The Apartment (21 page)

When I've gathered myself, I splash water on my face, trying to ignore the grime on the basin glaring clearly in the daylight that streams through the high-level windows. I flick the phone on again, trying to immunize myself. I've seen this picture before. I had a copy of it myself, but it was on my old computer and I just backed all those photos up onto a drive and never looked at them again. Zoë with her birthday shoes. And her smile that shreds me all over again.

It's a while before I hear the knocking.

Someone says something. A woman's voice, gentle.

I stand up, try to straighten myself, wet my face again. In the mirror I see blood on my shirt.

Knocking again. The voice. I can't make out what it's saying.

The door's opening.

“Qu'est-ce qu'il y a, Papa?”

It's her, the girl. She's got a star on her pink T-shirt today, green jeans. On her feet are dopey Great Danes.

“You're not her, are you?” I say.

“Not who?”
Naut oo.

“My daughter. She's dead.”

She comes closer, until she stands an inch from me. I can feel the electricity coursing through her body, charging every follicle in my skin. A shadow covers the light from the windows, but she glows with a Kirlian aura crackling purple and luminous black. I feel the energy reaching to me and sparking off me, burning as it invades. She opens her lips and tells me, “I am yours. I am your anything. I am what you want.”

Her breath is sweet and rotten, like fruit that's too ripe. She licks my mouth with her tongue, then bites my lip.

“What do you want from me?” I say.

“I want you to keep me alive.” And now she touches my face, runs her fingers into the thin hair at my temple, and I'm blinded by an image that seems like mist, but I put my hands out and feel: it's hair. I part it, push through it, and still there's more; I'm cocooned in it. Soft, smelling of apple shampoo and fruity perfume. It's life.

How I used to hold Zoë to my chest and breathe her scent; her sweat, her dirt, the natural oils, the apple shampoo. It was love; I loved her too much and she couldn't breathe. I have her in me, her molecules still in my lungs.

A bang, a slam, the girl is gone, and there is blood running down my chin.

“Hey! Hey! What the fuck you think you doing with Dierdra?”

The man's first swipe is slow and I duck under it, and behind him, in the corridor, there's a woman staring at me with a mixture of fear and curiosity, like I'm an animal on exhibit. She's thirtysomething and ugly and dark haired, and she's wearing green jeans and a pink T-shirt with a star on it.

I turn away and get the man's second punch at the back of my skull. I'm down on the floor, mopping up the piss with my suit, heavy weight on me, some muffled pummeling in my back before the weight is pulled off and I'm dragged out of the bar and pushed to my car. The barman hands me my keys and wallet. “Thanks for the tip, friend. Hope you don't mind, I helped myself.”

It's late when I get home. I've been thinking. About how I'm afraid of Hayden, of loving her so much that I suck away her life with my need. I killed Zoë, and even though I know there's no way to bring her back, I can keep her spirit alive.

Steph is passed out on the couch when I come in, an empty bottle of wine on the coffee table; Hayden's asleep in the armchair. When I go through to the kitchen, I find beer bottles dumped in the recycling bin, the good coffee mugs, the ones we keep for guests, in the sink.

I brush my jealousy aside. Steph's entitled to guests, after all, and I need to get started; she could wake up any minute, though the fact that Steph's drunk will help me. I throw my stinking jacket on the bathroom floor, take the scissors from the drawer, and approach Hayden. She's fast asleep as only a toddler can be. I sit down next to her and smooth the hair back from her face.

When I start, I only mean to take a little.

Snick, snick.

Brain muggy from the wine I knocked back after Karim left the house, I sat up, neck stiff from sleeping awkwardly on the couch.

Snick.

The only light came from the television, which was silently tuned to a home-shopping channel. A figure was hunched over the armchair where Hayden slept. I didn't make a sound: I couldn't. I couldn't breathe. For a split second I was certain it was the slippery multi-limbed monster—
the thing that lived under the bed
—then it shifted its position and I realized it was Mark. Of course it was Mark.

Snick.

My voice came out in a whisper: “What are you doing?”

He froze, then looked over his shoulder at me. It was too dark to see his eyes, but he was gripping something metallic in his right hand—the light from the television bounced off it.
Oh shit, he's got a knife.
Dismissing me, he turned back to Hayden.

Snick.

A dark curl drifted onto the wooden floor. Hayden's hair.
He was cutting her hair while she lay sleeping.

“Get away from her, Mark. Get away from her right now.” I spoke coldly and calmly. I couldn't afford to panic: if I lunged for him or if Hayden woke suddenly, she could get seriously hurt. The clearheaded version of me, the person who'd taken over in the moments after Mireille jumped, was back when I needed her.

Mark jerked his head in my direction and then stepped away from the couch. Muttering a vacant “Sorry,” he placed the scissors on the coffee table and left the room.

I rushed to Hayden, who was mercifully still asleep, and brushed the shorn locks away from her face. The room was too dark for me to fully assess the damage, but a scribble of hair came loose as I ran my fingers through it. She stirred.

“Mumma. Haydie tired now.”

“I know, monkey.”

Willing the icy calm to stay with me a few minutes more, I gathered the hot and sleepy Hayden to me and ran upstairs. Balancing her one-handed on my hip while she protested blearily, I pulled out a bag, shoved a bunch of my clothes and underwear into it, then dragged it into Hayden's room and packed a random selection of T-shirts, shorts, and toys. At the last minute I dove into the bathroom for my toiletry bag.

Then, as it had before in Paris, the calm receded, leaving me feverish with fear.
Get out, get out.

My back muscles screaming from the combined weight of Hayden and the bag, I crept downstairs, half expecting Mark to lunge out of the gloom, or for the multi-limbed thing to skitter out of the shadows toward us—
wearing Mark's face this time, it would be wearing his face
—but we were alone. I fumbled in my bag for the car keys, slammed out of the security gate, and lurched toward the car. Hayden was now wide-awake and crying in mucusy gasps, but I didn't dare risk taking the time to comfort her. I forced her body into the car seat, trying to ignore her sobs, and hurriedly strapped her in. I screeched away from the curb.

It's a miracle I didn't crash the car that night. My anger at Mark pulsed through me, so hot and raw it was all I could focus on. In retrospect, bolting out of the house with Hayden like that was not only stupid but dangerous. After the beers I'd shared with Karim and downing half a bottle of wine on an empty stomach, I was way over the limit. Somewhere around Worcester sense took over, and I eased my foot off the accelerator and slid into the slow lane. For the first time since I'd strapped her into her car seat, I peered into the rearview to check on her. She'd fallen asleep, head drooping. The hair on the left side of her head stood up in a clump of ragged tufts.

It was only when I pulled off the highway and onto the lonely country roads that I began to regret my decision to flee to my folks' place. I considered driving back and finding a hotel, but I needed to be around people who were on my side. I couldn't let them see Hayden like that, her scalp showing through the shorn hair. Checking that there was no one dodgy around, I stopped outside a deserted farmers' market near Ashbury and woke Hayden. Using the nail scissors I'd shoved into my bag, I neatened her hair as best I could. Hayden hardly protested at all—perhaps she'd picked up on my desperation. After a limp “What you doing, Mumma?” she stopped wriggling in the seat and submitted to the ad hoc haircut. Her numb acceptance of the situation made my anger spike again. A part of me wanted to gather the hair and carry it with me—for some reason it felt wrong and dangerous just to leave it behind—but I buried it under a rock and drove on.

It was past one a.m. when I crunched the car into my parents' driveway. The B and B was dark and silent, and I hesitated before I rang the gate buzzer. I had to get my story straight, but what could I say? The truth wasn't an option. It would set them against Mark once and for all.

“Yes?” my dad's voice barked through the intercom.

“It's me. Can I come in?”

“
Stephanie?
That you, doll?”

I could hear my mother's voice behind him. “Please let me in, Dad.”

“Hold on, doll, I'm coming.”

The sobs came then, and I fought to calm myself down, scrubbing at my eyes. I had to appear calm. The gate creaked open. I drove through, stalling the engine as I jerked to a stop and fell out of the car and into my dad's arms. My mother fussed and buzzed around me.

“Can you get Hayden, Mom?” I managed.

“Of course. But, Stephanie, what's happened? Has something happened? Why didn't you call? Did you drive from Cape Town now, at this time? Where's Mark?”

“Everything's fine. We had a fight, Mom. Don't worry, it's nothing serious. I just had to get out of the house.” I made a stab at a rueful grin. “I overreacted. We've both been under a lot of stress lately.”

They didn't buy it, but I caught Dad giving Mom a look, silently entreating her not to pry right then. I loved him for that.

She settled on an exasperated “Oh, Steffie. Dad would have driven down to get you.”

Hayden was breathing easier as my mom carried her up to one of the guest rooms. She dropped off the second Mom tucked her in. I kicked off my shoes and, without removing the rest of my clothes, crawled in next to her, reassuring my mom that all I needed was a good night's sleep. My parents finally crept back to their own room, leaving me in darkness.

I slept until almost two p.m. the next day, waking disoriented and without Hayden next to me. I jumped up, irrationally panicking that Mark had crept in during the night and stolen her, but then I heard a ribbon of laughter trailing in from the garden. I peered out of the window. Hayden was helping Mom weed the flower beds that ringed the B and B's lawn. Now that the fear had abated, the anger was back baking inside me. Fuck Mark.
Fuck
him.

I brushed my teeth too roughly, drawing blood from my gums, pulled on a clean T-shirt, and headed downstairs and into the garden to face the music. Hayden waved at me distractedly and returned to her digging. She was looking much better, and her sniffles appeared to be lessening.

Mom hurried over to me. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thanks,” I said automatically, but it hit me then that I'd slept right through for the first time in almost a week. Longer than that. I had the trace of a hangover, but otherwise my brain felt sharper, as if it had been sluiced with ice water.

“What happened to Hayden's hair?”

Here we go.
“She got some chewing gum caught in it. I tried to cut it out and made a bit of a mess.”

My mother gave me a look. “Really? Where did she get the chewing gum from?”

I gave her my brightest smile. “I'm not sure.”

Hayden laughed and held up a bunch of weeds and flowers. Mom handed her an empty flowerpot and then shuffled over to me, dropping her voice. “Your father says I shouldn't ask you this, but will you tell me why you came here last night? I'm worried about you, sweetheart. Has something happened with Mark? Has Mark—”

“Not now, Mom.” She winced and I softened my voice. “Okay if I make myself something to eat?”

She brushed dirt from her hands. “I'll get you something.”

“It's fine, Mom. You stay with Hayden.”

“You know you can stay as long as you like. We don't have anyone booked in until next week, and even then there will be plenty of room. It's your home.”

Is it?
I thought. My home was supposed to be in Cape Town, with Mark. This wasn't how my life was supposed to go: running to Mom and Dad whenever I had a problem. But I had more than just a problem. It was more than just a marital spat. A glimmer of last night's anger surfaced.

I kissed her cheek and went back into the familiar cluttered kitchen with its clunky tan tiles, flouncy floral curtains, and my mom's collection of gewgaws. It was comforting being there. It was safe, and I hadn't felt safe for a long time. I grabbed the bacon from the fridge and mechanically placed the rashers in the pan.

I knew I'd have to figure out my next move. Was my marriage over? Self-pity flooded in. I had no job, no cash of my own. Bacon fat hissed and spat, searing the back of my hand. I barely noticed. I tipped the rashers onto two thick pieces of white bread and squashed them into a makeshift sandwich. I was no longer hungry, but I made myself choke it down, standing over the sink and staring blindly out of the window.

The weight of a hand on my shoulder made me jump—my dad. “Don't eat too fast, doll.” He joined me at the window. “Your mother loves having Hayden here.” He cleared his throat. “I told her not to bother you, but I need to know. Did Mark do something to you or Hayden?” My dad's face was carefully blank, but his eyes were hard.

“No, Dad. We just needed time apart; that's all. Hayden and I will be out of here soon as we can.”

“Doll, this is your home.”

It's not my home.
“I know you didn't approve of Mark, Dad.” I'd used the past tense unconsciously, as if the relationship really was over.

“That's true. I won't deny it, doll, but he's your husband. It's your choice. Whatever you decide, we're here for you.” For some reason I thought back to my low-key wedding day. We'd got married at the Cape Town Magistrate's Court, followed by a small lunch with my parents, Carla, and a few of Mark's closest friends at the Five Flies Restaurant. The food had been good, but the atmosphere was stilted, the guests divided into two camps: my parents perched stiffly at one end of the table, Carla and the rest of them at the other. Someone, possibly Carla, maliciously suggested my dad make a speech. It had been mortifying for him—he loathed being the center of attention—but he struggled gamely through it, reaching for something positive to say about my new husband (“Cape Town University, where Mark works, has a good reputation, or so I've heard”).

“Thanks, Dad.”

He hovered for a while, then drifted out of the kitchen to resume whatever DIY project he had going.

With Hayden still happily occupied, I cleaned the kitchen, then slogged upstairs to my laptop—my refuge. Ignoring my emails, I applied for jobs online in a feverish spurt and joined three temping agencies. This manic practical behavior, doing something I should have done months ago, helped. The way ahead no longer seemed so murky.
And just think,
I told myself hollowly,
you're on your way to being a published author.
I decided that tomorrow, when I hoped the anger would have faded, I would contact Mark, tell him to check himself into a government-funded clinic or something to get the help he needed. I would insist that he move out of the house until he was well—the night before it hadn't occurred to me that he should be the one to leave. Only…did I really want to go back to the house? It dawned on me then that the shadowy twitching thing hadn't visited last night. I looked around the room, at the flouncy curtains and pastel walls decorated with benign watercolors my mom had bought wholesale at a furniture warehouse. Whatever it was, it hadn't followed us here.

I didn't call Mark that day, and he didn't call me. I checked my phone regularly, but the only messages were spam from 419 scammers.

My mom tried digging for more details that evening, but I brushed her off, placating her with bullshit about Mark being stressed-out at work and needing some alone time. I watched the rugby in silence with Dad while Mom bathed and fed Hayden, hiding my irritation when she made her a typically unhealthy plate of fish fingers and processed sugary sauce. I turned in early.

Again, I woke late after a dreamless night. My body felt loose and relaxed, as if I'd been soaking in a hot bath for hours. One of my parents had placed a small pot of coffee and a plate of toast next to the bed. The toast was cold and the coffee lukewarm, but it was still drinkable. I stretched and padded over to the window. Down below, Hayden was helping my mother hang out the washing, giggling and chasing the birds that pecked at the breakfast crumbs scattered over the sun-dappled lawn. I dove back under the covers with my laptop.

My heart gave a sideways skip when I saw I had an email from the Canadian book agent. Expecting a rejection, I had to read the message twice before it sank in: she was offering to represent me. My first instinct was to tell Mark the good news. I wanted to share it with him, see the pride on his face, hear it in his voice.

You can't. You left him. You left him in the house and ran away.

I had a right to be angry after what he'd done to Hayden, of course I did, but he wasn't well. For all I knew he was in the midst of a full-on nervous breakdown. And instead of getting help for him, I fled.

I left him alone in that house.

Flushed with shame, I grabbed for my phone, almost knocking the coffeepot flying, and dialed his cell. It went straight to voice mail. I sent him a text, asking him to call me.