Loe raamatut: «The Girl in the Water», lehekülg 3

7
David

The way things went, after I first gazed into her eyes, first heard her voice – it’s not the way I necessarily would have wanted it to go. I would have liked there to have been less trauma. I would have liked to have avoided the pain. The pain I bore, and the pain I had to inflict.

But this is what happens. This is where you end up.

I hadn’t expected that any woman would change my life. My experience with women had never been good. When one you love dies, so early in your life, you’re not exactly left with the most optimistic hopes for the future. And if another, who ought to love you, doesn’t, that doesn’t help mend the wound. I’d been through both scenarios, with a sister in the grave before her time, and a mother who, together with my father, hadn’t left for the next life soon enough. Childhood was a mass of misery in my head, and in my youth I’d hoped one day I’d flee from it. Get far enough away to at last be free. But time was a vicious teacher, and eventually I had to learn to be satisfied with an unhappiness as deeply set as my bones and my blood. And eventually I did: I simply got used to it. Give a man enough pain, and for long enough, and he’ll stop hoping for anything else.

But that encounter, that first moment with her – it changed things. I’d long since given up on escaping my pain; hell, I’d made a career of wallowing in it. Surrounding myself with more of the same. I had become a man condemned to live in the never-ending cycle of sorrow I’d carried as long as I could remember.

And then, in a single instant, something new. A doorway into a new life.

Not that the pain would leave, even then. Not for me. That was, in the end, simply too much to hope for. In the days that would come I would smile, and hope, and sing, and even find the means to rejoice. But never to sing the pain entirely away.

Some pain, we learn too late, exceeds the songs that are sung of it.

8
Amber

I don’t burst through doors, it’s just not my way. Never has been. But today, just now, as I tentatively push ours open enough to catch the sight beyond, I wish I was the kind of person who bursts through doors. The day’s been too strange, and I want the surety, the comfort that I know waits on the other side – and I want it now, instantaneously, all at once.

But I don’t burst through. I push gently. Wood parts from wood and scrapes across our much-abused carpeting. And though the opening is tentative, the reveal is what I long for. The open door gives way to the reality of genuine happiness. This is home. Within …

My heart always rejoices when I see David, and today I need that rush more than most. I rush forward, grab him by his fleshy, muscular shoulders, and pull his lips towards mine. They’re parted even as we meet and I lock us into a long, warm embrace. It extends into a span of time I really couldn’t measure, and wouldn’t want to try. I am a woman who knows true love; and when you know that love, you don’t try to understand it.

Finally, our lip-lock breaks. ‘Well, hell, good to see you too.’ David’s face is a wide grin. Stubble, firm cheekbones, that slightly olive skin with its twinkle of shine – ‘It isn’t oily, babe, that’s Mediterranean sexy!’ Everything is familiar and welcoming. A touch of my pink lipstick has clung to his chin. ‘I take it life in the shop wasn’t all that bad today?’

I’m shaking my head, kicking off my favourite retro flats with an overly girlish motion, like Dorothy flipping her slippers to an unheard musical beat. It’s a playful gesture that made him laugh once, and which I’ve repeated a hundred times since. My shoes wind up somewhere in the corner, lopsided, near Sadie’s plastic water dish.

A flash of white light at the edges of my vision – to be ignored. It’s nothing. The remnants of a migraine. I do so often get those.

‘Work was fine, David. I’m just happy to be home.’

The flipping of shoes has roused Sadie to life. She’s already at David’s feet, looking pleased to have the household back in proper assembly. Her orange fur droops against the tiles beneath her as she saunters over and shoves her snout against my ankles. I tap at her head and give the usual ‘That’s a lovely puppy’ utterance in baby-talk tones, which sends her tail wagging.

Wagging. A breeze. Wind …

I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s always been amazed how quickly our thoughts can take us to another place. The present moment is a spectacular case in point. The day, the house, the dog – they all coalesce, and suddenly they’re all gone. All I see in this instant is a seaside walkway in the Marin Headlands, a vividly blue sky, and the sound of seagulls squawking over steep hillsides that abruptly end in cliffs sheering down to the Pacific.

A good memory, this one. I permit it to sweep through me without resistance.

I was hiking north, that’s how I remember it, and at a good clip. Years ago. The shoreline on my left lay at the bottom of cliff faces that lifted up in brilliant severity from sea level, with the hills on my right dressed in spring wildflowers that almost concealed the cement remains of the naval turrets and bunkers that had been active in these hills until the end of the Second World War. In the distance, only grey-blue seas and low clouds over the minuscule Farallon Islands. Beyond them, nothing at all until Hawaii.

I was alone, as I always was, and lost in grey thoughts that clashed with the bright skies. I was walking with sticks, those retractable kinds that look like ski poles but cost twice as much. He was at the front of a group of two or three, walking in the opposite direction. I don’t think I noticed him first. It was the other way around.

‘Excuse us,’ he said, politely. The wind was blowing (a given; it was the Pacific coast in early spring – the wind is always blowing). He was covered in a puffy red coat that looked as if it had been injected with a little more stuffing than required, giving his torso the appearance of a badly packaged tomato.

It could have ended right there, our first encounter. It could have been our only. But in a moment out of a children’s cartoon I sidestepped left when it should have been right, my eyes downcast, on my feet rather than on the strange tomato person in front of me. He did the same, and a second later our bodies collided – heads first, with the requisite crack, and then chests and arms and hands to keep each other from falling.

The way things begin.

‘Oh, Hell, I’m so sorry,’ he said, reaching out to stabilize me. ‘That was entirely my fault.’

‘No, it was mine,’ I freed a hand to rub my forehead. And I looked up, wincing in the slanted light that suddenly felt too bright.

That’s when our eyes connected for the first time. That magical, painful, wonderful moment.

David’s eyes were, and are, a stranger hazel than most I’ve seen before. Blue and green in equal mixture, but they have brown centres, just around the iris. Something unique. I must have stared into them longer than social norms would allow because the next words were his, awkward and accompanied by a glance that broke mine and tried to find some other landmark on the barren horizon at which he could stare.

‘At least we’re both still upright.’ His words were cheesy and superfluous, but I didn’t care.

‘I should pay more attention to where I’m going,’ I offered. Sheepish grin. Foolish girl. I wished I had stronger words to say, but I had’t been feeling myself, and those words didn’t come.

‘It happens,’ he answered. The profundity of our conversation was truly epic. ‘These surroundings, they can … they can take you in.’

And there was his smile. The first time I’d seen it. The one I’ve grown to know so well over the years. One too many teeth in an otherwise nicely balanced mouth. That cute, very cute, face, bordered with slightly disorderly locks of black hair and a refreshingly masculine touch of stubble on his chin. I’ve never understood women who don’t go for stubbled chins and hairy chests. They’re an incomprehensible demographic, too influenced by the wax mannequins that pass for men in magazines. I’ve always gone for the Chia Pets of the race.

The skin around his eyes bunched as he smiled, full of warmth and sincerity. ‘I’m David,’ he’d finally offered, reaching out a hand with its glove considerately removed. ‘And these guys over here’ – he gestured towards the men a short distance behind him, who didn’t seem to notice – ‘are my work colleagues.’ One of the men might have nodded, but seemed too chilled to consider approaching and reaching out a hand himself. He was huddled with a third member of their party, stood a few steps away, engrossed in a gathering of sea birds diving for fish over the edges of the cliffs. I might have been on Mars for all they appeared to notice me.

I raised my hand to David’s and felt a powerful grip.

‘I’m Amber,’ I answered. ‘It’s … it’s lovely to meet you.’ The words were almost flirtatious, like nothing I’d ever uttered before.

It made him smile again.

Then, the strangest thing of all. I spoke not only flirtatiously, but with an openness completely uncharacteristic of everything inside me.

‘I’m staying just up the way, by Muir Beach. At the Pelican Inn. If you … you know, ever wanted to bump into each other again.’

In the midst of my confusion, wit. Spectacular.

Or maybe not quite spectacular, but definitely more than was normal for me.

I cringe at the memory, but it’s that wonderful cringe of something so horrible, something that could have gone so terrifically, spectacularly wrong, that ended up going just the opposite. It wasn’t two nights later, or three, that David crouched his big frame through the short, barrel-wood door of the Pelican Inn, ‘just stopping by’ with the hope to say hello. It was the same evening. The very same.

There was something magical on the coast that day. That’s the only explanation. Something magical that brought me out of my shell. That brought us together.

And now we’re here, in our kitchen in the little town of Windsor, California, standing in front of the refrigerator on which an orange paper cutout of the word ‘Bump!’ remains the perpetual reminder of our first meeting. We’re still locked together, bodies close, though the kiss has ended. There’s beer on David’s breath – the scent of more than one. Usually means a long day in the shop, and the need to get out from behind the pharmacy counter for one or two before heading home. I have a fleeting desire to ask him about the mundane details of his day, but it passes quickly. Work is work. For today, his is behind him, mine’s behind me.

But I’m not wholly in control, and that conviction bends. The thoughts that come are an invasion, not an invitation. Into the swirl of memory floats a river with a bend I don’t recognize. The woman I’d read about on the computer and thought about so vividly on the drive home. The unexplained.

In this intimate moment I can feel goosebumps rise on my arms.

It almost happens. I almost touch that buzz of electricity that pulls my world out of order and into the mêlée of impulse and memory. I can tell I’m right at the edge of it. There are so many draws.

But I’m anchored in an emotion that’s more powerful than them all. I have my means of resistance. My solidity and my rock, firm and stable in my arms, with his big, beautiful smile.

I pull David’s face towards mine again. I can taste the beer on his lips, and I push him towards the door.

9
Amber

It happened in the night, somewhere in the darkness of the drawn curtains and the muffled lampshades, beneath the cotton sheets and in the midst of the heady scent of all that goes on in the dark room of a husband and wife who’ve found their way there by stumbling up their staircase, falling into bed as clothes are thrown at walls and ceilings.

Somewhere in the midst of all that, the strangeness closed in.

Our bodies were as tightly wound together as two bodies can be. My chin was pressed into his neck, my lips somewhere near his ear, his whole body slippery with anticipation. His breathing was heavy, rhythmic. Mine was keeping pace.

Then came the flash of light. An image, bursting into my mind. A stranger’s face, loving and peaceful and kind and wicked and cruel, all at once. One of Cinderella’s sinister stepsisters, only far more beautiful.

I suddenly remembered the bookshop. The headline, my hours on the Internet, and something beyond all the details I’d read. Someone else’s games and mysteries and … wrongs. My whole body suddenly felt the immense, overwhelming wrongness of the world. And I remembered the highway, the flashes of my thoughts and fears on the drive instantly back before my eyes. The image. The face.

And I can hear whimpering, and crying; the utterances of a creature, crying out and asking me to know its pain. A judgement, cascading into my present.

And in my embrace with my solidity and my rock, my arms wrapped around David’s fiery chest, I said it. The single word that echoed out to me from that strange, white darkness.

A name. Her name.

‘Emma.’

I don’t know where it came from, why it made my lips move. But her name was suddenly there, and I couldn’t keep it to myself.

‘Emma.’

I could feel David’s body go rigid beneath me. There was ice. The cessation of everything. And then the world stopped, and started to fade away.

10
David

It pains me to think that Amber might start to understand. There are so many things a husband and a wife share, but there are also things we can’t. She and I can never share the truth. Not this truth. It would destroy her. It’s only the lies that keep us alive, and keep us together.

I’ve struggled with this fact countless times. Since childhood it’s been engrained in all of us that truth is what liberates, and it alone. It will set you free – such a pithy saying, and probably as a general rule it holds true. But not always. No, not always. Sometimes truth is the greatest form of slavery.

At one point in my life I would have rejected that premise with all my energy – I’d have spat out that lies have absolutely no place in life, that they lead only to darkness and torment. That ought to be argued as a matter of principle. But I simply can’t. I won’t. Experience sometimes proves right what social norms insist are wrong.

Everything I’ve built with Amber is a lie. I admit that. It’s all facade. That’s what makes it work – for me, for her. A beautiful, artistic, warm facade of manufactured reality. It isn’t true, perhaps. That depends on your definition. But it’s real.

It’s been real since that day in the Marin Headlands when – for all Amber knows, or ever will – we met for the first time. That happy little headbutt above the sea, the little sidestepping dance that forced the moment not to pass but linger. Some might say the staging of it, the weeks of thoughtful planning, of following her movements and learning her itineraries, of making sure I’d be on just the same path at just the same time, were manipulative or false. But no one accuses a man who plots out a typical first date of being sinister for doing so – deliberating what flowers to buy, what restaurant to go to, what music to ‘accidentally’ have playing on the car stereo during the drive. It’s normal, all of it.

Is what I’ve done really so different? Only the circumstances are out of the norm, and for damned good reasons.

And I still have means of rescuing the situation. Tools. Resources. Not everything is lost.

This is a world I’m not willing to let fall apart.

11

Not every den of torture looks like what we’re given to expect. Like what the storybooks tell us we should see there. It is possible that there are those which fit the stereotype: dark, damp stone walls with old chains hanging from hooks on the ceiling, the devices of abuse crusted with dirt and gore.

It’s possible.

But reality can be more hellish than those props. Strip away the myth, and what’s left behind – what’s left to be real – is something different. Something worse.

It’s a basement, though not because there is any particular power to darkness or to being underground. It’s a basement because basements bar sound better than ground-level living rooms, and though there isn’t usually that much noise involved in the way torture really works, one does want to guard against even the remotest possibilities.

It is furnished nicely, if simply. The carpeting is higher grade than discount, the walls are a muted tan. There are bookshelves with nondescript volumes – the kind that bespeak a degree of education but not an excess of wealth – and a small desk in one corner, with an old tube-style television on a table in another. The chequered fabric sofa with pull-out bed is the centrepiece of the wall to the right, as one enters, and the door itself is wood-panelled with a knockoff brass knob. The prefab sort with a lightly marked up, push-button lock.

The only sign of the room’s real purpose is the sturdy chrome bolt lock that’s been added above the knob. An ordinary basement den, with no windows or external exits, doesn’t have a deadbolt fitted towards the interior hallway. Especially not the kind that is key operated only, from both sides.

The kind that, once locked, keeps you in as well as out.

12
Amber

As all days do, the new one that began when the daylight crept over the hills has rolled through its usual routines. It’s brought the sun and home and work, but I haven’t been seeing them in a bright light. This day was inaugurated differently, and as it began, so it carried on.

Differently.

I arrived at work at 8.50 a.m. It should have been 8.30 a.m., and I should have been in better cheer, but there’s only so much control one can exercise over the ebbs and flows of life. I was late, grumpy, and had been praying solely for a lack of conversation and an empty path between the front door and my desk.

That I made it through Classical Fiction and New Releases en route to my periodicals corner, past the coffee kiosk, arriving at my desk without interruption, felt like the first bit of unmitigated good news of the day. My unusual tardiness meant the bookshop was already bustling with customers, and someone else had already gone through the day’s delivery packs, at least enough to get a few copies of the morning papers on the racks in time for the day’s first push. I’d probably end up being scolded for thrusting that role onto someone else by my absence, but I would simply have to face that.

Mitch had left a cup of tea on my desk, though his office at this moment was empty. I sighed, marginally disappointed with myself for being relieved, but I simply wasn’t in the right frame of mind to have interacted well if he’d been there in his usual cheer. When you’re in a pissy mood the cheerfulness of others is doubly revolting.

I popped the plastic lid off the Peet’s tea and drew in a long sip, taking advantage of the distraction to avoid the disorder of the boxes around me. The tea was tepid, but it still satisfied. It washed the latent coffee taste from my tongue, and with it a bit of the tension of the morning.

Then it was onto automatic pilot. Sorting. Shelving. Cutting boxes and recycling. Bringing order to the most changeable corner of the shop. Then, when it was all done, settling into the quiet that invariably followed. Reading the papers. Scanning the glossy magazines. Gold computer, open – the surest sign I was fully caught up despite my late arrival and could settle into the calm of the day. Eventually, a little chime announced that all was well with the technological innards of my laptop and the screen shifted to display the desktop. I called up my usual starting pages: AP, Reuters, The Times. All auto-refreshing to the day’s latest.

The rhythm of ordinary life in a low-intensity job is a decent tonic for anxiety, and it’s cheaper than Xanax. A comforting montage. This is my morning, I reflected, my every morning. It’s today’s, and it will be tomorrow’s.

It was yesterday’s.

I’d stiffened a little at that. The word didn’t feel right in my head. Yesterday. As if it weren’t an actual day.

Next to my computer, opposite the memos, was a little notepad. I’ve been repeatedly reminded I can take notes on the computer itself, but I suppose I feel the same way about paper and pen as I do about novels with covers and words on actual pages. On the cover of the notepad is a garishly pink Hello Kitty logo, augmented with purples and reds that only a colour-blind teenage girl could admire. I’d grabbed it out of a stationery shop’s discount bin a few weeks back without closely examining what I was buying, and every time I look at it now, it makes me feel ten years old and ridiculous.

I flipped open the cover.

Yesterday.

I tried to cast the word out of mind as I scanned over the few notes I’d written. They were all various jottings about that headline. Yesterday’s headline. The story that had so enrapt me.

Woman.

The shiver, again.

Thirty-nine.

White.

Suspicious circumstances.

The words, penned in my own hand, made me increasingly uneasy.

Cause of death unknown.

No match to any known missing persons.

Yesterday.

I shoved the notebook aside and stared at the newsfeed on the computer. Those jottings had been what yesterday was all about, and they’d started from a banner on this screen. The new day’s headlines were scrolling by now, though, at their usual rate, and I wasn’t spotting anything more about the body. I’d have thought there would be more stories by now. More information. I used the trackpad to move backwards through the listing by time, but it seemed to have disappeared from the day’s radar.

Then, disrupting the intensity that had been building up to this moment, comes Chloe – right now, as I’m focused on all this and the beginnings of the workday blend into the present.

Chloe: my closest friend at the bookshop. She’s one of the few under-thirties here, as eccentric in her own right as the rest of us combined. I halfway suspect she chose to work here because she is simply too weird to be hired anywhere else.

Her head pops into my personal space with her typical intensity. She, who is always brimming with exuberance and wit, and whom I absolutely do not want to see at the moment.

‘Hey girl!’ she announces, taking no notice of my condition. Her head is not quite bobbing, but almost. The pitch of her voice is entirely too high, and she stretches out the two words to a span of time that could easily have accommodated an entire sentence.

‘I thought I heard you sneakin’ on in here!’ Her affected accent is as shocking as always. Chloe’s most conspicuous failure of self-awareness is her apparent belief that she can simply will herself to become a busty black woman with a drawl that makes ordinary phrases sound charming and profound. The phenomenon emerged precisely at the time she went on an Idris Elba fan binge on Netflix, re-emerging from that two-week stint more Southern and succulent than any character he’s ever played. I’ve tried, on numerous occasions, to remind her that she’s more than a decade younger than me, from Oakland, B-cup at the most optimistic, and on her very best day a pasty white that most bleach brands would set as a target for the ‘after’ of their comparison washing ads. But that’s just how she is. Chloe’s quirkiness is inflexible, and her friendship comes at you like an out-of-control freight train, or it doesn’t come at all.

At the moment, I’d give anything for the latter option. The tension in my neck is fierce, and with an as-yet unexplained urgency, I desperately want to get back to reading about … whatever this story of the woman in the water is.

‘What’s wrong, hon?’ Chloe flaps her lashes with the question, broadcasting the mildest irritation that I’ve not yet acknowledged her presence.

‘It’s nothing, Clo.’ A horrible abbreviation for her name, but I’ve never thought up anything better. ‘Just distracted with my own stuff. Can we talk later?’

Her look is unreadable. For a moment there are hints of disappointment, then pouty annoyance and the threat of an even poutier resentment. It eventually morphs into a tight smile, though she speaks through barely moving teeth. ‘Sure, if that’s what you need. If, you know, your stuff is so important.’

She stresses the words with mock disdain, but disappears behind a bookshelf and pretends to be busy with re-organising the stock there before I face the delicate task of replying.

The headlines on my screen have kept scrolling. There’s still nothing about the girl in the river.

In the river.

Last night bursts back into my head. And this morning. The way things weren’t supposed to be.

This morning, from the moment I awoke, David was different. His movements were different. He lingered longer than usual before he left for work, petering about upstairs, in his third-storey ‘home office’, with whatever it is he works on in there. Usually it’s only a few minutes – ‘Just grabbing my things, then out the door …’ – but not today. Today he changed his routine. And David is not a man who changes his routine.

I would swear he was trying to avoid me, hiding himself away in a spot he knew I didn’t go. Trying to move through our apartment unseen so he didn’t have to lay eyes on …

But I stop myself, because that’s such a very silly thing to think. Even if the thought has been with me since the day first began and the face in the mirror did its usual thing.

Every morning, as I stand in the bathroom and gaze into the mirror, my eyes look back and taunt me. The fact that their colour doesn’t match my name has always disappointed me, and it’s a bit like they know this and are so prominent on my face purely as a way to rub it in.

They teased from the mirror in their customary way, today, but I merely shrugged. I’m used to this, and I went about my ritual as usual. Mornings are a well-honed routine. The actions of each minute are tuned to fit into their allotted space just as they ought, and so I went through the steps in their customary order. My face was done, my hair was brushed, and my teeth were as clean as is ever the case for a heavy tea drinker. I was suitably polished up for the day. My feet, seemingly registering all this even ahead of my brain, were already moving me out of our teal-tiled bathroom towards the kitchen.

Like they’d lives of their own.

They pointed me down the stairs, the same as they might on any average day. Toe into the not-so-plush carpeting of each step, then heel, bend of a stiff knee above – not creaking yet, I’m not so old as that – and repeat. I let my body guide me. Like normal, like any other norma—

But I didn’t feel quite myself, it has to be said. And it’s an odd thing, to start the day feeling not quite one’s self.

The quarter-inch synthetic rag of the staircase drove its way between my toes in exactly the way it always does, and yet it … well, it didn’t. I’m not sure I can say it any better than that. And it wasn’t just the floor. Moments earlier, when my face stared back at me from the mirror, it was there, too. Something in my features I couldn’t pinpoint, something that in another context I might describe as pain. And a buzz in my ears. And a stronger edge to my eyes.

I felt, deeply, that I ought to know what brought me into this day in this state; that it’s strange, and somehow incomprehensible, not to know why one feels the way one does. But I woke without that knowledge, and like so many other things in life, I simply had to accept it.

One foot in front of the other, toes in the carpet, head on fire.

At the bottom of the staircase I’d rounded the corner into the kitchen, brushed my straw-coloured hair from my exposed neck and tried to rub away a bit of the firmness there, but I was pressing fingers into rocks. I’d gone to bed a woman. I’d woken up made of stone.

The lights had flickered when I switched them on – then a sudden burst of white. White. The memories came on strong, in the confused flurry that generally shapes morning thoughts.

The murder along Russian River. Not a dream. Work. Engaging, yet peaceful work. Long hours in front of my computer. Real.

The drive home. White lights in my vision, a face … The dreams pressed for their own.

But then – home. Passion. David. Tight embraces.

And then coldness and rejection. That wasn’t a dream, either. That was real, and horrible, and I was quite certain I wasn’t imagining it.

The evening had begun with passion. I may be hazy-eyed but I remember that clearly enough. All the signs of the red-blooded night every couple dreams of, and we were bringing that desire to life. But then it stopped, so abruptly. A single word, and everything ground to a halt.

There may have been more involved than that, but I just don’t remember. I didn’t remember this morning in the kitchen, and I don’t remember now at my desk.

I only remember … oh, God. In the kitchen my shoulders clenched further as the memories returned. The flash of a face on the motorway. A name somehow appearing in my mind.