Chapter 33
Susan
Sunday
Jon took up my suggestion and went for a Sunday night run.
Or a walk, anyway. To her, I imagine. I wonder where she lives and if she’s married too.
I suppose if she’s not, they don’t need a hotel, they might go to her house.
Happy one-month anniversary. Who even buys a gift after one month, let alone inscribed jewelry?
But Jon loves a big gesture. On our one-month anniversary, he surprised me with tickets to New York.
I thought it was romantic. I guess it’s just what Jon does.
I hate her, whoever she is. Does she know about me?
I suppose she might not know he’s married.
Though if the bracelet was here, then she was here, and if the bracelet was stuck behind Jon’s night-stand, then that’s where she lost it, in my bed.
God…This also makes me wonder when she was here—it’s not like I’m out much.
Apart from one weekend away with Leesa and Bella, I’ve been here every single night since Bella was born.
Could it have started before that, before Bella?
Something—the distance between us—tells me it’s new.
But what do I know? And I guess illicit affairs don’t need to happen at night; maybe she was here when I was out during the day.
I hate her, I think again. And the feminist in me knows I’m not supposed to blame the other woman, that Jon’s the one who’s cheating, but I just don’t have it in me not to blame her too. I hate her. I fucking hate her.
As I move into the living room, I hear a noise outside the window.
Is Jon back already? I listen, but there’s nothing more.
On the baby monitor, I can see Bella, deep in sleep.
On TV, there’s nothing I want to watch. I flick mindlessly between Netflix and Prime, unable to focus on anything but needing a distraction.
A few minutes later, I hear a noise again, a rustle from outside.
I turn down the TV and wait, but again there’s no follow-up sound.
And although my rational brain knows it was nothing more than a fox or a breeze, and although I can see Bella on the monitor screen, I decide to go upstairs to check on her.
· · ·
Bella’s fast asleep, just like she was onscreen.
Her soother’s fallen out, but she doesn’t need it once she’s in a deep sleep.
Small, quiet, even breaths through button nose and rosebud lips.
I melt on the spot, just as I always do.
Pre-baby me would have rolled her eyes. But I can’t help it; she turns me to mush.
A memory surfaces now, of a less good time.
Standing over her bassinet, sobbing, my hands over my ears. I swat it away and go downstairs.
The house feels ominously quiet. The sounds—the ticking of the living-room clock, the whip of a small breeze outside—are no different to any other night, but now it’s eerie.
I’m still rattled, I think, about the supermarket.
And I still can’t make sense of it. Did I move her and forget?
Is all this getting to me so much it’s affecting my parenting?
Or did someone else move her? Neither of these is a good answer.
The living room is dark now, as dusk closes in, and shadows of swaying trees pattern the wall opposite the window.
We never pull the blinds during summer, but tonight, I feel exposed.
I get up to close the living-room one and switch on a lamp.
Better. Marginally. Before unpausing whatever I wasn’t really watching on TV, I glance at the baby monitor one more time.
And my breath stops.
There’s someone in the bedroom. Visible on the screen. A shadowy figure in the grainy feed. There’s someone upstairs in our bedroom, standing over Bella’s crib.