The Other Child (10 page)

The problem with a laundry chute is that you throw clothes down and then forget about them. She hasn’t tackled the washing since before the potluck, ten days ago now. She gathers armfuls of dirty clothing from the concrete floor. It is just gone eight and Joe is tucked up in bed already, exhausted from whatever nameless tension he has experienced all day at school. Greg is still not back. She will put this load on, make a cup of tea and go to bed with a book.

Since the potluck she has felt listless and drained. She has struggled to get Joe off to school and a couple of times after he has gone she has crawled back into bed and slept, dreamlessly, for another three, four hours. When she was six months pregnant with Joe she felt alive, fecund and energetic, but this is entirely different. Perhaps it is the contrast between a first pregnancy aged thirty and a second at thirty-nine. But she can’t help suspecting that this perpetual weariness is some kind of fallout from the scene in the street.

They did talk, the day after it happened. Greg was apologetic, he took her hands and admitted that the pressure had built up – that he had snapped. He has been tender with Joe ever since, gently trying to rebuild trust, but there is a tension in the house now that will not shift, no matter how nice they are to each other, how accommodating, how understanding – and now when Joe looks at Greg he does so sideways, as if he can’t turn his face full on to him.

She shoves stale clothing into the drum of the washing machine. It is top-loading, big enough that she could almost climb in herself. She straightens, rubbing the ache in her lower back and turning away, stretching, trying to shift the baby from its odd, uncomfortable position against her spine.

Greg’s boxes are on the shelves, just above eye level. They will get damp down here with the moisture from the washing machine pumping out into the already clammy air of the tiny laundry room. She should move them, or at least transfer the contents into plastic crates. He has never specifically asked her not to open his boxes, but the masking tape is wound around each one several times. She would have to tear it off the soft cardboard to get inside and the whole thing might disintegrate. Perhaps he has photographs of his childhood tucked away in here – memories that he cannot bear to revisit, even for her. He might not mind her looking, but of course she should ask him first.

Everybody carries their grief differently and it is not for her to dictate how Greg should cope with his, but she had hoped that being back in the States would allow him to talk about his childhood more, perhaps fill in some of the blanks. If anything, however, his past feels even more out of bounds here than it did before.

She turns back to the machine and shoves the last few things into it. As she is tipping laundry powder into the drum, a flash of scarlet catches her eye. It is sticking out of the pocket of Greg’s trousers. She digs down for it, thinking it must be a toy, and pulls it out. It takes her brain a moment to compute what she is holding between her thumb and forefinger. It is a woman’s plastic hairclasp

She drops it as if it is soaked in acid. And then everything crashes in: Greg’s absences, his delays, his tension – the growing feeling she has that he is concealing something, never telling the whole truth. She remembers Helena’s fingers brushing his thigh at the potluck.

A coldness spreads through her torso, as if her ribs have cracked open to expose her heart and lungs. She slides to the floor, head in hands, knees splayed to make room for her belly. She remembers that he said Helena had been helpful when he was out here alone, letting the cable guy in, dealing with the mail. It is possible that he gave Helena a key to this house.

She thinks about the earrings, the moved stack of post – and the feeling, when she rushed back from the Schechters’, that someone had just left the room. Then she remembers the long strand of hair that she found on the sink on her first night in the house, coppery, dark. She imagines Greg pressing Helena up against the sink, running his hands up her firm thighs, his mouth on hers, her head thrown back and that long hair falling like a waterfall onto the white ceramic.

And yet, though vivid, this image doesn’t quite feel plausible. It feels more like a staged photograph than a reality. But what else would he be doing with a woman’s hairclasp in his pocket? No – he would not do this to her. Greg is not that kind of man.

But isn’t this what all betrayed women tell themselves? They say that they always sensed something was wrong but refused to believe it, that they ignored evidence even when it was staring them in the face. Something is definitely not right with Greg – she is sure of it – perhaps this is it.

She lifts her head, pushing back her sticky hair. She has to call him. She swallows against a rising nausea. The baby thuds inside her belly, booting with both tiny feet at once. Upstairs the phone begins to ring. She presses her fingers into her eyeballs, then gets up, lurches up the stairs, into the kitchen and picks it up.

‘Hello?’

The line crackles. The kitchen lights buzz and whine overhead. Suddenly she feels sure that it is Helena on the other end. She could have got the number when she let the phone company in.

‘SAY SOMETHING!’ she shouts into the receiver. ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT? Stop calling! Stop this!’

The line, as always, goes dead.

She slams the receiver down, then picks it up again and dials Greg’s number. It goes to voicemail. Her voice shakes. ‘I just found something in your pocket and I have to talk to you, right now. I don’t care what you’re doing. Just call me.’

She is very cold – her whole body is shivering. She walks slowly up to the bedroom and moves from window to window, closing the blinds. She turns on the shower, stripping off and stepping under the scalding water, scrubbing shower gel over her skin, across the pallid mound of her belly and her tight, blue-veined breasts, between her legs.

As she steps out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, she hears voices and sudden high laughter coming from outside. She goes over to the side window and peers under the blind. Helena’s kitchen is lit up. There are lights in the backyard too – fairy lights strung on the half-starved limbs of the trees. She moves to the front window. Cars are parked in the street and a couple is getting out of a black Mercedes SUV, a woman in silvery heels, a man in a dark jacket.

Back at the side window again, she stares down through the branches. She can see into Helena and Josh’s kitchen – and suddenly there is Helena. She is wearing an aquamarine silk top with flowing sleeves, her hair in loose waves over her shoulders, her mouth set as she takes two bottles from an ice bucket on the kitchen island, and then Josh comes into the kitchen too. He is wearing a light-blue shirt – he says something and she turns and for a moment the two of them stand face to face, bathed in warm light from above. In their coordinating outfits they look like the most beautiful, perfect couple.

A sudden memory surfaces of Nell saying the same words to her when she told her Greg had proposed. ‘Oh my God!’ Nell’s smile had been a little too wide, too fixed. ‘Wow! Wow, Tess! That’s fast. But no – that’s amazing news – really.’ She held out her arms. ‘You’ll make the most beautiful, perfect couple.’

She watches Josh and Helena exchange a few words in their kitchen, and then Helena shoves past him. He steps back, pauses, then follows her into their party, his shoulders bowed.

The night presses around the house. She can hear the distant music, the babble of voices next door as she struggles into pyjamas, a jumper, woollen socks. Despite the hot shower she is still shivering; the house is so draughty, so chill.

Then she hears something, a rustling noise down in the hall – not claws, something papery, at the front door.

She knows, immediately, what it is.

She goes out to the landing. An envelope is lying on the doormat, crumpled from being shoved beneath the door. She goes down the staircase towards it, hesitates, then throws open the door. A thin, shadowy figure is hurrying through the gate – she glimpses a long dark overcoat, straggling hair flapping against the shoulders.

‘Hey!’ she shouts, stepping into the porch. ‘Stop! Hey!’ Her voice echoes back at her, but the figure doesn’t slow or turn, it runs, faster, down the street, round the corner, swallowed up by the hungry night.

She looks at the silhouetted trees behind the Schechters’ house, breathing hard, and then she goes back inside. She picks up the envelope, shuts the front door, double-locks it, then rips the envelope open.

She checks the front door again – then moves around the house, checking the doors to the deck, to the basement. Then she goes back upstairs and gets into bed. She is sure, now, that the note-sender is female.

I am watching you
.

But the way she fled, she seemed more panicked than menacing.

*

Minutes, then hours pass, and still Greg does not call. He cannot, at least, be with Helena – she can still hear the party next door. Perhaps it is not Helena’s hairclasp in his pocket – it could belong to anyone. It must be so easy for Greg to meet women, with all the travelling, the early mornings, the late nights. Or it could be nothing. He might have found the clasp on the floor in the hospital and absent-mindedly picked it up.

Her thoughts feel fantastical: simultaneously real and feverish, like a bad dream from which she is struggling to wake.

The balance between them has definitely shifted since they got here. She has not felt this exposed since childhood. She feels as if she has dropped her beating heart into Greg’s hands and is watching to see what he will do with it next. But whatever is going on here, she will not lose her dignity and she will not become weak and afraid – she will not let this situation undo her, whatever it is.

The baby shifts and then gives her diaphragm a sharp kick. She rubs the nub of a knee or the heel of a miniature foot. A gust of wind whooshes between the houses, making the bedroom windowpanes rattle. The words from the note run through her head.
I have not forgotten her
.

He must know who is sending these notes – who is not forgotten. If this woman is so desperate that she is watching the house, writing these things to him, never forgetting, then he must know exactly who she is and why she is doing this.

She is dozing when she hears the creak of the front door, but she sits up, instantly alert. She hears him moving around downstairs, opening and closing the hall cupboard, putting his bag on the dining-room table. He must have had to walk up and around to the front of the house to let himself in because she bolted the door to the basement.

She gets out of bed and shrugs on the grey cashmere dressing gown he gave her last Christmas, folding it around her belly. She goes to the bedroom door. He is coming up the stairs. He has not switched on the light and for a second they stare at each other in the gloom. His eyes are wide and startled. He reaches out a hand. ‘Tess? Honey? Why aren’t you sleeping?’

‘What time is it?’

‘Gone one.’

She doesn’t move. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘There was an emergency.’ He steps towards her. She moves backwards, into the room. ‘I was in the OR tonight.’

‘Didn’t you get my voicemail?’

‘I did.’ He stops, resting a hand on the door frame. ‘But far too late – by the time I got out I assumed you’d be fast asleep. What’s the matter? You sounded upset – are you OK? What’s happened? You said you found something?’

She turns and goes back into the moonlit bedroom. She does not want to switch on the light because she does not want to see whatever is in his eyes. He doesn’t switch the light on either.

‘What is it?’ He steps closer. ‘Tess, honey, what’s wrong?’

She gets the note from the bedside table and hands it to him. He squints at it, turns it over.

‘Either you tell me who wrote this or I’m going to take it to the police tomorrow,’ she says.

‘OK.’ He sits down, heavily, on the bed. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything because I thought it had stopped, but yes, I’m pretty sure I know who it is.’

She grits her teeth. ‘Who?’

‘It’s something that happened years and years ago. She was very young, kind of a mess – drugs, alcohol. Her baby died at birth. She caused some trouble at the time. I think she went to prison a couple of years later, maybe for drugs offences. She’s an unwell person, Tess, but she’s only a danger to herself.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘I’ve asked around – I spoke to a psychiatrist friend about her, someone who treated her out of state. She couldn’t give me any specifics, of course, but she did reassure me that the woman’s only a danger to herself. Honestly, Tess, if there was any risk to you or Joe, I’ve have told you all this but there isn’t. The best way to handle this situation is to ignore it – and it will stop.’ He steps towards her, holding out his arms. She moves back, out of reach.

‘My God. When were you planning to tell me all this?’

‘I know,’ he says, ‘that you must have been frightened tonight. But I honestly thought it had stopped. I didn’t want you worrying about her.’

‘I’m not a child, I don’t need protecting.’

‘No, of course you aren’t, I know you don’t. Of course I know that. But you’ve had a lot to deal with lately, that’s all. I was wrong not to mention it.’

‘I also found a hairclasp, in your pocket. Not mine. Do you think you might tell me why it’s there? Or are you trying to protect me from that too?’

‘You what?’ He looks baffled.

‘A woman’s hairclasp. In your pocket.’

He shakes his head. ‘I really don’t . . .’

‘Greg.’ She wraps the soft gown more tightly around her body. ‘Are you having an affair?’

He looks at her. And then he laughs. It is a genuine sound, not even nervous. ‘What are you
talking
about?’

‘God! I feel like I’m going mad. I feel sick, Greg, I actually feel sick.’ She presses her palm against her forehead. He moves towards her again, touching her arm but she jerks it away. ‘Don’t.’