Chapter Six #2
“No, but it was obvious. He was always texting someone, and he wouldn’t tell me who it was.
” And then there were the little things before the pandemic, which she can’t explain to Graham because he won’t take her seriously.
The sudden whiff of another person’s perfume, like the pipe tobacco that haunts Jacob Vass’s bedroom.
Or coming home to find the curtains drawn, and the bedroom closet and dresser drawers all neatly shut when normally they’d be a little ajar.
By themselves, the little things might mean nothing, but together, they painted a bigger picture.
“But you don’t have any proof.” Graham sighs exasperatedly. “Take it from me. You don’t throw away so many years together on a whim. Did you at least talk to him about it?”
“Yes. He denied it, of course.” And stormed out to sleep on the sofa, and she found herself apologizing because his anger took up all the air in the room, and she was suffocating.
Lockdown had stirred his mercurial moods into even more of a hornet’s nest, because he couldn’t get out to see this other woman, couldn’t leave Sarah because he was broke and unemployed and thought himself above living with his mother.
And she couldn’t kick him out because he’d rage and play the victim, and she was terrified all that fury would spill over into physical violence.
Like it had when she’d tried to leave.
“But he’s a liar, Graham. He lies all the time about things. Money, his smoking—” Lies she could never prove, and he sure as hell would never admit. It had been maddening to exist in two opposing realities at once, like Schrodinger’s cat.
“And you’ve never told him white lies? Everyone lies in a relationship,” Graham says, and Sarah thinks viciously that maybe Angie was right to divorce him.
“He lies so you don’t get mad,” he adds, and her teeth grind together because that’s what he always said. “I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.”
“It’s abuse,” she snaps, and the familiar roar surges in her ears as her body anticipates the blowback.
First he’ll deny it. Then he’ll lash out.
If his anger doesn’t cow her, he’ll turn on a dime and pin the blame on her.
Even though Graham isn’t Ben, at this moment, he might as well be.
“I looked it up. The lying, gaslighting, stonewalling, always twisting things around so it’s my fault—it’s emotional abuse. ”
“He hurt your feelings? Jesus, Sarah. Where’d you learn this from?”
“The internet.”
“The internet,” he repeats. “You don’t go to counseling, but you go to the fucking internet for advice. Of course the internet’s going to tell you what you want to hear.”
“It’s real. It’s not in my head.” But it feels like it’s physically in her head, with the deafening thrum that booms fight or flight. “Just come get me. Please. Otherwise I’m stuck here for two weeks.”
“Jesus. I’m looking up Sweetside, and it’s over five hours away. Why don’t you call Ben? He’s closer. He’s a good guy. I know he loves you.”
Sarah’s stomach turns, and she takes a deep breath, ready to play her last card.
Graham might not believe her relationship troubles, but he’ll understand the threat of strangers.
“It’s over with Ben. Can you please come get me?
Everyone thinks I have the virus. They vandalized the motel I was staying at, and now I have to quarantine with a couple of local men.
” Her eyes prick with tears, although they’re tears of frustration, not sadness. “I’m scared.”
She means she’s scared of being found, after what she did to Ben, but if Graham thinks she’s talking about the Vass brothers, that works too. Graham lets out a resigned grunt. “Okay. If I leave after my morning class tomorrow, I can be in Sweetside in the afternoon. Where are you exactly?”
She gives him the directions. “Don’t tell anyone I’m here. No one. Not even Ma-Ma and Ba-Ba. Please. I’ll explain when I see you.” She doesn’t know how she’s going to explain it, but she chokes out a final “Thanks” and slams down the receiver, her vision blurring with furious tears.
Elijah hands her a napkin. “Are you really scared of us? You don’t have to be.”
Sarah takes the napkin and dabs her eyes.
“Not of you and Caleb. You’ve both been great.
” A voice at the back of her head whispers, But what do they want?
What do they want from you in exchange for kindness?
“I’m scared because of Ben, my boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend. The one I left in Toronto.
” In Toronto, howling with rage that she would dare leave him, as loud as winter wind through trees.
The storm inside him, as Elijah had put it, unleashed with the savagery of a hurricane, threatening to drown her.
Until he’d seized her wrist hard enough to bruise, and she’d flailed in a panic, her fingers closing around the paring knife on the kitchen counter.
“He hurt you.” Elijah’s mouth is set, and at this moment, he doesn’t look like either of his parents.
“It’s not obvious. But he did. God, I wish he had hit me. Then maybe Graham would believe he was abusive.” If her own brother doesn’t believe her, how will the authorities believe she’d acted under stress?
“No you don’t.”
Sarah’s lips part in chagrin. “Oh, Elijah. I’m so sorry.
That was thoughtless of me.” She puts a hand on his arm.
His forearm is smaller than Caleb’s, the muscles lean and wiry.
His cheeks flush. She warms with compassion.
Although Caleb might not have been touched by anyone other than family for months, it’s possible Elijah’s barely been touched at all, except in violence.
She withdraws her hand, but Elijah grabs it and squeezes gently.
His paint-stained fingers are as cool as Caleb’s are hot.
His hands must be perpetually cold if he’s always walking outside or in the unfinished sunroom.
She almost regrets she’ll be leaving tomorrow, because he could use a friend, and so could she.
“I believe you,” he says. “There are ways you can hurt people without hitting them.”
“Please don’t tell Caleb. He might not understand.”
“Of course I won’t. So is your brother coming to get you?”
“Yes, thank God.” She suspects Graham will try to convince her to go back to Toronto and stay with their parents, but that’s a battle for another day. She’ll borrow some money, rent a car, keep moving west to Calgary or Vancouver. Someplace with a high Asian population, where she can blend in.
Later, when Sarah returns to her room, she cuts herself as she stuffs the knife back in her bag. The washcloth shifted while in her pocket, and the exposed blade slices the pad of her thumb.
She finds a box of Band-Aids in the bathroom, wraps one around her thumb, and then settles on the recliner with Macbeth.
She can’t help feeling that ghostly presence standing over her shoulder again, but she forces herself not to look.
She’ll be leaving tomorrow, and Jacob Vass can have his room back.
When the windows begin to darken, a knock sounds on the door. “Room service,” Caleb says. Sarah closes the book and laughs at his joking tone, because it’s okay for him to be nice to her now. She’ll be leaving Sweetside soon and will never see him again.
“Come in,” she calls out.
Caleb tries the knob and opens the door. His eyes narrow above his mask. “You didn’t lock it?”
“I guess I forgot,” she says lightly.
His forehead scrunches as he lays the tray on the vanity. Sarah’s mouth waters at the smell of marinara sauce and garlic bread. “Elijah didn’t give you any trouble?” he asks.
“No, he’s really nice.”
The lines on Caleb’s forehead deepen. He has a storm inside him, Elijah had said, and she can see it struggling to get out as keenly as she can feel the weight of Jacob Vass’s legacy in the room.
He peers at Sarah’s hands. “What happened to your thumb?”
“Paper cut. Nothing to worry about.”
But when he leaves, saying, “Lock your door,” he looks very worried indeed.
* * *
Sarah packs her bag that night to the soundtrack of the house. She imagines Sweetside Manor is telling her where its occupants are: Elijah’s spry gait skipping down the stairs, probably heading to his studio, and Caleb’s deliberate pace receding down the hall into his room.
She leaves the knife at the top of her backpack, just in case.
After she brushes her teeth, she switches off the light and climbs under the covers, floundering in the king-sized bed. She’s not used to having so much space. A space in her bed means Ben’s not home yet. Outside the darkened window, the wind whines, lonely and restless. She knows how it feels.
She only has to tiptoe down the hall and knock on Caleb’s door. Just to see what would happen. After all, tomorrow, she’ll never see him again.
But she doesn’t, because she’s learned from experience what happens when you get too close to charming men.
Her eyelids flutter closed, and the feeling she’s not alone in the room settles on her breastbone like a sandbag.
Someone’s been sleeping in my bed. She tries to reach for the bedside lamp but can’t lift her arms. There’s someone in the room, a figure menacing in shadows as black and twisted as Elijah’s painted trees.
The ghost of Jacob Vass, of Ben, of men who would fit in the other half of the king-sized bed.
As if she only exists in order for angry men to fill the space beside her.
Sarah opens her mouth to scream, but her tongue is a swollen slab of meat. The sound chokes in her throat, and she gags on the scent of stale tobacco. All she can hear is the howl of the wind and her strangled grunting as her voice batters her ribcage like a trapped bird.
The weight on her body lifts, and the scream finally tears from her lungs.
Sarah jolts upright, gasping for air. She’s alone. Alone, alone, alone, the wind sings.
Footsteps skid down the hallway. A fist rattles the doorknob, thumps the door. “Sarah?” Caleb calls out.
“I’m okay.” She scrambles out of bed, dashes to the door, and unlocks it. Caleb bursts in. He’s not wearing a mask. His face is almost painful to look at, its planes cast in dramatic relief by the dim light.
His chest rises and falls as deeply as hers, straining against his shirt. “I’m okay,” she repeats.
He touches her shoulder as if to reassure himself she’s fine, his fingers warm and solid. Not like the apparition she thought she saw.
She wets dry lips. He’s standing closer than the requisite six feet. “It was just a nightmare. I’m sorry I woke you up,” she says.
His eyes dart behind her. “Don’t be sorry. This room would give me nightmares, too. I’m glad you’re safe.” He squeezes her shoulder and drops his arm.
She smiles weakly. “I guess I was wrong. People can hear you scream out here after all.”
Caleb tosses his head back and laughs, and Sarah’s breath hitches. Say good night, she tells herself. She knows how this ends otherwise. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. Good night.”
“Good night, Sarah,” he says softly, and turns around and strides back down the hall.
She could follow him. But she doesn’t. She closes the door, remembering to lock it. This time, when she falls asleep, she dreams of nothing.