It’s been a few days since we found Deborah at the foot of the stairs, surrounded by splattered wine and shards of glass. Richard and I were careful to avoid the mess as we carried her, her left knee an angry red. She didn’t stop apologising as we helped her to her bed.
Since then, she’s been a different woman. She barely talks.
It hasn’t stopped her from drinking, though.
It’s almost like she’s turned into a cat. She’s lethargic, either sprawled on the couch or the bed for most of the day.
With Deborah mute, the house is silent. The academy isn’t any better. The online reviews weren’t kidding when they called Gexta a sleepy place. The scenery is beautiful—just like the ad promised—but apart from the green landscapes, the place isn’t lively at all. It’s more like a ghost town, with hushed voices and closed-off faces.
Lisa’s fiancé is the only constant. Every day, he treads the same path uphill to the tavern. Then he stumbles back to the house hours later, his hood hiding his face. I watch him from the window sometimes, feeling anxious. I’ve considered going back to South Africa. After all, if my colleagues and my host family don’t talk to me, what’s the point of being here?
But then I stop and think of the alternative. Going back to Sam’s academy, working a job I don’t like, and having to face my mom. Stopping InCheck.
And so, I decide to stay.
Richard watches me like a hawk. He thinks I don’t notice. Just like he thinks I don’t notice the hushed conversations between him and his wife.
But I do.
I’ve tried listening in, my ears pressed against the walls of my bedroom whenever he goes into the master bedroom to talk to Deborah, but her voice seems to lose its strength whenever he’s in the room. Like he’s a silencer. Plus, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Richard go up to bed. Either he sleeps in the living room, or in his study.
If that isn’t strange, then I don’t know what is.
Speaking of the study, Deborah never seems to go there, either. And whenever Richard leaves the house, he locks the door behind him. Why would you lock a room in your own house? If you ask me, it’s only if you have something to hide.
But apart from all that, there were some interesting developments tonight.
I was upstairs in my room when I heard a knock. Deborah popped her head in, dark circles beneath her eyes. “I’m heading to bed. Richard will start dinner soon.”
“Everything okay?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.
She tried to smile, but the act looked painful. “Just tired.”
“You sure you’re not hungry?”
“Positive,” she said, already turning down the hallway to her bedroom.
Passing the time until dinner, I logged on to InCheck, reading a message from Susana.
I had a glass of wine at lunch today. I watched as the kids rolled around on the carpet. It was very mellow. I feel like a bad parent.
I sunk back into my pillow and typed a response.
Only you know your limits. Do you feel incapable of taking care of them after a glass of wine?
I listened as Richard fiddled with pots and pans downstairs. I didn’t hate my father for being a cheater. So I couldn’t hate Richard for cheating on his wife, either. If morality had a line, I’d crossed it ages ago.
Susana’s response was sudden. I don’t know.
And I didn’t, either.
Richard and I ate dinner in silence, the pasta sauce straight from a bottle.
“Are you sure Deborah’s okay?” I asked. “I don’t think she’s eaten anything.”
“She gets like this,” he said. “She gets too active and then hits a downer for a few days.”
Even though the words made sense together, it didn’t feel right. As if reading my mind, Richard spoke again. “You think I’m doing too little about it, don’t you?”
“I—I”, but there were no words. His tone was accusatory, and I didn’t know where it came from.
“Tell me,” he said in that tone again. “What do you really think?”
I pursed my lips. “It’s not my place to say.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
He banged his beer down on the table. “Do you reckon other people know best?”
I shook my head, not understanding. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s say I have a problem. Who do you think has the best solution—you or me?”
He leaned forward, as if the world depended on my answer.
I shrugged. “It depends on—”
“Nah, theoretically now,” he said. “Would it be you—a total stranger—or me, who’s known me for my entire life?”
He sounded patronising, and I felt the dislike rise in my throat. “You. But if you’re in too deep, you might not see things clearly. Someone else could show you another perspective.”
He let out a scoffing laugh. “How neutral can an opinion be? We’re all biased.”
I couldn’t argue with him on that. I wasn’t sure I was as neutral as I wanted to be when I advised people on InCheck. If my mother was neutral, trying to push pills my way. If my previous therapist was neutral, or if she was simply imparting her own beliefs on me.
“See,” Richard said. “I think we’re born to know what’s best for us. Call it fight or flight, or what have you, but we don’t need anybody to be giving us advice. By doing that, we’re letting others play with our lives. You can’t play God like that.”
I looked at him, a vivid picture in my mind of people on strings like puppets, being played by others. I thought of Susana. Of Fred. Whether I was leading them towards outcomes that suited them, or me. Whether I was giving advice or purely counselling.
Whether I was playing God.
“You’re biased too,” I told him. “Even what you just said is biased.”
“Exactly, but I’m not giving you advice, am I?”
He seemed happy when he made that point. The way he looked at me, like he wanted to teach me a lesson, made my stomach churn. What was this guy’s problem?
I kept talking.
“I think there’s a difference between giving advice and showing people what they can’t see for themselves. It’s a fine line.”
“Good point. It’s a very, very fine line,” he said, his eyes narrowed.
“People need people,” I croaked. “We’re only as smart as those we surround ourselves with. We can’t do this alone.”
Richard nodded, looking at me like I was trying to explain a math equation to him. “I’m going for a fag.”
He walked down the hallway, turned, then smirked. “Good chat.”
He’d made it clear that he didn’t like me, that he thought I was poking my head where it didn’t belong. And on the flip side, I didn’t like his arrogance or the way he was talking to me.
He wasn’t a fan of me? No problem—the feeling was mutual.
As I rinsed the plates, I heard the familiar click of the study door. Richard was back in the place where he seemed to spend most of his time.
Now, back in my bedroom, I can’t stop thinking about the past few days. The dinner we just had. I think Richard knows Deborah told me about his infidelity. He’s clearly trying to make a point. To tell me to stay out of his business. And who knows, maybe he’s told Deborah to stop telling me about their personal life. Maybe that’s why she’s retreated into herself.
But why does he lock himself in his study—and maybe even sleep there too? Why does he talk about Lisa so much, and why is it like he’s on a mission to call me out in conversations?
If he didn’t want me here, then why was I still here?
And despite all of this happening, it’s not the worst thing about tonight.
What is the worst thing is this power outlet. Here, in my room. It’s above the dresser, across from the bed.
On the day I arrived in Gexta, I connected my charger, but the outlet didn’t work. I’ve been charging my phone in the kitchen ever since, but tonight after dinner, I tried the power outlet again.
As I looked closer, that’s when I noticed it. The tiny aperture, half hidden beneath the plastic surface. A reflective element. And for a second, I saw a flicker, as if it moved.
Exactly like a camera would.