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Wounding
Copyright © Heidi James 2014
Pristine, she is motionless as a length of white bandage is wound around her body. Hands lift her, turning her one way then the other. She is held tight by the soft bindings. Her eyes are covered, for they too were damaged. If she tries to open them she can just make out the light oozing through the weave of the fabric; she prefers to keep them closed. She is being cared for, nursed by an unseen strength that can lift her entire body easily. The bandage is wound around her arms, first separately, each one carefully covered from shoulder to fingertip; then they are bound to her body. She is as secure as a swaddled baby. Unable to move, unable to hurt herself, she is wrapped up against injury.
There are men working over the road, digging up the path. Most likely laying cables and such for all the new TV channels, phone lines and the Internet. All those words wriggling underground. Spooky idea. All that information on the move, hidden underfoot as you go about your business. Clueless as to what’s being said, to what’s known about us. Paranoid, you’d say. Maybe I am.
I’m watching you sleep. I know every inch of your body and face but you’re completely mysterious, lost in dreams. Your hair curls over the pillow. You’re breathing slowly, quietly, your lips soft and slightly open. I wish I could say this to you now. Wish I could find a way to bring you back to me.
Cora sits at her desk, typing a report. Rows of hygienic numbers, infallible, logical and neat, pulse imperceptibly on her screen. She leans forward, her eyes narrowed, frowning. She types quickly, completely in control. The office is modern and new, with that chemical smell of plastic furniture and air conditioning. A wall of windows to her right reveals the Thames and Southwark beyond. She can see the tops of smaller, older buildings and the spires of churches. Below, people flow along the tributaries of the streets. Identical cubicles house her colleagues in long, pseudo-private rows. All the furniture is identical, though some of her colleagues have brought in photos from home, postcards of exotic places and inspirational sayings to personalise their space. Her cubicle is at the back of the department, to afford her the privacy necessary for someone in her position. Someone who takes and makes confidential calls, someone who is privy to high-level decisions and results. Cora’s desk has one framed photo of her husband and children. She doesn’t like clutter or mess. She’d prefer nothing but her computer and phone.
I have secrets too. But it doesn’t matter, because even though you are lying there next to me, pretty in your cotton nightgown, a pinch of fluff caught on your lip, you are not there. I’ve no idea where you are, what you think about. I have no idea what to do. I feel like I’m a time traveller, reporting back from the past in order to secure you to our present. An anachronism, I drift between there and now, trying to find my wife in amongst all the stories we create around ourselves. I wonder if I’ve made us up, if all the memories are false, everything lost. You wouldn’t be interested in my secret, I know that: you are only interested in the children and their day-to-day adventures. You’re wholly a mother. Perhaps that’s it, you’re only a mother now, you’ve ceased to be my wife. Something has slipped away. Something I just about see in the periphery of my vision but can never focus on.
The large clock on the wall in the sitting room marks out time. Cora sits on the sofa, a book open in her lap. The house is quiet: empty. She is supposed to enjoy this emptiness, revel in the depths of the peace, the space, as if it were a hot spring she could sink herself into. As her husband left the house with the children he kissed her and said, ‘Have a little time to yourself, Darling. It’ll do you good. Perhaps open a bottle of wine or something. Go for a walk, watch a film. We’ll be back around seven...OK, take care. We love you.’
I never had any doubts about us. Never. Not even in the beginning. I knew you were the one I wanted to marry. Maybe it’s crazy, but I just knew that I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life. You were the woman I wanted to wake up with every day, go to bed with every night. I could imagine being the best person I could be with you. Not that my old mates understood. They were still drinking and shagging and playing rugby on Sundays, though none of them were particularly young. Do you remember that stupid joke Gerry told us when we announced our engagement?
He’s lying in bed, the small lamp on her side still on. His back towards her, head on the pillow, his ear vulnerable and translucent against his dark hair. Long ago, his mother would’ve gazed at him, mesmerised by his fragility. She’d loved him. Warm and damp in his cradle, merely human, not yet a man or even really a boy; she’d have leant over him, cooing her perfect love and attention. Now he was adult and dirtied and his mother was old and surely exhausted by all that loving. Beyond it. Degraded. Though the older woman still performed some version of love that was little more than possession and he loves back, easily, lightly, he loves his mother, the children, her.
Everything moves apart, everything. I listened to a radio programme in the car about dark matter and the universe. The universe is expanding, the planets and stars are moving further and further away from each other, and the gaps, these ever increasing spaces are filled with dark matter. It’s inevitable I suppose. Perhaps that’s what this is, the gap between us is filling with dark matter, dark matter that pushes us further and further apart. Perhaps it’s inevitable.
He opens the front door to them. A light is on in the porch; it is a welcome, a friendly beckoning. A custom. The light is a machine that produces this meaning: ‘Come on in, our house is open and warm! We are safe, you are safe. Everything is just right.’ Everyone knows this. The light is also about security, and banishing any dark refuge for danger. It allows for the scrutiny of all visitors. But this is not discussed. It is not the custom to talk openly about danger. In fact it is considered rude to identify and confront any threat until it reveals itself absolutely. It’s more polite to wait until an actual incident has occurred.
You were always so jealous and insecure. It was quite flattering. I liked it at first. I liked that you loved me enough to care about my past. It was a good feeling, you being spiky and possessive. You wanted to know all the gory details about Lucy and the other women I’d been with. As if me telling you the truth would dispel your fears. I guess it’s like how I torture myself now with images of you being intimate with someone else. Someone else’s hands on your body. I’ve never felt like this before. In the beginning when you were jealous and scared, I was completely comfortable and at ease. I trusted you and I trusted our love for one another. That you had loved before didn’t matter, if anything it was reassuring that you had a past, that you’d been with other men. It meant you’d satisfied your curiosity, and I suppose I felt lucky that you’d chosen me, that out of all those others, it was me you wanted. But now, fuck; I’m terrified you’re seeing someone else. Everything has changed. I’m not confident about us, or your feelings for me anymore. Now I’m jealous.
It is hot, with few clouds cluttering the sky. The woman blinks in the hard light – the blink erases the world, only for it to reappear unchanged. A moment of blindness. She is sitting in a garden chair, reading a magazine. She is relaxing. She never leaves this domain. Her small world of anatomy, botany, butchery, economics. There is no other world than this. She is appearing in a dream.
I’m angry with you. I’m really fucking angry with you. Though I try so fucking hard not to be. I just want you to tell me what the fuck is going on. Who is he? I can’t believe I’m putting up with all this. I’ve a lot to put up with too. I’m unhappy too. This silent treatment is killing me. Night after night I lie here and imagine these stupid fucking conversations with you. I’m doing my best to be patient and kind. I’m trying, I’m really trying to be the husband you need. But it’s getting harder and harder. You treat me as if I’m a bastard, and you know you really are difficult sometimes. You are not perfect: you can be hard to love, hard to be around. I don’t complain. I do my best by you and the children. I’ve never mentioned this before because I rarely admit it to myself because I feel disloyal and I don’t want to hurt you, but there have been times when you’ve been an embarrassment, when you’ve humiliated me and our friends. If I’m really honest I know why we don’t see people anymore, it’s just too difficult to say openly, to your face.
He is looking forward to the weekend. He said to Cora ‘I can’t wait for the weekend. I’m so tired, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’ Cora agrees because it’s for the best that she does. But she hates Sundays and therefore the day preceding, with its gathering of dread. She hates the Day of Rest and its declaration of man’s stupidity. What a stupid lack of confidence, to need a god to decree that humans need a day to rest. And with God involved one dare not disobey. You have no choice but to sit and eat and watch TV with your family, even now that God has fallen silent. Because to rest is to be with your family. It has been decreed. The only release is work, where you can be alone.
It was raining on our wedding day. It was also raining when I proposed to you and you said no. I’d taken you to Paris. Is that a cliché, to go to Paris? Probably, I never was very good at these things. Anyway, we were in Paris, we wandered around the galleries and walked halfway up the Eiffel Tower before you got too scared. We took a boat trip down the Seine and got drunk over lunch in a café. Then, finally, I took you to dinner and, after eight courses of food that baffled us both, I got down on one knee, proffering the carefully chosen ring. You said no. Do you remember? I wonder if you do remember. It often seems that the details of our life together are beyond you – forgotten and meaningless. Even the most important and supposedly significant are beneath your radar now. You forgot our anniversary. You said you didn’t, said that you’d left my card at work but I could tell by the look on your face that you’d forgotten when I gave you your card and flowers. It feels as if you’re fumbling your way through our marriage. Hands outstretched, your eyes closed.
The house behind the door is silent. No one is home, she couldn’t have wished for better. The black bag dangles from her wrist. Raps against her leg. She inserts her key and walks into the hallway. She scrapes her feet on the mat, rubbing off the dirt from the street. She doesn’t want to walk it into the house. She wonders where they can all be, it’s his turn to collect them. The car is on the drive; maybe they are at the park. He is good like that: he takes them out to play. He runs with them and falls over, throwing them into the air. Pushing them high on the swings. He is good. She has watched them, chasing round and round. He helps them climb to the top of the frame, calling encouragement and climbing up to rescue them when they get stuck and cry. Another sort of mother would tell him to be careful, would watch with her heart in her mouth. Another sort of woman would tell him to stop, let them catch their breath before tickling them almost to death. She doesn’t, she says nothing. What she feels is the flattening of time. Her skin thickens like hide and she recedes, pulls back to where she can’t hurt them. Too late though, the dirty deed’s been done.
I like driving, especially at night. Feeling safe in a warm, enclosed capsule, other cars and drivers reduced to nothing more than the rapid approach and then fading away of light. Music on, blocking out all other sounds. I hold the steering wheel and feel powerful and competent. I love this car. We’re free and safe. My fingers curled around the smooth leather, following the road. Clearly defined, practical. Everything within reach and perfectly designed. I like the thunk of the door closing and the click of the seat belts. The immensely satisfying sounds and smells of a good car. The kids asleep in the back seat, little heads too heavy for their necks, their chins on their chest, drooling. Dreaming their multi-coloured dreams, tired out after racing around all day, their faces sticky with sweat and sugar. And you next to me, quiet, sometimes handing me a mint or one of the kid’s fruit sweets or reaching for the volume dial to turn the radio up. I glance over at you, your face in shadow, turned towards your window, unsure if you’re asleep or not, I reach over and stroke your thigh, cup your knee. My thumb testing the texture of your skin. You take my hand, stroke it twice and move it from your leg.
I’m jealous of Patch. My own son. The way you look at him, hold him. I am jealous of Patrick. There. That’s my guilty secret. I hide it and I live with it and I know it’s immature and I love him. I love his sticky little hands, and his bright little smile. I love the way he rakes through his Lego as if it were a percussive instrument when I’m trying to watch TV and the way he curls in my lap for a cuddle. I sometimes just stand outside his bedroom door listening to him playing with his toys; to the conversations he has with his imaginary friends and the battles he sets up with his toy soldiers. You see, I do love him. He is my boy, my son, and yet…
She felt like she’d been beaten up. Done ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Her whole body soured by pain.
Africa moves closer to Europe. The Continents slide over the soft mantle of the earth creating fissures and creases, tearing the ocean floor apart. The Mediterranean, now a holiday spot, was once a super ocean that girdled the earth and will eventually be remade as a mountain range. Imagine that. Geologists study the diaspora of sediments, scattered by the caravan of moving lands; grains of African rock are found deep in the core of South America; Britain is only separated from Europe by a temporary sea. Nothing is fixed, nothing.
Cora is sitting on a low banquette, her bare knees higher than her hips. She tries to sit elegantly, without showing her thighs, as she gulps her wine. She tugs at her skirt every few minutes to check it hasn’t slipped up under her bottom. She is surrounded by some of the women from her office; she barely knows them except for Sonja, who sits to her right, her large bosom pressing against her low cut shirt. Sonja laughs loudly and often. Most of the women are younger than Cora, single, non-mothers. They wear a lot of make-up and carry expensive handbags. She imagines she is one of them, free and solid with her edges clearly defined. Utterly singular and without links or connections elsewhere, like a stone or an orphan or a collapsing star. Being with them purifies her, if only for a short while. She could almost be one of them, incapable of destruction.
I remember you marching towards me, head to toe in black. Black leather boots, black long coat, black scarf wrapped around your neck, black hat. Your cigarette held like a weapon, stabbing at the air, your arm swinging forwards and back. I thought to myself, she’s like an entire regiment in one person coming towards me. You were surefooted, even in the deep snow. I was waiting for you, my breath coming in smoky gusts, leaning against the station entrance. We were going to a New Year’s Eve party in York. We were taking the train so we could both relax, snooze and read the papers all the way there. I’d brought along a bottle of red wine and some plastic cups: at the time I thought it was a romantic gesture.
The chairs in the waiting room are surprisingly comfortable. Cora sits in the corner, unobtrusive, but as she is the only client there she can’t hide. The receptionist let her in with a smile. Her voice was immediately recognisable from their phone conversation the day before. The consulting rooms are housed in a converted flat. She climbed three flights of stairs to the top of the building before knocking on the door. The waiting room is small with a black leather sofa and several straight-backed chairs. There are no plants, and blinds at the window are drawn against the daylight, but a pile of magazines is neatly placed on a coffee table. Classical music plays in the background. The receptionist sits behind a cheap black-ash desk, answering the telephone and shuffling papers. When Cora arrived, the receptionist handed her a questionnaire on a clipboard with a biro. Diligently she answers every question. She has come for help after all.
I don’t know you anymore. Can you ever really know someone? Can you ever really even know yourself? With everything in constant flux, nothing and no one stays the same. I understand this and I understand that relationships can’t remain static. I know that our needs change, but I imagined that we would change and grow together, that we would talk about these things, I didn’t imagine you would just go and have an affair. I know there is someone else. There are signs. I can read you like a book. You are so distant and snappy with me. You aren’t where you say you will be, I call you at work and you’re not there, they say you’ve taken the day off sick, but you aren’t at home. What the hell else can that mean? When you get dressed for bed, you turn away from me so I can’t see your body. You won’t have sex with me and when we do, it’s like you’re thinking about someone else. You hardly look at me. I know there is someone else, I know. You’re smoking again. I smell it on you and you gave up for me, for the kids, all that time ago. It’s another betrayal, another promise you’ve broken. Maybe that’s what you do with him. You have sex and you smoke post-coital cigarettes together. You have long lunches together and then fuck in a hotel, or his flat, perhaps he’s not married. Maybe you make plans together about leaving and setting up a new life. I’m sure you’ve told him all about our children, he probably imagines he could be their new dad, I imagine he looks at the photos of them in your purse and thinks to himself how charming they are and how he could love them. Who the fuck does he think he is? The bastard. What does he look like, I wonder? How did you meet him? Where? When? Endless questions that are driving me mad. But the kids can’t suffer because of this. It will be the children that are victims in all this and I won’t allow that. They must be protected at all cost. It’s my fault. I’ve not paid enough attention to you and now you’ve met someone else. It’s my fault. I understand. Perhaps I should’ve done more for you; perhaps I’ve missed the early warning signs. Actually, I don’t understand, it’s not my fault. I’ve tried, I try every day.
A shock of birds flies past the window, interrupting the blue with the brown flicker of wings. Cora turns her palms inwards to hide her lies. Standing at the top of the stairs. The truth exceeds the facts. She is mad with the desire for grace. She can only move forwards. Her body intervenes in the space between herself and the outside world. She can’t move without there being a consequence that is unacceptable to her. Thoughts resembling the birds outside dart about her head. She breathes, in and out. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. The house: the children: the car: the husband: her parents. She forgets them. Like birds the thoughts escape their cage. They fly away. They never existed. She forgets.
Acknowledgements
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