I suck in my breath; I can see Mark’s pupils widening as he takes in the sentences he wrote.
So this was what went through his mind that horrible, black morning when everything became just a little too hard to bear. Maybe regular diary keeping isn’t such a wearisome blight on human existence. I would never have realized Mark’s true feelings about me if he hadn’t immortalized them in his iDiary. I would never have understood the deep sorrow he has endured, how he has suffered because of me. My suspicions were right all along. He stayed because it would be more painful for him to leave. So did I. The cord that binds us will only tighten into a fatal noose if either of us tries to break it. This is why neither of us has left.
He sighs, probably realizing these facts himself.
“Let’s have a look at the second entry,” I say. My voice is soft, shot through with sudden understanding.
Mark obliges, clicking on the link. We crane our necks forward to study the result together:
7 July 2013
Claire looked pretty happy as she wandered along the white sand beach picking up seashells. It struck me, as I took in the cheerful upturn of her face at a distance, that we should definitely come to the Caribbean more often. The sun, sea, and salt air definitely do her good. My thoughts were interrupted by the abrupt arrival of an elderly woman in a fluorescent green swimsuit clutching a battered copy of On Death’s Door. While she must have been at least eighty, her eyes were lively and bright.
—I love your novels, Mr. Evans. I love the way you combine mystery with domestic noir.
You can’t escape fans of your work, not even in Nevis. We chatted about our favorite novels for ten minutes or so before she pointed to Claire with a smile.
—Your wife, I presume.
—Indeed.
—You must definitely love her.
Her statement took me by surprise.
—We all love our spouses, don’t we?
—Not in the way you do. It took me a long time to work out if you are indeed Mark Henry Evans. While you’ve been sitting on this blanket for just as long, staring at her with a worried look on your face. As if you might lose her or something.
—Ah, well…
—How do you show your wife that you love her?
—Er…I don’t know…I bring her roses, I guess. In different colors.
—Really? Do you use a color code or something? Different colors to mean different things?
—I do, actually. Crimson for “I’m sorry” and burgundy for “I’m really, really sorry.”
—What about pink?
—I don’t know. The first time I gave Claire roses, they were pink and white.
—The subliminal meaning is clear, then. If that was your first time giving her roses.
—Come to think of it, I gave Claire a lot of roses in those colors when we first met.
She winked and smiled at me, face creasing into an impressive set of wrinkles.
—It usually takes an outsider to see the obvious. You’ll figure out the meaning of pink and white someday.
I look up at Mark.
“I never realized the colors meant something,” I say. “Twenty years and I haven’t worked this out.”
“I still don’t know what pink and white means,” he says, looking a little sheepish as he clicks on the third and final link:
14 September 2013
I walked in through the front door only to be greeted by a delirious Nettle and a beaming Claire.
—I missed you, Mark. It’s a shame you had to spend yesterday night in London.
I flung my coat onto a hook before walking in the direction of the kitchen, not daring to meet her eyes.
—Did you take your pills yesterday?
—I did. I feel all right today. I really did miss you. I’m making your favorite rabbit stew.
I wasn’t sure if I could trust my voice, but I felt compelled to say something in response.
—Oh, Claire. You didn’t have to. I feel bad for…er…missing the last train back to Cambridge yesterday.
And I felt twice as bad when I walked into the kitchen and took in the rich, piquant smell of rabbit and bay leaves rising from the pot simmering on the stove. The secure, comforting aroma of daily domesticity. A huge contrast to the scented magnolia candles that perfumed room 261 of the Kandinsky yesterday night. Mingled with the musky bergamot that woman had sprayed liberally onto her wrists and neck.
The smell of lust.
If magnolia and bergamot are the smell of lust, could rabbit and bay leaves be the smell of love?
It must be. It can’t be anything else. Rabbit and bay leaves in the kitchen fill a man’s stomach. But they also nurture his soul. They keep him going, both literally and figuratively, whether he realizes it or not. Maybe this is why I instinctively come home to my wife each day, much like a homing pigeon, despite the terrible things that have happened. (NTS: I should learn and retain this fact.) And that’s why I feel guilty as hell: how could I be cheating on Claire? How could I?
Our eyes meet again. Mine are soft, dewy. Because something has just melted away in my heart. Jealousy and resentment made it brittle a long time ago. But newly found understanding is driving away the angst, the bitterness, my long-held factual misconceptions about Mark.
My hands are still covered with blood. I never will be able to wash them clean, no matter how hard I try. My soul is flooded with grief, horror, and guilt. Terrible guilt. Yet something might just mend my heart by the tiniest of a fraction, making everyday life a little more bearable.
Not just something. Someone.
My husband, the man who never left my side. The only problem was, we never really found each other in the first place. Not in the way we just did over the past hour. But it may already be too late.
I sigh.
“So tell me, Mark.” My voice is a whisper. “What happened to Sophia in the end? How did she die?”
I have never understood Virginia Woolf. There, I’ve finally admitted it. Maybe I’m so intrigued by her because I don’t understand her. Or maybe I’m just morbidly fascinated by how the spiral of darkness within her soul eventually led her to the swirling eddies of the River Ouse.
—Diary of Mark Henry Evans
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mark
My wife’s question lingers in the air. Silence coats my lips. Why have my words suddenly dried up? Maybe it’s the shock of realizing that lust has blinded me to the troublesome realities of love, to the bittersweet complexities of our marriage, to my true feelings about Claire. It’s amazing how old diary entries can take on new meaning years later, when viewed in the distilled light of the present day. And it’s staggering how myopic I have been to the truths about us.
A couple divided by memory yet forced by responsibility to the altar. But we were never truly obliged to remain with each other despite our vows. We both stayed because we wanted to, deep down inside. Because we have always been bound by the silken yet solid thread of willing self-sacrifice, despite the pain it has brought us.
Because any other alternative is worse.