said for a fresh start.”
“You didn’t take one. You told Robert.”
I give her a sad smile. “Your scars are psychic. Mine are physical. The first time I got undressed in front of Robert, I knew I’d have to tell him or lie. And you can’t build a marriage on lies.”
She pales, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s thinking of my torn-up body or my pronouncement.
“I’m not judging your marriage,” I hurry to assure her.
“But you’re right—it’s built on lies. Well, omissions. Things I haven’t said.”
“And things he hasn’t said,” I remind her. “That cuts both ways.” It’s intended to make her feel better, but I think it makes her feel worse.
“My marriage is a lie,” she says more to herself than to me.
I open the door to the guest bedroom and usher her inside. I turn on the light and pull a set of fresh sheets and a stack of blankets from the closet. Her hands tremble as she helps me put the sheets on the bed.
I sigh. I’m bad at this—rusty and out of practice—but she’s teetering. “Listen, you’ll probably feel better after a night’s sleep. But if you don’t and you decide you need to have a heart-to-heart with your husband, you can do that when you see him. There’s no expiration date on honesty.”
