Amelia

AMELIA

Adam heaves the rickety trapdoor open. A set of stone steps lead down, and he doesn’t hesitate.

“Be careful,” I call after him, and he laughs.

“Don’t worry, I think a lot of old chapels have crypts. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? Unless it is a secret dungeon, containing the rotting corpses of the last people who stayed here. That would at least explain the smell.”

I stay where I am, but listen to the sound of his footsteps until he disappears from view. The torchlight flickers, then goes out.

Everything is silent.

I realize that I’m holding my breath.

But then Adam swears, and a light comes on down below.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yes, just bumped my head on the low ceiling when the torch died. Probably needs new batteries. But I’ve found a light switch, and I’m pleased to report that there are no ghosts or gargoyles down here, just racks full of wine!”

Adam emerges like a triumphant explorer, with a smile and a dusty bottle of red. I manage to find a corkscrew and—even though neither of us are wine snobs—we take a sip and conclude that 2008 was an excellent year for Ribera del Duero. Some people say that marriage is like wine and gets better with age, but I guess it all depends on the grapes. There are definitely years that were more pleasurable than others, and I’d have bottled them if I could.

I start to relax once I’ve had a glass and we have eaten. The frozen chicken curry was surprisingly tasty after being blasted in the microwave, and I can feel myself begin to unwind as we drink our wine in front of the fire, in the lounge that is more like a library. The comforting hiss and crackle is hypnotic, and the flames seem to skip and sway, casting shadowy patterns all around the room full of books.

The storm outside has stepped up another gear. The snow is still falling and the wind is now wailing, but it’s warm enough on the sofa in front of the fire. Bob is gently snoring on the rug at our feet and, maybe it’s the tiredness from the journey, or the wine, but I feel strangely … content. My fingers walk toward Adam’s—I can’t remember the last time we touched each other—but my hand stops short, as if scared of getting burned. Affection is like playing the piano and you can forget how to do it without practice.

I can feel him staring but continue to look down at my hands. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me? Blurred features? A familiar but undefinable outline of a person? Do I just look the same as everyone else to him?

Ten years is a long time to be married to someone you forget.

I haven’t been completely honest with him about this weekend away. I haven’t been completely honest about a lot of things, and sometimes I think he knows. But I tell myself that isn’t possible. We’ve tried date nights, and marriage counseling, but spending more time together isn’t always the same as spending less time apart. You can’t get this close to a cliff edge without seeing the rocks at the bottom, and even if my husband doesn’t know the full story, he knows that this weekend is a last attempt to mend what got broken.

What he doesn’t know, is that if things don’t go according to plan, only one of us will be going home.