The Wife Upstairs, page 10
part #5 of Novel Series
I see the question in Victoria’s eyes. “How…?”
“There was an accident and I lost the baby,” I say. “Sort of like what happened to you.”
But that’s not true. Not really. Because what happened to me wasn’t an accident.
Freddy walked me home from school that day. He held my hand like he always did, my smaller fingers laced into his bigger ones. When we got closer to my house, he pulled his hand away from mine and wrapped his arm around my shoulders protectively.
“You’re going to tell your parents tonight?” he asked me.
I nodded. “I’ll tell them after dinner. It’s easier to give my father the news on a full stomach.”
Freddy stopped walking and turned to me, a deep crease between his dark eyebrows. “Let me be there.”
“It’s better if you’re not.”
“I should be there. I want him to know I’m a standup guy. That I’m going to take care of you.”
“It’s a bad idea.”
He chewed on his lower lip. “What if he gets really angry at you?”
“I can handle that.”
I didn’t want to tell him what I was thinking, which is that I expected my father to get really angry. He hated Freddy and was counting down the days till I went off to college and hopefully broke up with him. But none of that was going to happen now, and I was scared about his reaction. My father was a lot bigger than Freddy. I could imagine him beating my boyfriend to a bloody pulp.
Freddy tried to argue with me, but it was my decision. So that night, after my father had eaten two large squares of Mom’s homemade lasagna, I knew it was now or never. I had to tell him. Before I started to show and he figured it out for himself.
I watched him as he wiped tomato sauce off his ruddy face with the back of his hand. He loosened his belt buckle and undid the top button on his pants. Throughout my entire childhood, my father was always about ten pounds overweight, and lately, it had been edging towards twenty. But he was in good shape. Big and strong from years of construction work.
My mother was at the table too, finishing off a glass of wine. It was the second one I’d seen her drink that night, but I suspected it wasn’t her second one of the night. I was worried my mother drank too much, but when I mentioned it to her, she brushed me off.
“Mom, Dad,” I said. “I’ve got some news.”
His blue eyes lit up. That was the very last time I ever saw my father look happy. “Did you get your SAT scores back?”
“No.” I rubbed my palms against my jeans. I hadn’t been able to eat more than two bites of lasagna tonight. I was too nervous. “It’s something else.”
“Oh?”
I took a deep breath. “It’s about Freddy.”
Any trace of a smile faded from his face. “What? I hope you’re telling me you’re breaking up with him.”
“Dale…” Mom said. It was her warning voice, but I’d never seen her successfully calm my father down. I don’t know why she bothered.
“Did you?” Dad pressed me. “Did you finally toss that no good hoodlum to the curb?”
I looked down at my hands in my lap. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?”
I couldn’t bear to look at him. “Actually, we’re getting married.”
I could almost hear the steam shooting out of my father's ears. His voice became a roar. “Married? Are you out of your mind? You’re only sixteen! Why would you get married unless—”
And then he got it.
I can still picture the way my father rose from his chair, his face slowly turning purple. Mom kept saying his name, but it did nothing. I had never seen him this angry in my entire life. I thought I’d seen him angry before, but this was something entirely different. It looked like he was possessed.
“You slut,” he hissed. “How could you? How did you let yourself get knocked up by that little bastard?”
I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like I planned it.
“This is not going to happen.” He pounded his fist against the table. “You are not going to marry him. You are not going to have his baby. I’m not going to let you destroy your future.”
I looked up at him, my heart pounding. “What?”
A vein stuck out on the side of his temple. It throbbed so violently, it looked like it might burst. “Tomorrow we’re going to the doctor. We’re going to take care of this.”
“No!” Now it was my turn to jump out of my seat. “I don’t want to do that! I want the baby!”
“You’re just a stupid kid. You don’t know what you want.”
“I’m old enough to make this decision.” I took a step back. “You can’t make me do this!”
I started to walk away, but before I could, his fist wrapped around my wrist. He’d never laid a finger on me in my life, but he was making up for lost time. There was fire in his eyes and I knew I had made a terrible mistake when I told Freddy not to come with me. Freddy would have stopped this from happening.
“Let me go!” Tears were in my eyes but I refused to let them fall. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“You’re doing what I tell you to do.” His eyes were like steel. “I spent my whole life working to give you a good life. And this is how you repay me? By getting knocked up by a loser like Freddy Ruggiero?”
I tried to kick at him, but it was no use. He was squeezing my wrist so hard, it felt like the bones might be crushed. My fingers started to tingle. And then, without warning, he shoved me so hard that I fell over my chair onto the ground. I landed hard, on my right wrist.
“You have some nerve!” As he spit the words at me, he kicked me hard in the side. Later, I found out he cracked a rib. “When you’re in my house, you live by my rules, you ungrateful bitch!”
He kicked me again, but I managed to somehow scramble to my feet. My wrist where he had grabbed me was dark red and the other wrist that I had landed on hurt like crazy. And my ribs hurt so badly, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. But I managed to run out the front door, and I didn’t stop running until I got to Freddy’s house.
And that was the last time I ever saw my parents. Funny—I don’t even miss them.
But I do miss Freddy sometimes.
Chapter 17
The weather thankfully holds up, and we’re able to go outside as planned.
Getting downstairs is not the easiest task. There’s no easy way to get a wheelchair down an entire flight of stairs, so the only way to get down is for Adam to lift her out of the chair and carry her. Fortunately, she’s very light, and he’s able to do it without even breaking a sweat. He’s got another wheelchair down on the first level so he doesn’t have to carry her chair down too.
“I’m worried she’ll be cold,” I say to Adam as I zip up her hoodie sweater. It’s nice out, but a bit on the nippy side. I’m wearing a coat, but I feel like it might be hard for her to wear one. A warmer sweater would probably do the trick.
“Go look in the walk-in closet in our bedroom,” he says. “She’s got tons of clothes in there.”
I don’t know how I feel about going into Adam’s bedroom and sifting through the closet. He notices my hesitation and waves a hand at me. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Adam’s bedroom, which I suppose used to be Adam and Victoria’s bedroom, is much larger than any of the other rooms. It has a large double bed, and the covers are in disarray since Maggie isn’t here today. I wonder if Victoria was the sort of woman who liked the beds to all be made every morning—my mother was like that. She drilled it into me so hard that I still make my bed every day, even though I haven’t spoken to my mother in eight years.
There’s a smaller closet in the bedroom that I suppose belongs to Adam. He keeps the door to that one firmly closed. He swings open the larger door and I can’t help but let out a gasp.
“Vicky liked clothing.” He shrugs sheepishly. “I don’t know what’s in here. I haven’t touched it since…”
I step inside the massive closet. God, there are a lot of clothes in here. Rows and rows of them. It’s practically a department store in itself. And when I check the labels, I realize nothing in here is cheap. Everything is name brand.
There’s a certain irony to the fact that a woman with such an amazing wardrobe now dresses primarily in sweatpants, T-shirts, and hoodies. Obviously, Victoria was someone who cared a lot about style. Even in the diary entries I read, it was clear she took a lot of care with her appearance. It must kill her that she’s always in her sweats.
And nobody can tell me she isn’t aware of it. She knows.
As if reading my mind, Adam says, “I wish she could still wear this stuff. But she spends all her time sitting or in bed. She needs to be in clothes that are comfortable and big enough not to rub against her skin.” He fingers a pair of designer skinny blue jeans. “The back pocket on these would cause a pressure sore. And she’s so stiff, I don’t know how we’d get them on her.”
He’s got a point, but I still feel bad about the whole thing. So I sort through the closet and pick out one of the nicest sweaters I can find: a blue Ralph Lauren cable knit cashmere sweater that looks like it will compliment her eyes.
“Do you want me to help you put it on her?” Adam asks.
I shake my head. It’s just a sweater, for God’s sake. “I think I can manage.”
When I show Victoria the sweater, I wait for a flash of happiness at the sight of it. Oh my goodness, Sylvie! It’s my favorite sweater! That was stupid, of course. She doesn’t react at all. And when I try to put it on her—well, I sorely regret refusing Adam’s offer to help. It is not easy to put this sweater on her. Her right arm is stiff like a board and her left arm is fighting me the whole time. I start out by putting her good left arm into the sweater since that is what she’s trying to do, but then I feel like I’m about to twist her other arm into an unnatural angle just to get her inside. I can only imagine what Eva would say if she witnessed this display.
Fortunately, Adam must have predicted this was going to happen because he comes down to the living room and rescues me. He gently eases the tangled sweater off her arms, then puts it back on her like he’s been doing it his whole life. First her limp right arm, then her good arm, then over her head.
“Don’t feel bad,” he says when he’s got it in place. “It took me a while to master. You’ll get the hang of it.”
He rests a hand on his wife’s shoulder, but she does what she always does—she turns her head away from him.
The weather is perfect for a walk. Sunny but with a nice breeze in the air. I’ve pulled my hair back into a ponytail, but Victoria’s is loose around her face. From the right angle, she looks very pretty when the wind lifts her hair in the air. This is one of those moments when I see a glimpse of how beautiful she used to be… before.
There’s a paved path that leads around the house, but Adam wasn’t exaggerating when he said it was overgrown. The grass has gone wild and every bush has wayward branches extending into the path. He needs to hire someone to take care of this mess. It would be fine for me to navigate on my own, but wheeling a chair over the path is a challenge. How did Adam ever take Victoria on a walk?
After we’ve done one lap around the house, I’m already getting tired. I look over at Victoria to see how she’s holding up, and her eyes are open wide.
“How are you doing?” I ask her. “Ready to go back in or do you want to stay outside longer?”
Her brows knit together. She looks like she wants to say something, but she’s struggling.
I put my hand gently on her shoulder the way Adam did, but she doesn’t look away this time. “What’s wrong, Victoria?”
“It’s…” She’s managing to get the words out, even though they’re slurred. “In…”
I shake my head. “What?”
“Glen Head.” Her words are slurred but intelligible. “In. Glen Head.”
What?
I remember from when I was scouring the map of Long Island that Glen Head is part of the town of Oyster Bay, although it’s not anywhere close to here. Why is she interested in some tiny village in Oyster Bay?
“What’s in Glen Head?” I ask.
“No.” She looks up at me, and a drop of drool escapes from her lips, but she barely seems to notice. “No. Not…” She shakes her head. “No.”
Well, this is frustrating.
I’ve been reading more of Victoria’s diary, but I have to admit, I haven’t been reading it much. I mean, she loves the guy—I get it. I don’t need page after page of how wonderful he is, how good he kisses, blah blah blah. Frankly, given my silly crush on him, it’s a bit frustrating.
But maybe I shouldn’t have given up so quickly. More and more, I’m getting the feeling there’s something Victoria wants to tell me. And the answer is in that diary.
I’ll read more tonight.
She seems unsettled so I go for another lap around the house. It’s hard work but the weather won’t hold up forever, so we may as well take advantage. Come January, when we’re trapped in the house, I’ll be glad we got out a little bit.
“Sylvie!”
I freeze, startled by the sound of her saying my name. Every morning, I walk in to see Victoria and say, Hi! It’s Sylvie! But I never thought it registered with her. Apparently, it has.
“You’re right!” I say excitedly. I don’t want to make too much of this, but I’m thrilled. She doesn’t even say her own name. The only name she ever says is Adam. “That’s my name. Sylvie!”
“Sylvie!” she says again. And I realize she’s pointing with her shaky left hand.
I follow the direction of her extended hand. She’s pointing at a tree about twenty feet away from us, near the shed where Adam says they store the gardening supplies. The leaves have all turned red and yellow and fallen on the roof of the shed—it’s very beautiful.
“I know,” I say. “It’s lovely.”
And—I swear to God—she rolls her eyes at me. “No.” Her voice is filled with impatience. “Sylvie. It’s… nub.”
There’s a part of me that wants to scream. Victoria talks about “nub” all the freaking time. I have no idea what it means. At least once a day, she says “nub” in that urgent voice. At first, I was convinced it had to do with the way I was cutting her fingernails. But now I have no idea. I asked Adam and he didn’t know either.
But I’ve noticed she talks about him in association with nub a lot. Adam nub. Adam in nub. No nub Adam. Nub Adam. Any combination you can imagine.
So is “nub” a tree? Is that what she wants? A tree?
“Nub,” she says more urgently. Her left hand pointing at the tree is shaking violently.
What does she want, for God’s sake? Does she want to climb the tree? Does she want me to climb the tree?
“Do you…” I look back at the tree. “Do you want me to go over there?”
She nods vigorously.
Well, fine. I abandon her chair on the path and pick my way through the wild grass to get to the tree. Or the nub, or whatever it is. I wonder if there are initials carved on the tree—maybe that’s what Victoria wants me to see. Or maybe there’s a secret message on it that will lead me to a buried treasure.
The tree is… a totally unremarkable tree. I circle it once, just to make sure there are no secret messages written on it—there aren’t. It’s a very normal tree. The only thing different about it is a small area on the front where the wood is splintered. I reach out and touch the imperfection.
“Nub!” I hear Victoria shout. It’s the loudest I’ve ever heard her speak.
I have no clue what she’s talking about. This is just a splintered area on a tree.
And then I see it. Embedded in the wood.
A bullet.
“Nub,” she says, quieter this time but her voice is carried by the wind. “Adam… nub.”
I finally know what nub means.
I walk back to where Victoria is sitting. She follows me carefully with her good eye. She’s watching my face.
“Gun?” I say.
She nods slowly. “Gun,” she repeats.
Chapter 18
Victoria’s Diary
December 16, 2016
So I started writing all this stuff down as a way to show my future children how I met their father because I just felt so convinced that this was it. Well, today I was proven right.
Adam finished a draft of his book yesterday. I begged him to read it, but he wouldn’t let me. He said he cares about my opinion too much, and it would make him nervous. So he sent it off to the editor, and he is awaiting their opinion. Of course, I’m absolutely dying to read it, but I respect his wishes. If he doesn’t want me to read it yet, I’ll wait. He won’t even tell me what it’s about or even what it’s called.
Anyway, to celebrate, we had this grand plan to go out to dinner after my shift ended today. He was asking me if I could get somebody to cover the shift, but that would be impossible on such short notice. I would only ask for help like that if I were seriously ill. Adam was grumbling about it, but he doesn’t get it. When you’re in the medical field, you can’t skip out on work to have a night out with your boyfriend. You just can’t.
So I found myself in a packed ER this evening. What’s more, right in the middle of my shift, a multi-trauma motor vehicle accident arrived. It was a three-car collision where one person died and we had to send one person straight into surgery because their blood pressure kept dropping and it looked like they had a hemorrhaging spleen. And then there were two patients in a row with chest pain that ruled in for heart attacks and we had to send them straight up to the Cath Lab. Then a third patient with chest pain went into cardiac arrest just as we got him into an examination room.
He didn’t make it.
Needless to say, we were shaken after that one. After somebody dies in the ER, there’s a somber atmosphere that overtakes the entire place, and it didn’t help that we were way behind. Anybody who was not actively dying was not going to get seen in the near future. It meant that when we did finally get in to see one of the non-urgent patients, they were not pleased with us.
