I see him consider this. I see him think about me, in her clothes, reading Ruth Rendell and Sherlock Holmes in peep toe bedroom slippers and calling him Hal, picnics in the woods, patiently waiting in our towering apartment for him to arrive home, excited to see him, jumping up, wrapping my legs around his waist. A lifetime of missionary positions and dinners determined by what Henry ate for lunch, or what day of the week it is. Me, being content with this. Obedient. Compliant. He wavers. I see it in the way the syringe wobbles in his hand.
“Hal.” I say it again, but softer, coy, and I avert my gaze. Demure. How I would act if I were truly submissive, try to channel this twin intuition I’ve seen on Oprah. Even think, for a crazy second, if she can see me or hear me, Give me a goddamn sign, Joanie. What would you do? “What if I could do this, we could be happy, couldn’t we? We were once, right? Remember, the day in the woods? The picnic, I wore that purple shirt? We made love against the tree?”
I take a chance here, remembering the force at which he pushed me against that tree, the bark gouging into the soft skin on my back. I think back through our marriage. All the moments of the highest intensity, sweetest romance: Paris, the rooftop. Washington Square Park. Were they all repeat performances? His attempt to revive Tara, relive his past? I’d venture yes, by the way his eyes cloud and narrow and he’s studying me, torn between his logic and his base-level desires. His face softens, loses an edge.
He shakes his head, says nothing. I continue, “Paris? Our honeymoon?” And here, he breaks a bit, I can see it. His eyes widen and his jaw slacks. Henry is a rational man, but he wants this. Most people forgo logic when faced with something impossible that they viscerally want. “Let’s go to Paris. Again. You and me. We’ll relive it. Again. This time for real. Hal and TJ,” I choke out, lower my voice, dip my chin to my chest, and whisper, “You can help me, Hal. Show me. How to act, I mean. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to take care of me.” I realize with a sickening jolt that it’s actually true.
He doesn’t speak, he simply backs out of the room, his hand clutched tight around the syringe, his knuckles and his face an identical shade of white. He doesn’t agree. Yet. But he will.
At the very least, I’m here, still chained, but clearheaded. All I have to do is wait.
? ? ?
“Hal. Hal.” I shake him, gently. It’s midnight, or later, I can’t tell. “I have to go.” He mumbles something against the pillow.
He hasn’t drugged me in a whole twenty-four hours. He avoids me, and this is either very good or very bad. He’s considering my offer. He hasn’t talked to me, but I chatter at him, rattling off every little thing I can think of that I saw in his boxes, on his corkboard. I talk about our wedding, my plate of scallops, the ornate centerpieces, how it was all just for us, which was the most romantic thing I’d ever seen. I pretend to swoon and I’m girly. Excited, even. We could reenact it. Renew our vows, in Paris! He pretends to ignore me.
It’s brass tacks time, I blather about whatever comes to mind, about all the things I might have said, if I had been myself, but completely and totally under his thumb, meek and in love with him. It’s not even hard, like my brain has blocked out the mental images that should come naturally. Remember that day on the boat? I vaguely remember a boat, I don’t even know if Tara was on it. He has yet to speak. I’m becoming one person in his mind, I can feel it in the way he looks at me when I say certain things and he’s not sure: Tara or Zoe? Or rather, even if he knows that we can’t possibly be the same person, he sees the possibility exist for the first time. That I could pretend this, and stay. That maybe if I did that, became his preferred reality, we could be happy the way he and Tara were happy.
I see him doubt his own sanity. But sometimes, I see the way he draws a breath, quick and sharp, and I know my wildly flung guesses are occasionally hitting bull’s-eyes. I just have to throw out enough of them.
I nudge him with my unchained hand. “Hal. Please. I don’t want to wet the bed again. Remember how mad you were?” I try not to remind him of Zoe, only Tara. I try to morph into her, but biology trumps psychology. I have to go to the bathroom.
He staggers up, grabs a key off the dresser, and without a word, unlocks me. He studies me as I use the toilet, and I even find myself wondering if Tara would do this, this way. I wash my hands. He clears his throat in the doorway, the bathroom low lit with the vanity bulb.
On the vanity sits a wide, flat candle. I slather the soap between my fingers and stare at it. It has three wicks. Five pounds? Maybe two? I don’t have a plan, I just have the vague formation of a plan.
I dry my hands completely—I don’t want them wet slick. I glance at Henry, who is studying the handcuff key. Waiting in his boxer shorts. He glances back toward the bedroom.
I pick the candle up, over my head, and bring it down, fast and hard, right on Henry’s forehead. The edge hits the bridge of his nose and blood explodes everywhere.
I think he screams. I don’t wait to see if he’s conscious or knocked out.
I just run.