The beating of thy pulse …
Is just the tolling of thy Passing Bell.
My Midnight Meditation
Henry King (1592–1669)
THE ROOM WAS DARK, but the darkness was not impenetrable. Even though the light in the room was turned off, the curtain in the front window was open and the room was bathed in the faint light of the lamp posts outside. He was able to see without any trouble.
She was wearing Alette’s nightdress. He recognized the delicate embroidery around the collar, the lilac ribbons and ruffled sleeves. He was standing so close to the bed, he could hear her breathing.
He placed his hand against his forehead. He could feel the onset of a migraine: throbbing pain spreading through his skull, the beginning of an aura painting the objects in his vision with a sickly hue. This always happened to him when he became upset.
Anger. Such anger. It was choking him, leaving him light-headed.
How dare she? The dress was not hers: was not hers to wear. That nightdress belonged to Alette. No one else had the right. He felt like smashing his fist into her face. Feeling her cheekbone shatter against his knuckles, her face caving in underneath the weight of his hand. The scream of pain. Her lips sagging with shock.
He took a deep breath. Calm. The thing here was to stay calm. He looked down at his hands and willed his fingers to unclench themselves.
She was breathing so very softly: the rise and fall of her chest almost unnoticeable. Her arms were flung to the side in a curious gesture of yearning. One slim leg was uncovered, the other twisted tight in the bedclothes. For such a tall woman she was surprisingly fragile-looking.
He had noticed this about her earlier tonight as well, in the locker room of the gym as he had stood over her, rummaging through her bag while she lay motionless on the cold cement floor. She had reminded him of that bird—the dead bird—gripped in the frozen embrace of the pond. He had been walking in the park last week when he had spotted it, its head completely submerged by opalescent ice but one wing sticking up crazily. Isa seemed like that bird. The same thin, delicate bone structure. The same defencelessness.
On the bedside table stood a vial of tablets and next to it an empty glass. He picked it up and brought it to his nose. Scotch. So that explained this deep, deep sleep.
Cautiously he moved through the room. There was no sign of the envelope. He had already looked in the kitchen and in the living room. It bothered him that he wasn’t able to find it. Earlier tonight, in the gym, he had thought it would be easy to lay his hands on it. He knew she had it on her. And he knew the letter troubled her. That much was clear from her reaction as she had sneaked a peek at its contents shortly after collecting it. Careful not to be spotted, he had watched her as she stood outside the building, the wind almost whipping the page from her hand. After reading for only a few seconds she had shoved the letter into her bag with a kind of hopeless vehemence. Maybe he was wrong: maybe there was an entirely innocent reason for all of this. Maybe. But something was off-kilter. He sensed it.
He sat down in the deep, wing-backed armchair. How many times had he wanted to do just this? To sit in this chair, in this room, as though he was the master here. As he leaned back into the shadowed recess, he felt the softness of cashmere against his cheek: Alette’s throw. He smiled in the darkness. Pulling the throw close, he wrapped it around him.
A slight sound from the bed stilled his movements. Isa had turned onto her back. For a few moments she lay motionless.
Suddenly she was sitting up.
He tensed. He was hardly breathing. Slowly she swung first one leg and then the other over the edge of the bed. She yawned.
Would she see him? Would she turn on the bedside light? He’d have no choice. He would have to do what had to be done. His fists slowly tightened into knots.
She reached out her hand, but not for the light switch. She picked up the empty glass.
With a slightly uncertain gait she walked past him, glass in hand. She passed by so close if he reached out his hand he could touch the lace on her sleeve. And still she didn’t see him: was oblivious to his presence.
He heard her walk into the en suite bathroom behind him and then water running from a tap as she filled the glass. Now would be the time to leave. But he did not want to go just yet. He was still sitting in the chair when she returned to bed, placing the glass carefully on the bedside table. He was still sitting in the chair, long after she had fallen asleep again: her breath slow and even. He was watching her from the shadows and it felt so right.