Gone Woman by A.J. Rivers

Author:A.J. Rivers [Rivers, A.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-12-19T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Mary

I dream of a castle and wake up crying. Before I know what brought on the tears, the rest of the dream disappears like wisps of smoke, and I’m left with nothing but the damp pillowcase and Charles snoring beside me. The sun isn’t even up yet. A chill makes the air feel like thin sheets of ice as I move carefully out from under the blankets and get out of bed. I don’t want to move too quickly and wake him up. Any minute now, the furnace will come to life and knock off some of the cold. I’ll be able to breathe without my lungs aching.

Charles insists on keeping the temperature of the house close to freezing at night. He says it’s good for our health. There’s a newspaper article on it somewhere in one of the books in the living room. He brought it out at the beginning of the season when I tried to inch the thermostat up just a few little notches.

The robe closing around me momentarily makes me colder as it holds the frigid air against me, then it starts to warm up. I creep down the hallway and into the kitchen. There should be moonlight here. The huge window above the sink should let beams like liquid mercury flow through and sparkle on the faucet, illuminate the tiles, glow on the pink refrigerator door. But there’s only inky darkness and a faint glimmer of light from a weak electric candle that is perched on the windowsill, welcoming no one. The light from the bulb blocked by the thick wood.

I plug in the strand of lights around the Christmas tree to burn away a little more of the darkness. Turning on the main light might wake up Charles. But this is enough. The little multicolored lights are plenty to see by as I pull the large photo album out from the bottom of the stack of albums beneath the coffee table. It’s the one I’ve looked through the least. Probably because of how thick and overwhelming it is. The others are thinner, with far fewer pages. It’s easier to try to soak in faces and events and places when it comes in smaller doses. This last album is monstrous. Holding it in my lap feels like holding my whole life in my hands.

That’s essentially what Charles says it is. This is memories of my childhood, our courtship, even our wedding. I remember that surprising me the first time he said it. I’d imagined an entire album dedicated to the wedding and page after page of white organza and stiff tulle. Instead, it’s a collection of pictures arranged over just a few pages. An A-line cotton dress. A cake served from the kitchen table. The images are all discolored and strangely taken, blurred like whoever took them was moving while trying to snap the moments.

I didn’t pick up the album to look at the wedding. At least, not the backs of Charles and me as we stand in front of some large stone fireplace on a bright blue carpet saying our vows.

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