Chapter 15

FIFTEEN

Sabella

My husband runs hot and cold.

It's his nature.

Jekyll and Hyde.

He changes so fast from one extreme to another it gives me whiplash. In one instant, he tells me he committed unspeakable sins to tie me to him in marriage. In the next, he pushes me away. He doesn't even trust me enough to let me be there for the kids during the funeral. I know how tough funerals can be. I know how much a supporting hug and a shoulder to lean on can help.

I don't want it to bother me, but it does. When he saved that puppy, I saw a different side of him. After what he just told me, I can't remain unaffected. He's no less effective in breaking down the walls I put up around me than in destroying me.

My compliance obviously doesn't please him. I don't even know why I considered that my obedience would give us a measure of peace. We're not his parents. We're not a fairy tale. We're two very different people.

At first, I kneeled to fight for peace. Then I kneeled to keep the peace. Finally, I kneeled to maintain the status quo, to feel nothing and to remind myself that my husband will always be a monster and that there's nothing worth saving here.

I saw it a long time ago, that he didn't like to see me in that humiliating position at his feet. I thought then I could salvage something from the wreckage of our lives, but he proved me wrong. So I went back to who we were, back to kneeling.

And then today, he denies me a part of the children's lives in one breath and tells me in the other not to kneel as if the act offended him. He told me that right after he near-suffocated me in lust that my kneeling inspired.

I don't know what to think anymore. When he behaves so unpredictably, I don't know what to expect. The only choice I have is to obey him in his presence and to defy him in secret. It's become my double life. And as I get ready the following morning, I know that at some point, it has to blow up in my face. I'm not na?ve enough to believe I can get away with my pretend life in the village forever. In the distant or near future—I'm betting the little money I earned on the latter—someone has to let something slip. I may run into him. Somebody with good or bad intentions may make a comment. Yesterday wasn't that day. If I'm lucky, today won't be either. Until my luck lasts, I'll live the life I carved out for myself here. The contact with other people keeps me sane. It gives me a sense of belonging. Without the diversion, I'll go crazy.

I like to believe I made friends in the village. So I put on my coat and slip out to the hidden path. When I arrive at the old mill, Mr. Martin is all toothy smiles.

"Why don't you finish an hour early today?" he says, leaning in the doorframe of the kitchen while I'm mopping the floor. "Me and some friends are having a drink on the square. You should join us."

Not looking up from my work, I smile. "That's kind, but I can't."

He chews on his pipe. "Why not? Are you pregnant after all?"

I lift my head quickly. My cheeks heat. Mrs. Campana no doubt told everyone I bought a pregnancy test. It's a small village. News travels fast.

His level stare holds no judgment or malice. He's just being honest, and I appreciate that he's not pretending he doesn't know.

"Not yet." I don't feel different. There are no signs, no nauseousness or tiredness. I'm fairly certain I'm not pregnant, but it's still too early to use the test. "Just in case, I'm not touching alcohol until I'm sure."

"You can have juice."

I continue mopping.

"Or water," he adds. "Come on, it'll do you good. A few of us are going to play pétanque. You can be on my team. It's always the winning team."

"Thanks, but I better get home."

"I'm not taking no for an answer." He points the pipe at me. "You're coming with me. It'll cheer you up good."

Pausing, I sigh. "I'm fine."

"I'm an old man. I've seen many things in my life, and I've learned to pay attention. You haven't been yourself for the last few days." He walks over the clean floor, leaving footprints on the shiny surface, and places a hand on my arm. "Don't you worry now. It'll all work out. You'll see. A babe isn't the end of the world."

It's not only the consequences of being pregnant that worries me, but I only say, "Thanks," and blink away the tears that well up in my eyes because of his kindness.

"It's settled then." He sticks his pipe back in his mouth and says around the mouthpiece, "Finish up in here so we can go."

A few minutes later, Mr. Martin and I arrive at the square. A few people are gathered around the benches under the plane trees, but there's no sign of anyone playing pétanque.

"Here," he says in an eager voice, grabbing my arm and digging his bony fingers into my bicep as he drags me closer to the group. "Let's say hello to everyone."

Antoinette and Corinne are there, as well as Mrs. Campana and a few familiar faces from the market. They all seem to be bouncing on the balls of their feet with excitement.

"Here she comes," Antoinette whispers none too softly to Corinne, nudging her with an elbow.

I look between them. "What's going on?"

Antoinette claps her hands and utters a squeal.

"We have a surprise for you," Mr. Martin says loud enough to make my ears ring. He winks at Mrs. Campana.

"A surprise? For me?"

Antoinette waves a few people closer. "Come on."

The small crowd part to reveal a giant gift-wrapped object propped up against a tree.

"For me?" I say again. "Why?"

Antoinette takes my elbow and pushes me toward the tree. "Go on then. Open it."

I stare at them before going closer.

An out-of-sync chorus of, "Open it," sounds at my back.

I can't help but being curious as well as a little apprehensive. I never liked surprises, but their excitement is contagious. The group form a circle around me and fall quiet as they wait with silent expectation for my reaction.

I grip the paper at the top and rip it down the middle to reveal the framework of a bicycle.

I gasp. "You got me a bicycle?"

"Don't get too excited now," Mrs. Campana says. "It's a second-hand one. Mr. Martin reconditioned it." She adds with pride, "We all clubbed in. When he said he was going to recycle it, I said you may find a better use for the old bike."

Gratitude finally makes my tears spill over.

"It's so you don't have to walk so far," she continues. "If you're pregnant."

I wipe away the wetness on my cheeks. "I may not be."

"Doesn't matter," Mrs. Campana says. "It's too far for a young woman to walk alone. Not to mention, it'll be boiling hot in summer."

"Look," Corinne says. "It's electric. It's got a battery. It's an off-road too."

I tear the rest of the paper away, emotions clogging up my throat. "I don't know what to say."

Antoinette puts an arm around my shoulders. "You'll just have to find a place to hide it from your husband."

"Maybe in the forest," someone suggests. "Ain't no one around to steal it anyways."

"Nah," someone else says. "It's better to leave it under a bush next to the river. All she has to do then is walk the last few hundred meters to the house."

"She can charge it here at the village at one of our houses or at the pharmacy."

I take in the shiny blue bike. They went to a lot of effort in restoring it. It looks brand-new. "I don't know how to thank you."

"You just pedal that bike," Mr. Martin says. "That's all the thank-yous we need."

As I hug each of them, I can't help but feel a little more at home in this foreign country.

An elderly lady dressed in a colorful patchwork coat and a knitted beanie hobbles toward our group. She takes my hand in her weathered one and says in a croaky voice, "Let me read your palm. I can tell your future for ten euros."

I don't believe in fortune telling, but I take a bill from my pocket and hand it to her.

"Go away, Josette," Mrs. Campana says. "Don't bother Sabella. Can't you see we're in the middle of something?"

"That's all right," I smile at Josette. "She's not bothering me."

"God bless you." Josette shoves the money down the front of her sweater under her coat and takes my hand again. Drawing me closer, she whispers in my ear, "You're near the end of the road." Then she lets me go and shuffles away with a cackle before crying out, "The end of the road. The end of the road."

"Don't mind her." Antoinette leans closer and lowers her voice. "The poor thing isn't right in the head." She taps her temple to stress the point.

"Although, my goldfish did die when she said it would," Mrs. Campana says.

Mr. Martin waves his pipe. "All goldfish die if you keep them in a glass bowl the size of my teacup."

Mrs. Campana lifts her chin and says in a haughty tone, "It wasn't the size of your teacup."

The glint in his eyes is mischievous. "Ah, but you haven't seen my teacup."

The group breaks out in laughter. Mr. Martin nudges me with an elbow and winks.

I'm surprised to see the grocery store owner, Mr. Luciani, appear with a tray of soft drinks. He always acts a little cool toward me.

After drinking the fizzy orange drink that Antoinette insists I finish, I head home with my new bike. Instead of hiking for two hours, it takes me under an hour to return. I'm home long before sunset. As always, I follow the path next to the river to the beach. There, I hide the bike under a bush and continue on foot.

I climb up the stone steps and reach the house without incident. I'm always nervous when I sneak out or in, worried that someone will see me.

In the kitchen, I fill a glass with water from the tap and down it. I'm on my second glass, staring at the stunning view through the window, when I hear a soft, brittle sound like when a leaf hits the ground in autumn. I look at the vase with the forever roses. I brought them from the lounge to a sunny spot on the counter where the blooms catch the morning light. One of the deep-green leaves lies on the counter.

It's a meaningless sign. The stem of the leaf could've been bent or broken during the transport. I'm not superstitious, but I nevertheless feel uneasy as I pick up the perfect green leaf and rub the silky texture between my fingers. Remembering that the flowers are treated with chemicals to prevent them from aging, I gently place the leaf in the trashcan, giving it a quiet burial, and wash my hands.

With time to spare before dark, I wander down the gravel road and climb up the hill where the violets grow wild. I pick a few of the purple blooms and continue to the graveyard. The gate is secured with a chain and a combination lock. The new additions are obviously meant to keep uninvited visitors like me out.

A chill runs through me when I recall my last visit and how my husband and I left without closing the gate. Someone removed the dead flowers and placed fresh ones on the graves. They're not wildflowers like mine but elegant shop flowers—white lilies and lilac roses. I stretch my arm over the fence and scatter my much humbler offering over the soil, feeling that same deep sense of sadness I felt the first time I came here. I experience it stronger now that I can put Adeline and Teresa's faces to their names. They're only vague pictures in my mind, the memory I constructed from that one time I saw their photos already fading, but it doesn't make the sorrow less potent.

I think about Sophie, Johan, étienne, and Guillaume. They're so young. How are they coping with the funeral?

Someone else is dead now, and he won't be laid to rest here. Where will Angelo bury me? In this private little graveyard? Or does he reserve a separate plot for family who aren't blood relatives? Will he banish me even after death?

The thought haunts me all the way home, not because I give a damn about what he'll do with my body when I'm dead. For all I care, he can throw it into the sea. It bothers me because I can't shake off the feeling that the dead leaf on a bouquet of roses that's supposed to last a lifetime was a sign.

Josette's words ring in my head.

I've reached the end of the road.

It's time to make a decision.

Kneeling to simply keep the peace without truly submitting is never going to cut it. Our kind of relationship doesn't allow for sitting on the fence. Either I'm with Angelo, or I'm not. And once I've made my choice, I'll have to throw myself wholeheartedly behind that decision. There's no place for gray in Angelo's black-and-white world.