Circle Nine (6 page)

I sit and read until I begin to grow cold and I have a hard time seeing the words anymore. Then I wander back inside. Sam is awake now. He slipped back inside without me noticing and is sitting on ground with his back against the bed, reading his own book. My note is crumpled in a ball beside him. When I walk in, he looks up quickly.

Didn’t you like it?
I ask, settling down next to him on the floor.

No. I mean yes, I liked it. But isn’t there anything else you think about, Abby?

Of course,
I say.

Like what?
His tone is rude and annoyed, and it hurts me. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.

I read your books. I think of what to do in the day.

Anything else?

Now I am getting mad.
Yes, Sam,
I say.
In fact, I do think of other things. I think back to a past I can’t remember. I think about what is so wrong with me that I can’t remember my own life. I think hard about why I feel pain instead of memories. I wonder all the time what has happened to me to make me like this. And I wonder why everything out there is evil, why I can’t leave, why I feel this fear, what you’re protecting me from.

When I am finished, he is silent for a while.

I suppose it’s easier to think of the things in your note,
he says.

Yes.
I nod.

He squeezes my forehead and kisses me on the shoulder.
Oh,
mija, he says.
You are such a little fawn. I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry for getting upset.

I bite my lip so I won’t feel the tears that want to come. I nod again.

It is morning. I wake with a headache from thinking and worrying about Sam’s reaction to my note. I woke up a few times in the night, and he was not in bed with me; the light was on, and he was busying himself with something on the couch. He is not in bed with me now, either. I feel as though I need hours more sleep, but when I try to close my eyes again, they pop open as if they’re controlled by taut little wires in my lids. I roll on my other side, toward Sam’s part of the bed. Where Sam should be, there is a stack of papers tied with a rope. I pick them up.

For the little fawn,
they read. My heart quickens. I thumb through the pages, twelve in all. And I glance over to where he lies, asleep again on the couch. This is what kept him up all night.

Darling
mija,
it begins.

It continues on with words and phrases that mirror my own thoughts. It is the single most romantic thing I may ever possess. I sit with it for over an hour; that is how long it takes me to finish it. When he wakes up, he looks over at me from the sofa, and our eyes meet. He comes to sit at the foot of the bed, looking disheveled and penitent. He looks at me and I look at him, and then he tucks me into his arms, and as usual, we do not need to say anything. It would take ten languages, not just one, to say aloud what we tell each other in one instant with our hearts.

Ever since I read Sam’s letter, the emotional things that once plagued me no longer do. I don’t wonder if he feels how I do anymore, and I know I was wrong for being worried. But it doesn’t change his moodiness, and he is still snapping at me from time to time. He seems dreamier, fatigued, and more eager to be left alone. And when he is awake, and we are together, the thing that frightens me is physical.

Sam no longer wants me the way I want him. I am forced to wonder as before if I am hideous or if part of me disgusts him. He kisses me and hugs me but never seeks me out in any other way. I am more confused than ever. Even now, as I lie next to him practically naked, or prance around the room in my underwear in the middle of the day, I don’t provoke more than a glance. He is so quiet, so secretive. Then at night he is restless. He is sweaty all the time, and sometimes he gets sick. I want to know his secrets. I don’t want to bother him, but I can feel the words bubbling out of me like a geyser. My willpower is not enough to stop them.

Sam?
I say, tentatively. I watch as he looks up from his novel and grits his teeth, already annoyed.

I just want to know what’s wrong,
I say.
I know there’s something.

I don’t know how many ways I can tell you that
nothing
is wrong.

I know, I know,
I hastily tell him.
It’s just that
 . . .

What?

You never touch me anymore.

You’re crazy. You’re making up problems.

It’s not true! You haven’t touched me in ages.

Stop exaggerating, Abby. I’m just busy.
He turns back to his book.

Busy what?
I say, angry myself now.
Busy reading? Busy with your friend Sid?

Stop it,
he tells me through gritted teeth.
Stop talking right now.

You can’t say that to me!
I shout. I’m feeling bold, so I press on.
Why are all of these other things in your life more important than me!

He rustles his book and slaps it down on the nightstand.

Well, Abby,
he says semisarcastically,
since you asked so nicely, I may as well tell you.

I wait, feeling ashamed of my outburst before he’s even begun to really talk.

You see,
he says.
I am out of my medicine. Sid will not give me my medicine because I am out of money. But you never worry your pretty head about those things, do you? Money? What’s that? You probably don’t know. Or maybe you think you have stacks of it sitting in that drawer next to you.

I am shocked. We have never talked like this before.

What is wrong with you, Sam?
I ask.
Why do you need medicine from Sid?

We all have our secrets, Abby,
he says.
I’d prefer if you don’t ask me about mine.
His words pierce me deep. We have never worried about money. Sam goes out and he brings things home, and that is that. He’s right that money has never crossed my mind. And now that I know why Sam’s been strange, I feel guilty and sorry. But most of all, distant. He has pulled away from me and there is nothing I can do, because the harder I fight to draw him close again, the further he goes.

Her hair is waist-long, and her body is a skinny vixen. She is sex.

Is she a whore?
I ask him.
Where did you find her?
I have never felt this fury.

Be nice,
Sam tells me as she glares.

Why should I?
I am angry. He was gone for hours, and now he comes back with
this,
like she is a beautiful exotic puppy he wants to make into his pet. I glare back at her.

She’s an old friend, Abby. She needs my help.

Didn’t take you very long,
she cuts in, eyeing me up and down.

I didn’t know,
Sam whispers short and quick, as if he doesn’t want me to hear.
You told me you were gone for good.

Turns out I’m not,
she says.
Well, you never could fend for yourself out here, isn’t that right?

Sam looks at the ground.
I didn’t plan for it,
he says.
But we’re all here now.

Thanks, anyway,
she tells him, and she turns to go.

No!
Sam grabs her wrist.
You’ll sleep there.
He gestures toward the other bed, the one I slept on my first two nights, before I began to share his.

That one. Of course.
She smiles again, like it’s a sad little joke. Then she nods and heads for the bed, falling asleep almost as soon as her thin frame touches it.

Sam ignores me for several minutes. This isn’t fair! I am confused and boiling over with angry panic. But I can’t stand it when we’re angry, so I whine.

How was I supposed to react, Sammy? This is our house!

This place is mine,
he says through gritted teeth.
Not yours.

I feel as if I have been punched. I want to throw up. How can he be so cruel? I curl onto our bed and cry bitterly. He storms back out of the cave.

Only now do I look at her starving frame. She is so frail, light enough to walk on water. She is beautiful, too. Her veins show through her skin. She’s shaking, so I stand up and pull the blanket around her shoulders. As I tuck it around her, I notice the dozens of scars that crisscross her wrists. New, pink scars layered upon old. I am frozen in horror. Her eyes pop open and she stares at me, and I stare back.

Thank you,
she whispers. Her eyes don’t match her wasted body.

When Sam comes back, I cajole him back to bed with me. He plays angry for a while; then finally, I feel his arm around me, and my panic subsides.

But not entirely. How will it be, now that there are three?