Fuck.
Jesus.
I push my hands into my hair. Squeeze my eyes shut.
Fuck!
“It’s just a dream, isn’t it?” she asks, voice small. “You’re not going to do that to me, are you?”
I look at her. I can’t help it. It’s a mistake though. I know how fucked I am when my chest tightens and I can’t breathe. When it takes all I have to turn away from her. To walk the hell out of that room. Because after all of it, all that’s happened, I can’t do that to her. Not even close. I’d kill anyone who tried. Because I love her, too. I fucking love her.
39
Isabelle
I see the empty space where he stood. Hear the lock turn on the door. I shudder, looking down at myself. My jeans and panties around my ankles, my inner thighs and between my legs wet with him.
My chest aches and even though my stomach growls with hunger, I don’t think I could eat right now.
I force myself to my feet, slip off the jeans and panties and walk into the bathroom. My gaze lands on the violin and I remind myself there’s hope in the fact that he left my violin. If he hated me, he’d have taken that from me. If he hated me, he’d have smashed it to bits and left the pieces for me to find.
I walk into the bathroom and close the door behind me, strip off the rest of my things and switch on the shower. I need to warm up. I’m cold from the inside. I step beneath the flow and stand there for an eternity.
My mind is working hard to process what just happened. I told him I love him and I’m painfully aware that he didn’t say the words back. That he looked lost. Confused. Not at all the devil I’ve come to love.
I move through the motions of washing my hair, my body. I look down at my stomach. It’s still flat. I lay both hands over it. I meant what I said. I would never hurt this baby. And the fact that it’s his, that it’s a piece of him, just makes me feel even more tenderness toward him or her. I think it’s going to be all right. It has to be. It will take time for him to trust me, and I understand that. I have to. But we will be all right. He and I. And we’ll be a family, all of us.
Strange that I can’t imagine a life without Jericho or Angelique in it. All I feel at the thought is emptiness.
My mind wanders to Julia. To how she gave me the pills intending for me to abort this child. Wanders to what she told us in Hildebrand’s office about Carlton and his role in Christian’s death. She seemed so earnest. So upset.
But she never mentioned Gerald Gibson. And neither did Jericho. It’s the one piece that gives me pause.
When I switch off the water, I hear humming in the other room. I wrap a towel around myself. It’s Catherine. I smile and walk into the bedroom to find her laying a table for me. Well, it’s a roll-in table she’s set at the window. She’s arranging a single, bright red Gerber daisy in a small glass vase.
“There you are, dear,” she says when she sees me. “I hope you don’t mind that I came in while you were showering. The soup’s warm and I thought you’d be hungry.” She’s trying to smile but her expression falters. She knows what he did. Where I’ve been. I’m sure the whole household knows.
I feel myself blush, embarrassed at it. At his treatment of me. At my powerlessness.
“Thank you,” I say, pushing through the emotions. “I am always hungry for your soup and dumplings.”
“I brought extra,” she says. “You need to eat for two now. And there’s some juice and a small dessert.” She lifts the lid on a plate with a hunk of chocolate cake on it.
“Small?” I ask, moving toward the table.
“Well, like I said, it’s for two and we need to put some meat on your bones. You’re too skinny if I may say so.”
“I just haven’t felt well,” I say as she opens a dresser drawer and takes out some clothes for me. She’s almost like a grandmother to me. Always kind and looking after me like she cares about me.
“Now you get dressed and sit down to eat. If you’d like anything else, you just let me know, all right?”
“This is perfect, thank you so much, Catherine.”
She smiles, looks like she wants to say more but then nods and leaves. I hear the lock turn. Sighing, I get dressed and I sit down to eat. I watch the lights come on out on the patio, the pool lit up, red leaves scattering in the cool breeze. Fall has properly arrived.
I avoid looking into the woods. I’m nervous I’ll see that cigarette light again although I know that would be a stretch from up here. I should tell Jericho. I will the next time I see him.
But I don’t see him for the next three days. Catherine delivers my meals, three a day, but other than her I don’t see anyone. I don’t even know if Jericho sleeps in his room, it’s so quiet but I remember it’s sound proofed. Even when I press my ear to the door, I hear nothing.
And I miss him. When I ask Catherine if he’s home, she gives me vague answers and I can see she’s uncomfortable, so I’ve stopped asking. I wonder when Carlton’s funeral will be or if it’s already been and past. I wonder about the autopsy and the DNA testing for Matty. Is he really Carlton’s son?
As I sit by the window and play my violin, I think about Christian. I may not be able to go to his grave on the anniversary of his death this year. It will be the first time since he died if that happens.
It’s just as I’m thinking about that, that I hear the lock on my door followed by a knock. I turn, surprised. I just had lunch so it’s not Catherine.
“Isabelle?” Ezekiel asks, knocking again.
“Come in,” I say, standing.
He walks into the room, takes in the surroundings. It looks so bare. Nothing on the walls, the bookshelves. Like a prison. It is a prison after all.
I move to put the violin in its case. It’s good he sees it. Because this isn’t right. I don’t deserve to be locked up in here and I’m glad Ezekiel bears witness.
He clears his throat. “How are you holding up?”
I close the case and turn to him, shrug a shoulder. “How much longer will he keep me in here?”
His jaw tenses. They have these little tells, the brothers. If you watch them closely enough you get to know them. They’re so similar in some of their traits.
“I haven’t talked to him in a few days,” he says. “He has a lot on his mind.”
“The autopsy or the DNA test?”
“Both.”
“What’s going on? Has Carlton been buried?”
“Service is this evening.”
“So the autopsy is over?”
He nods.
“The result?”
“I don’t know that just yet.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“I’m not sure, honestly,” he answers after a moment, and I appreciate the honesty. “You have a visitor, Isabelle.”
“A visitor?”
“Megs. From the café, I believe.”
“Megs is here?”
He nods. “She was worried about you. Says you usually see each other more often this time of year.”
“It’s almost the anniversary of Christian’s death.”