CHAPTER 14 #2
She was wearing a red dress. She had styled hair. She had makeup on—blush to hide the pallor, concealer to hide the circles under her eyes.
She looked... put together. She looked like a wife.
But her eyes were dead.
They were flat, dark holes in a pretty face.
"Who are you?" I whispered to the glass.
The stranger didn't answer. She just stared back, looking trapped.
I thought about the baby. The "strong boy." If he had lived, I would be six months pregnant now. I would be showing. I would be sitting downstairs with a hand on my belly, and Colleen would be doting on me, and Declan would be proud.
But the baby was gone. And I was still here.
Why was I still here?
Because of the promise? I'm not going anywhere.
Because of the fear? What if this is the best I can do?
Or was it because of the word Colleen had used? Settled.
I had settled. I had accepted the apology. I had accepted the "lightness" confession. I had accepted the role of the anchor.
And in doing so, I had erased myself.
I leaned forward until my forehead touched the cold glass.
I wasn't a rock. I was a person. I was flesh and blood and need. I wanted to be desired, not just needed. I wanted to be the fire, not the fireplace.
But looking at the woman in the mirror, I knew the truth.
I had become the fireplace. I was the structure that held the heat for someone else, while slowly turning to soot myself.
I stayed in the bathroom for ten minutes. I fixed my lipstick. I put the mask back on.
Then I unlocked the door and went back downstairs to finish the performance.
* * *
The drive home was quiet.
It was late, nearly midnight. The streets of Dorchester were dark, lit only by the colored glow of Christmas lights strung on porches and railings. It had stopped raining, but the road was slick and black.
Declan drove. He was in a good mood. The kind of good mood that comes from being adored by your family for six hours, fed roast lamb, and watching your team win.
He hummed along to the radio—"Blue Christmas." He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
"That was good," he said. "Everyone was happy to see you."
"It was nice," I said, leaning my head against the cool window.
"Ma loves you," he said. "She really does. She told me I'm an idiot if I ever let you go."
I didn't answer.
He reached across the console and took my hand. His palm was warm. His grip was firm.
"I'm not an idiot," he said softly. "Not anymore."
He squeezed my hand.
I looked at our joined hands. I looked at the gold band on his finger.
I let him hold my hand. I didn't pull away. But I didn't squeeze back.
"Good day, yeah?" he asked, glancing at me.
He needed me to validate it. He needed me to stamp the day "SUCCESS" so he could file it away and feel good about himself.
"Yeah," I lied. "Good day."
He relaxed. I felt the tension leave his arm. He hummed louder.
We pulled up to the rowhouse. It was dark. The windows stared blankly at the street.
We went inside. The house was cold—we had turned the heat down before we left.
"I'll turn up the thermostat," Declan said, kicking off his boots. "You go up. I'll lock up."
I went upstairs.
I took off the red dress. I hung it in the back of the closet. I didn't want to look at it. It felt like a costume I had worn for a play I didn't want to be in.
I put on my pajamas—an old t-shirt and flannel pants.
I brushed my teeth. I washed the makeup off. The stranger in the mirror disappeared, replaced by the tired, pale woman I knew.
I got into bed.
Declan came up a few minutes later. He smelled of toothpaste and the faint, lingering scent of his uncle's cigar smoke.
He climbed in. He sighed—a long, contented exhale.
He pulled the duvet up. He turned onto his side, facing away from me, settling into his pillow.
"Night, Nor," he mumbled. "Love you."
"Night," I whispered.
Within two minutes, his breathing changed. Deep. Rhythmic. Heavy.
He was asleep.
He fell asleep so easily. He had no trouble shutting down. His conscience was clear. He had done the family thing. He had held my hand. He had been told he was a good boy.
He was settled.
I lay on my back. I stared at the ceiling. The streetlights cast the familiar, warped shadows on the plaster.
I felt the weight of the house around me. The brick walls. The shelves. The empty nursery down the hall.
I felt the weight of his body in the bed beside me. The anchor and the ship.
But the ship wasn't sailing. The ship was docked. And the anchor was just sitting in the mud, rusting.
Colleen’s voice echoed in my head. You hold him down.
I closed my eyes.
A tear leaked out. Just one. Hot and salt. It tracked into my hair.
"I'm not settled," I whispered to the dark room.
The words were barely audible. A breath. A ghost of a sound.
"I'm sinking."
Declan snored softly beside me. He didn't hear. He never heard the quiet things. He only heard the fire alarms.
And I realized, lying there in the dark, that I had stopped screaming. I had stopped fighting.
I was just going down. Quietly. Slowly.
Into the silt.