Ghost Mother by Kelly Dwyer

Author:Kelly Dwyer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Union Square & Co.

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We spent the entire rest of the day and the following one working on the house. Jack affixed the plastic sheeting to almost all the interior windows with double-stick tape, and then I used a blow dryer (per instructions) to shrink-wrap the sheeting onto the window, my expensive ionic hot pink appliance finally coming in handy for something, as I was usually running too late to use it on my hair. I applied tacky rope caulk to the drafty spots around the doors, and Jack sealed holes on the outside with a sort of insulation in a spray can that looked as amateurish as it sounded. When we finished, the house may have been warmer and better insulated, but it also looked a good deal worse than when we’d started. The sheeting on the windows made me feel claustrophobic and made everything outside appear blurry, and from the street below, the house looked creepier and more run-down than ever. But I didn’t complain. It was all my fault.

In the evening, we went around to the unused upstairs bedrooms, closed the vents, and then closed the doors. When Jack began to close one of the two heating vents in the nursery, I asked, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he said from his spot on the floor.

“Not this room,” I said. My desire to use it for a baby’s room was so strong, it was painful. Closing off this room felt like closing off my dream for a child. “Let’s leave this room alone.”

He finished, stood up, and looked at me. I was standing in the doorway. He was across the room, but I could clearly see his expression. It said: Okay, so we’re going to have another irrational conversation, fine.

“We’re not using this room right now. Therefore, we need to close the heating vents and close the door. It’s as simple as that.” He was a dad, speaking to an eight-year-old, patient and calm. He went over to the second vent and closed that one, too.

I wanted to say, Don’t you “therefore” me! But I didn’t want to lose the argument by getting “overly emotional,” unstable, hysterical. Instead, I said, “I just don’t feel it’s good luck, to seal off this room. It’s like saying that we’re sure we won’t have a baby in this house.”

“Listen,” he said, standing up again, and just by that one word, I could tell that his patience was wearing thin, “you’re the one who drove us into credit card debt, who kept using the cards even when we couldn’t afford it. You’re the one who wanted this house, ‘more than anything in the world,’ quote, unquote. So I’m not the one turning off the vents and closing this door—you did that. If closing this door is bad luck, then so be it. That was your choice.”

I was stung into silence. What he said was true, but it was a cruel thing to say, and a cruel way to say it.

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