Chapter 5
Five
Astor
“Valerie, wake up.” I gently shake her shoulders.
Her eyes flutter open.
She blinks, coming out of her dream.
Finally, she focuses on me, her brows knitted together.
“What?”
“You were dreaming again.”
My wife peers at me with the same dazed, confused expression she has every time we go through this routine.
“You were saying her name over and over.”
“Chloe’s?”
“Yes.”
Valerie closes her eyes and drags in a long inhale. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Do you remember it this time? The dream?”
“You’ve asked me a hundred times, Astor. No, I don’t remember any of the dreams. I don’t remember even saying her name or asking why. I don’t even know why I’m asking why.”
I pretend to smooth the edge of the sheets while I wait for her to say more—hoping she’ll say more. That she’ll remember whatever it is that’s trying to come out of her.
It’s been five years since our daughter, Chloe, was found dead at the bottom of a sewer drain. An accident, according to the police. She’d fallen, they’d said. While Valerie accepted their final report, I didn’t. I believe our daughter was murdered.
Valerie hasn’t spoken of Chloe in years, until now. It makes me uneasy, unsettled, like the past is coming back to haunt us.
As it always does.
I pick up the empty porcelain cup from the nightstand. “I’ll make you some tea.”
“Hand me my book before you go, please.”
Not long after Chloe died and Valerie went into a downward spiral, I gifted her a book about loss and grief. To Grief and Back , it’s called. Valerie thumbs through it often and asks for it when she’s particularly unsettled. Like now.
Minutes later, I return with a warm cup of chamomile tea. After helping Valerie sit up against the pillows, I click on the lamp. It will be at least an hour before she falls asleep again.
Every night, same routine.
She coughs and I notice she’s more pale than usual.
“Do you remember that stuffed lizard she used to love?” Valerie asks, surprising me.
“Yes, I remember it well.”
“You remember it was missing one eye? And I think even a toe. And then,” she smiles fondly, “remember when I accidentally put it in the washer with Chloe’s sheets and poured bleach on its back? Chloe was so mad at first, but then decided it looks like spilled milk, so every time they’d have a tea party, she’d pour him milk instead of tea.”
Gentle smiles cross both our faces. Until losing a child I never knew that joy and sorrow could be felt simultaneously.
“She loved that thing,” Valerie whispers, lost in memories.
“Carl.”
“Oh my gosh, you’re right.” Her eyes round. This is the most lucid I’ve seen her in days. “That was his name. Carl.” She chuckles. “What a terrible name.”
I’d thought the same thing. We’d laugh about it together. The few times we laughed at all.
“Do you know where it is?” She asks.
“In our storage unit in New York. We boxed it up with most of our stuff.”
“You mean Prishna boxed it up.”
I blink, startled by Valerie mentioning her deceased sister.
According to her doctor, Valerie is suffering from short-term amnesia. She remembers everything before the incident at the airport hangar, and everything since waking up at the hospital. But nothing that happened inside the hangar.
Valerie doesn’t remember seeing her sister get shot in the head, by Carlos, a man out for revenge. She doesn’t remember me putting a gun to my own head, asking Carlos to take my life instead of Sabine’s. She doesn’t remember Cillian dragging me out of the burning building while I fought against him, trying to claw my way back to Sabine’s bleeding body.
The only reason Valerie knows Prishna is dead is because after waking in the hospital, she kept asking for her. Eventually we told her that she’d passed away in an accident. We had a small funeral, and haven’t spoken about it since.
A long moment stretches between us.
Then—
“Why don’t you ever talk about her?”
“Prishna?”
“No. Chloe. Our daughter.”
My body stiffens. “I don’t know,” I lie.
The reason I don’t speak about our daughter is because the conversation always leads to one place: a fight between us.
Valerie shakes her head. “We should have sued the city, you know? It’s their fault they left the manhole cover off.”
“Chloe didn’t fall into that manhole, Valerie.”
“Yes, she did.” Valerie snaps, emotions flushing her cheeks.
“Then how do you explain the lock of hair that was missing from her head?”
“She cut it herself! You know she did. She’d cut her own hair at least half a dozen times.” Her speech begins to slur as her emotions rile. “I’d always tell you to put up the damn scissors. But you were never there?—”
“That’s enough!” My voice echoes against the walls.
The room falls deathly silent.
“I apologize,” I say stiffly, and stand. “Please drink your tea, Valerie. It will help ease you.”
I study my wife, unbelieving that we have been married for years, but still, and have always, felt like complete strangers. After having met Sabine and now knowing what real love is—the soulmate, can’t-live-without-you kind of love—only emphasizes the absences of feelings between Valerie and me. We never loved each other. We married because I accidentally got her pregnant after drunken sex in the back of my limousine.
When I turn to walk away, she calls after me.
“Where do you go twice a week?” She asks. “On Saturdays and Wednesdays?”
I stop cold. “What do you mean?”
“Twice a week, you’re gone for at least ten hours. Sometimes twelve. Where do you go?”
To beg for the love of my life to take me back.
“Work.”
“Liar.”
I frown, feeling a distant instinct awaken. Is Valerie beginning to remember what happened? Does she remember seeing me cry over another woman? Offering my life for another woman’s?
I’ve spent hours considering how I would respond if Valerie asked about Sabine. I’ve landed on honesty. When the subject arises, I will tell Valerie that I am in love with another woman, and let the pieces fall where they may.
I clear my throat and look away. “You need to sleep, Valerie.”
“I can’t sleep now.” She sits up, peels back the covers. “I’d like to take a bath.”
Relieved to be away from the conversation, I quickly say, “I’ll prepare it for you.”