Audrey Niffenegger: Her Fearful Symmetry

Something is wrong, he thought. He drew her close to him. She was so small and slight that Robert thought of Elspeth in the last days of her illness; she seemed barely there, as though she might slip back to wherever she’d been.

“How do you feel?” he tried again.

“So cold,” she said. “Tired.”

“Do you want to sleep for a while?”

“No…”

“I’ll sit and watch you, make sure you’re okay.” He stroked her neck, her face. Her eyes rested on his, questioning. Something is different. Her voice. Her eyes. She gave in, nodded. Robert got out of bed, blew out all the candles. So much for wishes. He turned on the light in the hall, left the door ajar so he could see her. Then he climbed into bed again. She was shivering. He lay pressed against her, watching the smoke of the extinguished candles disperse in the narrow band of light from the hall.

“I love you, Robert,” she whispered. In the corridors of his memory doors were flung open and he almost knew-

He said, “I love you too-”

She brought her clumsy hand to his face, watching him; stretched out her index finger, and with great concentration and gentleness touched the tip of her finger to the indentation above his nose, stroked it down and over his lips, over his chin.

“-Elspeth.”

She smiled, closed her eyes, relaxed.

Robert lay with her in the dark, in his bed, as the knowledge and horror of what they had done spread before him.

Martin sat propped against the pillows, smoking. Julia lay pressed against him. “Sing,” she commanded. Martin stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. He sang, “Slaap kindje, slaap; Daar buiten loopt een schaap; Een schaap met witte voetjes; Die drinkt zijn melk zo zoetjes; Slaap kindje slaap.”

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“Mmm…‘Sleep, baby, sleep; there’s a little white sheep walking outside, it has little white feet and drinks sweet milk.’”

“Nice,” she said, and then she fell asleep.

J ULIA WOKE before dawn. Martin was sleeping curled away from her. She got up quietly, went to the bathroom, dressed. She slipped out of the flat and went downstairs, shed her clothes and put on a nightgown. She got into her own bed and stared at the ceiling. After some time, she got up and took a shower.

In the morning Elspeth woke up in Robert’s bed. She put her hand out, but he wasn’t there. Instead there was a note: I’ve gone to get breakfast. Back soon. R

Elspeth lay in bed exulting in the smooth feel of the sheets, the smell of Robert on her pillow mingled with the scents of candles and roses, the twittering of little birds and the sheer corporality of herself.

Everything hurt but she did not mind. Her joints ached, her blood was sluggish. Breathing was an effort, as though her lungs were full of half-set blancmange. So what? I’m alive! She struggled to sit up, became tangled in the bedding. She had an idea of what her limbs ought to do but they did not respond as she expected. Elspeth started laughing. The sound was harsh and had an underwater quality and she stopped. She managed to stand and walk a few steps, clinging to the side of the bed. When she got to the footboard she stood swaying, regarded herself in the mirror. Oh. Oh… There was Valentina. What did you expect? She imagined Valentina upstairs, alone and cold. I’m sorry. I’m sorry… She was not sure what she felt. An indecipherable mixture of triumph and remorse. She stared at her reflection that was not herself; this was a consummately impressive costume which she would now wear as her body. This body was young, but the posture and movements were like an old woman’s: hunched, lurching, cautious. Can I live like this? She put her hand over her heart, where her heart should be, then remembered and moved her hand to the right, found its slow beat. Oh, Valentina.

Elspeth let go of the bed. She staggered to the bathroom, meaning to take a bath. When she got there she lowered herself slowly to the floor, reached for the taps and turned them on with effort. It’s like the first days of being a ghost. I will get stronger. I just have to practise. Water gushed into the bathtub. She was unable to reach the plug, so it swirled down the drain. Finally she turned off the taps and sat on the cold tile floor, waiting for Robert to return.

After breakfast, Martin packed his suitcase. He didn’t put very much in it; he reckoned that either Marijke would spurn him and he would be back quite soon, or he wouldn’t manage to get there at all, so why should he burden himself with extra clothing? Perhaps Marijke would let him stay and neither of them would ever come back. Maybe Marijke had found someone else, and in that case Martin knew that he would prefer throwing himself into the Prinsengracht over returning home, alone. He packed lightly.

He moved through the flat, turning out lights, turning off the computer. The flat was strange to him; Martin felt as though he had not seen it for years, as though he was dreaming this unknown flat, this lost twin which somehow housed clones of all his stuff. There were the patches of sunlight coming through the windows where Julia had ripped off the newspaper. Martin held his hands out and the sunlight filled his palms.

When it was time to leave he stood at the door, one hand on the doorknob, the other clutching the handle of the suitcase. It’s perfectly fine. It’s only the stairwell. You’ve been there before. Nothing hideous has ever happened there. It is not necessary to count. Martin thought it might be good to bring some gloves, though. He went back, found a wad of surgical gloves, put them in his jacket pocket. Then he opened the door and stepped out onto the landing.

There. I’m out of the flat. Martin took stock of himself. A bit tight in the chest, but okay. He locked the door. Still all right. He began to lumber down the stairs with the suitcase. When he arrived at the first-floor landing he stopped, kissed his fingers and touched the door just above Elspeth’s name card. Then he continued on.

On the ground floor he knocked on Robert’s door. He heard Robert walk to the door and stand there, breathing. “It’s me,” Martin said softly. The door opened about an inch, and Martin could see Robert’s eye regarding him. It made him more nervous. The door opened and Robert silently gestured at him to come in. He did, pulling the suitcase along. Robert shut the door.

Martin was startled by Robert’s appearance. The change was indefinable, but extreme, as though Robert had been ill for months: his eyes were undershadowed by dark circles; he stood hunched as though in pain. “Are you all right?” Martin asked.

“I’m fine,” Robert said. He smiled. The effect was grotesque. Robert cleared his throat. “I’ve seen a few miracles in the last day or two, but this is perhaps the most gobsmacking of them all. Where are you going?”

“Amsterdam,” said Martin. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Robert said, “Everything’s under control. Does Marijke know you’re coming?”

“No,” said Martin. “But if you think back, she did actually invite me.”

“I’d love to see her face when she realises you’ve braved cabs, trains and buses for her. She’ll just swoon.” He smiled again. Martin suddenly, urgently wanted to get away. But he needed to ask a question first. He said, “Robert, do you know of any reason why I shouldn’t go?-has she-is she…?”

“No,” said Robert firmly, “I don’t believe she has. Or is.”

“Well, then…” There was a pause.

“Deep subject.”

Martin held out his hand. Robert shook it, then recognised his mistake when he felt Martin recoil. “Her address?” Martin requested.