A J Grayson - The Girl in the Water

I would swear he was trying to avoid me, hiding himself away in a spot he knew I didn’t go. Trying to move through our apartment unseen so he didn’t have to lay eyes on …

But I stop myself, because that’s such a very silly thing to think. Even if the thought has been with me since the day first began and the face in the mirror did its usual thing.

Every morning, as I stand in the bathroom and gaze into the mirror, my eyes look back and taunt me. The fact that their colour doesn’t match my name has always disappointed me, and it’s a bit like they know this and are so prominent on my face purely as a way to rub it in.

They teased from the mirror in their customary way, today, but I merely shrugged. I’m used to this, and I went about my ritual as usual. Mornings are a well-honed routine. The actions of each minute are tuned to fit into their allotted space just as they ought, and so I went through the steps in their customary order. My face was done, my hair was brushed, and my teeth were as clean as is ever the case for a heavy tea drinker. I was suitably polished up for the day. My feet, seemingly registering all this even ahead of my brain, were already moving me out of our teal-tiled bathroom towards the kitchen.

Like they’d lives of their own.

They pointed me down the stairs, the same as they might on any average day. Toe into the not-so-plush carpeting of each step, then heel, bend of a stiff knee above – not creaking yet, I’m not so old as that – and repeat. I let my body guide me. Like normal, like any other norma—

But I didn’t feel quite myself, it has to be said. And it’s an odd thing, to start the day feeling not quite one’s self.

The quarter-inch synthetic rag of the staircase drove its way between my toes in exactly the way it always does, and yet it … well, it didn’t. I’m not sure I can say it any better than that. And it wasn’t just the floor. Moments earlier, when my face stared back at me from the mirror, it was there, too. Something in my features I couldn’t pinpoint, something that in another context I might describe as pain. And a buzz in my ears. And a stronger edge to my eyes.

I felt, deeply, that I ought to know what brought me into this day in this state; that it’s strange, and somehow incomprehensible, not to know why one feels the way one does. But I woke without that knowledge, and like so many other things in life, I simply had to accept it.

One foot in front of the other, toes in the carpet, head on fire.

At the bottom of the staircase I’d rounded the corner into the kitchen, brushed my straw-coloured hair from my exposed neck and tried to rub away a bit of the firmness there, but I was pressing fingers into rocks. I’d gone to bed a woman. I’d woken up made of stone.

The lights had flickered when I switched them on – then a sudden burst of white. White. The memories came on strong, in the confused flurry that generally shapes morning thoughts.

The murder along Russian River. Not a dream. Work. Engaging, yet peaceful work. Long hours in front of my computer. Real.

The drive home. White lights in my vision, a face … The dreams pressed for their own.

But then – home. Passion. David. Tight embraces.

And then coldness and rejection. That wasn’t a dream, either. That was real, and horrible, and I was quite certain I wasn’t imagining it.

The evening had begun with passion. I may be hazy-eyed but I remember that clearly enough. All the signs of the red-blooded night every couple dreams of, and we were bringing that desire to life. But then it stopped, so abruptly. A single word, and everything ground to a halt.

There may have been more involved than that, but I just don’t remember. I didn’t remember this morning in the kitchen, and I don’t remember now at my desk.

I only remember … oh, God. In the kitchen my shoulders clenched further as the memories returned. The flash of a face on the motorway. A name somehow appearing in my mind.

Emma .

And then my whispering that name into David’s ear. The truly inexplicable. Even now, my skin tingles to think of it.

Who the hell is Emma?

And why for the love of God would I whisper another woman’s name into my husband’s ear while our bodies were entwined together and heat filled our room?

But I did. I said it, and the night was over. David froze as the final, whispered syllable crawled its way out of my lips, then rolled out from beneath me with a motion that wasn’t meant to be graceful. When I’d adjusted myself to face him his shoulders were to me, his head pressed into his pillow.

‘What is it?’ My question was innocent enough. ‘What did I do?’

‘It’s nothing,’ he answered, in a way that made it clear that it was certainly not nothing. I could tell he was controlling his breathing. The melting bumps of gooseflesh wilted on the sides of his back.

I briefly felt badly, wondering whether I’d stirred up some old pain. David isn’t a fragile man, but he’s not exactly the most open with his feelings, either, which makes it hard to know when I might accidentally knock the scab off some emotional wound he’s never fully shared. That’s the rub in holding things back from people you love: you open yourself to being tortured by them, since they can never know what territory of your heart is whole and what is tender.

‘David, if I said something to upset you, I’m—’

‘I said it’s nothing!’ No concealing the clap to his voice, like thunder when you haven’t seen the lightning; but then a long, controlling sigh. A softer tone emerged from the thunder a few seconds later, though the words were still stiff and forced. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m just tired.’ Hesitation. ‘We’re both tired.’

I wasn’t tired. My body was still on fire, tingling and energized. I reached out to his shoulder and tugged on it provocatively. It was still hot, his body disagreeing with his words.

‘I’m sure we can get a little energy back if we try.’

David pulled the shoulder away in a strong, singular motion.

‘Enough, Amber. Enough.’ Then a sustained lacuna, as if he were pondering what to say next.

‘Let’s just go to sleep. I have a busy day ahead of me in the morning. We probably shouldn’t have started this anyway. Drink some water, you need to hydrate. Get some rest.’

He pulled the sheet up over his shoulders and curled himself yet further away from me. And there I was, naked and uncovered on my half of the bed, utterly confused as to what had just happened.

I don’t know when I fell asleep. I had my long draw of water as David had recommended. He always encourages me to keep a bottle by the bedside; saves having to traipse downstairs if I get a midnight thirst – and it’s just like him to think of my welfare, even at a moment he’s obviously upset. It soothed a little, but neither my body nor my mind were in the mood for rest. I remember staring at our bedroom ceiling for what felt like fifteen or twenty years. I got to know every feature of its poorly textured surface, probably once billed as ‘eggshell white’ but now suspiciously more the colour of dilute urine. We really, desperately need to repaint.

When I turned to David again he was soundly asleep. Somehow I got a handful of the sheets back and covered myself up. I don’t remember much after that, except for frustrated jostling and annoyance at the fact that counting sheep just never works. They’re revolting, shaggy creatures anyway, fluffy-white only in comic strips. In reality they’re dirty and matted and pooping on absolutely everything, and they always just bleat and jump and carry on coming, and …

Morning eventually came, with David’s adjusted routine and the noises from the den. Finally, he left for work. I got a peck on the cheek before I rose from my pillow. That much, at least. All wasn’t lost.