Chapter 7 Gayle
G AYLE
Gayle and Mike are side by side, cosily tucked under the embroidered quilt on the big brass bed. Mike’s busy writing the Christmas Day edition of the blog. It includes the stories of the glass horse in Murano, the terrible singing on the gondola that resulted in the gifted cheese platter, which was then interrupted by Signore Bianchi’s heart attack, and the disappointing dinner minus Signora Bianchi afterwards, all of which he’s already told the children about on their call. Gayle proofreads the blog, with little laughs of appreciation in the right places, and Mike hits the button to make it go live.
Once that’s done, he fixes them cups of hot chocolate from the minibar.
‘You spoil me, hon.’ She pats his arm. ‘Thank you.’
He climbs back into bed, turns on the TV and they settle into watching an old episode of Antiques Roadshow .
Part way through the episode comes a scream. They turn to each other with wide eyes.
‘What was that?’ Gayle whispers.
‘Shh.’ Mike puts a finger over his lips.
‘Sounds like it was from inside the hotel.’
‘Shh. I’m trying to listen.’
She clutches his arm. ‘I think there’s a lady in trouble. Should we do something?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like go out there and see what’s going on.’
‘We’re in pyjamas, hon. We can’t go out there dressed like this.’
Another scream, more desperate than the first.
This time, Gayle flies out of bed. ‘Please, Mike, this sounds bad.’
‘Okay, okay, don’t get yourself all worked up.’ He throws off the covers. ‘You stay right there. I’ll handle this.’ He opens the door a tiny fraction and sticks his nose through the crack. Quickly he closes the door again. ‘Nope, nothing out there.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yep. Must’ve been coming from somewhere else.’
She wrings her hands and says nothing for a few seconds but then the next scream comes and she just has to speak up. ‘Hon, it sounds mighty close to be coming from somewhere else. I’m quite sure it’s a lady screaming inside the hotel.’
‘Well, we can’t go banging on strangers’ doors, now, can we? That’s rude, that is, it being after nine and all.’ He checks that their door is locked. ‘Come back to bed.’
‘I can’t, I’m too nervous.’ Gayle paces back and forth across the room.
‘Nobody will hurt you while I’m here. Don’t you worry about that.’
‘It’s not me I’m worried for.’
They wait a little longer, Mike leaning against the door, Gayle still pacing.
‘Seems to have stopped,’ he says after a while. ‘You know, it might not have been a lady screaming at all. Might’ve been a rat screeching or something. Lotta vermin in Venice, the water brings them in. Know that for a fact.’
She doesn’t answer.
‘Come back to bed,’ he says again, holding his hand out to her.
Gayle does as she’s told.
Back in bed, Mike blows on his hot chocolate that’s now cold. She blows on hers. He turns the volume of the TV up and they watch without speaking.
At one point, she’s certain she hears another scream. She jumps, but when she asks Mike to go and check again, he assures her it’s only the rats and he turns the TV up louder again. She hears nothing after that.
By the time the show is over, Mike’s head has dropped down onto his chest and he’s snoring. She gently rouses him and helps rearrange his pillows. He’s fast asleep again seconds later.
Gayle stays sitting up. She knows what she heard, she knows it wasn’t a rat. The guilt keeps her awake. If she was a braver person, she’d have stood up for the woman in danger. If she was a braver person, she’d have stood up for Noah.
She’s been thinking about Noah all evening, missing him even more acutely after the call with her other children. How was Noah’s Christmas? Did he miss them at all today? Did he even think about them? Is he happy? No, how could he be? How could anyone truly be happy when they’re estranged from their family?
She’s only had fleeting moments of happiness since he left. Being given the glass horse, for example – that was lovely, but she couldn’t call herself happy as such. Happiness is something that eludes bad mothers, and rightly so.
She casts a glance at Mike, who’s not plagued by guilt at all. Mike who’s so sure of himself. She wishes she was the same.
They’ve been married over fifty-five years now, fifty-five faithful, fruitful years. And for every one of those years, they’ve honoured their covenant to each other and to the Lord, he as her headship, she as his helpmeet. Gayle has always known her place, known what the Bible asks of her – wives submit yourselves to your own husbands – and that’s exactly what she’s done, lovingly and willingly.
Then Noah, the youngest of their four children, forever her baby, even now as a middle-aged man, turned his back on them and left, never to be heard from again. Like the shepherd in the parable, Noah’s the lost sheep Gayle worries most about, the one she’s desperate to bring home. To do that, she has to challenge Mike. But in their faith, the husband’s will is considered God’s will. It’s assumed that the husband is always right and that he shouldn’t be questioned.
Lately there’s been a gnawing thought inside Gayle that perhaps Mike could be wrong, that perhaps he should be questioned. As much as she’s tried to push that ugly thought away, it’s grown bigger and more invasive, like a cancer in her head.
Today, for example, she thought Mike was wrong about the gondola singer, who had quite a beautiful voice, actually. And he was definitely wrong about the screaming rat. If he’s wrong about these things, couldn’t he also be wrong about Noah?
She looks to the Lord for an answer, picking up the worn leather-bound Bible, always kept within arm’s reach. She opens it to the start of Luke and immerses herself in the story of the nativity, in honour of the day of the Saviour’s birth. The word of God indeed gives her the answer she’s looking for, and she puts the Bible down with a new resolve.
Mary stood by her son from the moment of the immaculate conception until the very end. Gayle will take her lead from Mary and find the strength to do the same with her own son. Tomorrow she’ll challenge Mike. Tomorrow she’ll be the mother Noah deserves. Tomorrow Gayle will be brave.
Going against her husband makes her anxious enough that she has to tiptoe from bed and crouch over the toilet, where she brings up the hot chocolate, followed by the expensive seafood pasta dinner from the restaurant. What a waste of food, she thinks. Not only was Signora Bianchi not there to serve it, but now Gayle’s gone and thrown it all up. A wasteful dinner, to be sure.
She rinses out her mouth, changes the incontinence pad and underwear she soaked through and crawls back into bed.
‘Everything okay there, hon?’ Mike stirs.
‘Just needed to use the bathroom.’
‘God bless,’ he murmurs, already drifting off again.
She wipes her mouth with a trembling hand. ‘God bless.’