Chapter 5
Emily
I'd been home for two weeks, and it had become painfully obvious that the intimacy Cal and I had once shared had eroded over time. Every time I reached for him, pressed a kiss to his cheek, wrapped an arm around his waist, or reached out to hold his hand, every single time he looked surprised.
He never pushed me away, instead lingering a little longer as if he wanted more of this easy affection. As if he had been starved for even one little touch.
We hadn't had sex yet. I didn't quite know how. I mean, I knew how, just not how to approach this.
I exited the shower, pausing to look at my dripping body in the full-length mirrors lining the wall of the room. They were anti-fog, meaning you got an uninterrupted view of every crack and crevice of your body from disrobing to dressing.
Which confused me. Who wanted to see that every day?
I scrutinised my body, examining myself with a kind of fascinated curiosity.
This person in the mirror didn't look familiar. My skin was pale, indicating a preference for the indoors, which was strange as I had never been that kind of person. There were new marks and bumps, wrinkles and folds. And the tattoo. A simple but beautifully ornate comet.
I shook my head at the mirror, turning away. I was all for being healthy, but this didn't feel like I'd attempted to achieve a healthy medium.
I covered my unfamiliar body in designer clothing that I hated and walked downstairs to my makeshift music room, having found that the only room in this monstrous house with any kind of acoustics was the library.
I felt strangely lonely as well as nervous and unsettled. Calvin had returned to work today, promising to be home in time for dinner, but that was hours away, and I found I had little to distract me from my thoughts.
I could have called Collins to come spend today with me, but I didn't want to disturb her simply because I felt uncomfortable in my own home. Collins had been at the hospital each day, Nick close on her heels.
It hadn't escaped my notice that the photos she'd shown me during these visits had evidenced my growing brittleness as the years progressed. My openness hidden behind pursed smiles, fake laughter, and social media-worthy poses.
It also hadn't escaped my notice that Collins and Nick were my only visitors. Not even my parents or Cal's siblings had made the effort to visit.
What did you do?
I pushed away the unsettling thoughts and picked up the violin, placing it just so on my shoulder. I’d discovered my violin on the top shelf of my closet under an inch of dust.
Yet another pleasure you gave up for some reason.
My fingers moved as I began my warm-up, the joints stiff and the notes stunted. Another reminder of a pleasure that had been brushed aside.
I practised for two hours, losing myself in the movement and sound, trying to recapture the magic that had once flowed so easily from my hands.
At the end of the session, I felt simultaneously elated and overwhelmed.
The piece was simple, but I'd stuttered through it, the notes coming a beat too slowly, the sound a fraction too pitched.
It would be more days of this, likely taking hundreds of hours to reclaim the practised ease with which I used to play – the thought of which was daunting.
And yet, I was proud of the effort, proud of my body and my mind for trying.
I dropped the bow on the stand and replaced the violin, taking a moment to stretch my protesting muscles.
The library, despite being the best room in the house acoustically, creeped me the fuck out.
When Cal had first given me a tour and mentioned we had a library, I'd been thrilled, expecting thick carpets or perhaps rugs over warm wooden floors.
I'd envisioned a heavy stone fireplace with comfortable seating or perhaps a light, airy room with window seats.
The room had defied and devastated all expectations.
Floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with display books and knick-knacks that had been chosen not for reading enjoyment but for display.
In fact, one whole shelving wall had every single book turned spine side in, the pages the only viewable part.
Another was filled with books covered in white paper – a theme, I was told, that had been championed by celebrities.
The final wall held a mishmash of encyclopaedias and law texts.
I loitered by the white wall fighting a tide of frustrated anger as I stared at the idiocy of the covered books.
Without thinking, almost as if my hand was detached from my body, I reached for a book and ripped it from the shelf.
In a violent action, I used my other hand to rip the stupid white jacket free, revealing a deep red cover of Neil Gaiman's American Gods.
The anger overpowered me, and I reached for another book, pulling it free and ripping the white off to reveal a beautiful peacock blue. I replaced it, reaching for the next and the next, ripping and replacing in a systematic, almost compulsive rhythm.
As I reached the end of the first shelf, a trail of white paper following in my wake, I pulled a book free, knocking it against a heavy metal art piece and sending it crashing to the floor.
It hit one of the whitewashed wood floorboards with a crack, sending it bouncing up on one end and sliding out of place.
I blinked for a moment, staring at the carnage before letting out a heavy sigh and dropping to my knees.
"Fuck," I muttered, reaching for the broken floorboard and pulling it away from the hole. "Great job, Emily. How you gonna explain this mess?"
It was only after I'd pulled it free and set it to the side that I realised I hadn't broken anything. Under the loose board, nestled in a void between the concrete slab, sat two items. One was a long airtight container, the other a large fireproof safe, the dial facing up toward me.
I reached first for the safe. Heaving and panting, I pulled it up by the case handle, ignoring the scraping sound as it dragged over the edge. I crouch before it, wracking my brain for a possible combination.
My birthday, Cal's birthday and our anniversary didn't work. I paused for a moment, then twisted a final combination, letting out a delighted squeal when it clicked open.
"God damn it, Cal. Our sex date? Really?" I muttered, pushing the lid back with a small smile. Our sex date had happened three weeks after our first official night together. I'd surprised him with handcuffs and lingerie, he'd surprised me with three orgasms in half an hour.
The contents were fairly benign. Marriage and birth certificates, a USB labelled 'photos', passports which were sadly bereft of adventures. I replaced the documents, shut the safe then reached into the void, pulling the storage box free. Inside was an unexpected treasure trove.
"Diaries," I whispered, pulling the precious journals free. I opened one, catching on the date neatly printed at the top of the page.
19 July 2017
I sifted through the journals, finding them to be a patchwork of the years I'd lost. I found the earliest, starting January 1 2015, and immediately commenced reading, trying to digest the words on the page and translate them into memories locked deep inside me.
Today Cal woke me with kisses on my toes.
The entries were sporadic, some weeks apart, some hours after one another.
I'd written of our engagement, of the pressure in the lead-up to the wedding.
I'd documented in glorious detail our wedding day – our real wedding day, at town hall followed by the night at the cheap seaside BnB.
Tears filled with regret and rueful longing flowed down my cheek as I turned each page.
I miss our wedding day. Our REAL wedding day. Today was awful. Mum and Dad fought in the car on the way to the church. Collins had to run interference while trying desperately to catch Nick's attention. Nick spent most of it on the phone – I'm worried he's going to break her heart.
I brushed away tears, knowing that I'd predicted correctly. Collins had told me about their separation and only recent reconciliation. I hurt and rejoiced for my sister but mostly felt strangely disconnected from all that had happened. And that in itself was distressing.
I know I shouldn't write this, shouldn't give it head space or waste the words on the page.
But I can't shake the words, and I need to get it out.
I overheard Cal's cousins in the bathroom.
They were complaining that I was an embarrassment to him.
That I was uncouth and na?ve and was only acceptable due to my parent's fortune.
Someone joined them, then another, and before I knew it, I was trapped in a toilet cubicle listening to a flock of women pull everything about me apart.
I raised a hand to my mouth, absently biting on my fist as I turned the pages, picking up journal after journal and reading my descent into self-hate.
We went out for dinner with Cal's parents. His mother commented that I looked pregnant.
Cal surprised me with flowers and breakfast in bed. I love this beautiful man.
Cal’s mother hired me a personal trainer. She said I need to lose weight. I don’t think I do, but I don’t want to embarrass him. I want Cal to be proud of me.
I went to Cal's work dinner tonight. I need to buy more designer clothes. I hate embarrassing him, but I didn't know they'd all be so fancy.
I opened the last diary hours later, a sickness burned into my soul. The words on the page were written by a person I didn't recognise. A woman so desperate for approval that she’d begun to hate herself, hate her body, her thoughts, her life.
She said horrible things and wrote in these diaries seeking forgiveness but was unable to stop. She pushed away her husband but wanted him with such a burning passion that it ached. She was in purgatory, waiting for the inevitable moment her husband left her.
My tears had long since ceased, burned away by shame.
I opened the soft leather cover of the final diary to the first page.
Thanksgiving. Cal left me today. He said he'd be back for his things in a few days.
I can't breathe. I said unforgivable things to Honey. Cal's sister didn't deserve my censure.
It’s just… when I look at her, I see her gorgeous confidence. Her full body. Her beauty and wit, and I know I can't measure up. I know I'm stuck battling this rotting, embarrassing, horrible shell I live in.
I’m lashing out. I’m hurting. And I want everyone to hurt as much as I do.
Gods, why am I so awful? Why can’t I stop?
I let out a shuddering breath, unable to believe the words before me. He'd left. He'd walked out. I read on.
Cal agreed to meet me for lunch. We went to a diner near his work. It hurt to see him watching me with such angry and disappointed, hopeless eyes.
It's Christmas. Cal spent it with Honey and her new partner. I think Willodean went as well. Collins is in London.
I'm all alone.
And I have no one to blame but myself.
I just want things to go back to before everything got so messed up.
I wish I could go back.
I need to change. I have to.
I sucked in a breath, realising the next page contained the last entry—it was dated the day of my accident.
It's New Year's Eve. I invited Cal over, but he refused. Said it was better if we waited to see each other at the counselling session. But the marriage counsellor can't get us in until late January.
I can’t live without him. It hurts. Everything hurts.
He wants a divorce, and all I want is him.
Gods, how did I let this happen? How did we end up here?
I ache for my husband. My heart feels as if it is breaking, shattering. Everything hurts.
I have to change. I can’t let him leave. I can’t. He’s the only man I’ve ever loved. He’s the only man I will ever love.
And he deserves better. We both do.
I reread the words, unable to bear the aching in my chest.
"Emily?" Cal's voice came from the hall. "You home?"
I choked out a strangled sound, unsure if I should allow him to find me like this.
"Em?" he called again, sounding worried. "Pretty Eyes?"
"Library," I finally answered, my voice breaking.
His reassuring footsteps preceded him. His heavy tread beautifully familiar.
The world may be different, his face may be slightly older, and his hair now starting to show grey.
My body may be unfamiliar, our house completely unlike our former home.
But Cal's footsteps, his even, solid, heavy gait made me feel warm and reassured. Comforted that my man was here.
"Oh, Pretty Eyes." He stood at the door surveying the damage. The remains of the white paper I'd torn from the books littered the floor. Piles of diaries sat on either side.
"Emily.” He walked to me, crouching down, not touching me just yet. "What happened?"
I swallowed, desperate to bring moisture to my mouth. Desperate to admit the truth.
"I discovered who I am now," I whispered, unable to look him in the eye. "And I hate her."