The Silent Wife (25 page)

The other component of his terror is the thought that this would not be happening unless there were a deeper underlying
condition, such as the HIV that he no doubt has. He needs to face up to the HIV because he's come to see that it's the only plausible explanation for his lesion. When the immune system fails it's like pipes going dry—there's an end to the rinsing and lubrication, and things start to grow in the dim, dank places—fungus, for example. In biology, fungus is a kingdom unto itself, a documented land of rot and decay, a place for yeasts and moulds and spores and every manner of thing that grows in the dark, a fairy tale gone wrong.
In the Kingdom of Fungi there once lived a little spackle spot named Thrush who made a home for himself in the mouth of…

He goes for the antifungal lozenges in his desk drawer, shakes one out of the packet, puts it in his mouth, and holds it in the pouch of his cheek, but he knows that it's a stopgap at best, that it won't reverse the conditions that enabled Mr. Thrush to set up house in the first place, won't breathe a fighting spirit into his mucous membranes, won't prime the pump of his immune system, won't stop the diabolical itching. Is this his punishment for what he's doing to Jodi? If he were Catholic, if he'd stuck to the path, he could go to confession and ask God's forgiveness. And he would, too, because he's sorry, he really is, but how then would he go on with his life? What changes could he make that would set things right? He can't leave Natasha now, not while she's pregnant, and keeping up two households is not within his means. He's trying to live his life as best he can, wants to do what's right, and yes, he's made mistakes, but you can't say that he's not a good person, that he's without a conscience, that he doesn't try to be the best that he can be. He's a
generous man, damn it. He's just not as rich as everyone seems to think he is. And he's a good man, too, a man who doesn't hold grudges or kill insects, a man who spends money on water-saving toilets even though big industries in this country waste more water every day than his toilets will save in a lifetime.

He slows his pacing, comes to a tentative halt, clasps his hands together, holds his breath, waits and endures. The deception is that, if you scratch it, the itch will go away. Isn't that how it normally works? But this is no ordinary itch, and only through resistance will he ride it out and cross the bridge to sanity and peace. There. You see? It's subsiding now to a feeble tremor, the dying vibration of a stringed instrument, the quivering of a leaf, the purring of a kitten. But this is when the deception arises again in force, the notion that it's just a little itch that needs scratching, and the urge to scratch it is overwhelming. He's on his knees now, head bowed, tears splashing onto the granite tile, begging God for the will to endure. And then all at once and without formality it's over, gone as it began, suddenly and unannounced.

He stands up feeling like a ghost, runs a hand through his hair, breathes into his abdomen, circles the room, comes back to his desk, and picks up the phone to call Natasha.

The slump they've fallen into—he's willing to concede that it all comes down to him. He needs to relax and take a longer view. What he tends to overlook these days is his son. His son is of course ever present in the form of his mother's distended abdomen and volatile moods, but what he needs to bear in mind is his-son-the-person, the unique individual with fingers and
toes and a God-given (if microscopic) shooter, as he saw with his own eyes in swirling, grainy black-and-white at the radiology clinic. He would have been okay with a daughter—this is not a time to split hairs—but the fact is he has a son, and his son is the future, the forward momentum, the paradox whose birth will put an end to the fighting and commotion. His son, when he arrives, will bring them to their knees.

And Natasha will be different with a baby to look after. Her focus will shift from him to the needy infant. He's looking forward to that, but in the meantime the least he can do is make an effort to be more tolerant and more compliant, because basically she can't help herself. The fact is she's a bubbling sea of hormones with instincts out of control driving her to fight for the best nest and exclusive rights to the male provider. What she's going through may be a form of temporary insanity, but the last thing he wants is to thwart or obstruct her, given that her purpose is also his purpose. He's been premature in asserting his rights as a free agent—he sees that now. What he needs to do is tell her he loves her and ask her to come home.

25

HER

Finding buyers online is easier than she thought it would be. There's a thriving market out there for the items she has to sell; in fact, people are practically lining up for the chance to meet her at the Art Institute or the Crystal Gardens and count out their bills in exchange for her wares. In order to conduct her business she has to leave her home unattended, but it must be done, and as it turns out she enjoys the outings immensely, revels in the icy winds that make her eyes tear up, the smell of food venting out of restaurant kitchens, the sight of strangers milling around in public spaces, starved as she is for any kind of sensory input.

In the beginning there was a problem with authentication. The e-mails people sent in response to her ads included comments
like:
I love the ring but how do I know it's real? The painting could be a fake. What if there's a problem? Can I have your number?
But as it turns out there are plenty of people who are not concerned. Maybe they're jewellers or dealers or experts of one kind or another. She doesn't know because she doesn't ask.

Sharing her e-mail address, meeting her customers face to face—these are risks she can't avoid, and she compensates by dressing in an old anorak and woollen toque that belong to Todd. The semidisguise completes her sense of drama. While loitering near Magritte's
On the Threshold of Liberty
on the third floor of the modern wing watching for a man with a chevron moustache, or sitting on a bench by the high-arching fountains keeping an eye out for a woman in red leather gloves, she thinks of herself as someone who is playing a role, a character on a stage. The acting is a diversion. All she has to do is collect her money; she doesn't have to think about what the money is for. And when she gets back home she adds it to the growing stash in the black leather Louis Vuitton briefcase—a gift to Todd that he never used—pleased with the way it's adding up.

She expects that Alison will ask for a deposit but ends up giving her the total payment up front. That's how Alison wants it, and Alison is the best friend she has right now. Anyway the money means nothing. It might as well be play money, Monopoly money. The items she has traded for it never enter her mind. Somewhere along the way they lost their hold on her, became uninteresting in themselves, significant only in terms of their purchasing power. She has even lost her regard for the briefcase except as a container for her funds. When she pays Alison
she throws in the briefcase without giving it a second thought.

Now that she knows how to get cash, she worries less about the immediate future, a timely development as it turns out, because the day after she closes the deal with Alison, Stephanie calls to say: “I wanted to tell you, Mrs. Gilbert—I thought you should know—that he's cancelling your credit cards.”

“I see,” says Jodi. “Well then. Is he really?”

“Yes. All of them.” Stephanie's tone is low and urgent, the way people talk when they're sharing secrets. “I thought I should warn you so, you know, you're not caught off guard. Please don't tell him I called.”

Unexpectedly, Jodi finds this funny. It hasn't occurred to Todd that two can play at this game. In any case she has a credit card of her own, ironically one that she's mainly used to buy him gifts over the years. The Louis Vuitton briefcase, for instance, although it was not among her more extravagant offerings. One year on his birthday she bought him a horse and riding lessons. Just an idea of hers. She thought it would give him a break from work, get him outside for some fresh air and exercise. He was keen at first but of course it didn't last.

When she puts the phone down she does a little dance of exultation, but her mood eventually fizzles, and in the end she is left with the pettiness of cancelled credit cards beside the magnitude of the scheme that she has set in motion, the unspeakable future event that she has summoned up and paid for. Voices within are telling her to reconsider while there's still time, but she's caught in a sense of destiny unfolding, a reluctance to
retrace her steps. It's in the back of her mind that she's crossed a line, that she should seek help, and she thinks of Gerard—she could look him up. But she waves the thought of him away. Gerard is undoubtedly retired and living in Florida or Mexico, and besides, what could he possibly do for her now? She should have stuck with him when she had the chance, allowed her therapy to run its course, come to its natural conclusion.

He was good at his job; there was never any doubt about that. It was Gerard who opened her eyes about Ryan, brought her to terms with reality, ended her habit of quarrelling with facts. Only because of Gerard did she accept in the end that Ryan was going to live his own life in his own way, that his choices were his to make, that what she wanted for him—the material security, the personal advancement—were worthy ambitions but not his ambitions, that her misgivings about him were founded in judgments, that to judge others was to willfully do them harm. Respecting differences, she gathered, went beyond simply making allowances; it meant giving up your blinkered perspective, your assumption that you are necessarily right and others necessarily wrong, that the world would be a better place if everyone thought as you did.

She had to be given credit, and Gerard was lavish with his praise. He applauded her willingness and perspicacity, commended her for challenging herself and implementing change. This was unexpected progress, given that before she'd come to Gerard she hadn't thought she had a problem because in her mind Ryan was the problem.

With this achievement under their belts Jodi and Gerard
moved on with renewed energy. They talked endlessly about her childhood, how it felt to be the girl in the middle, the fact that her parents had expected less of her, the way she had defied them by excelling at school and proving herself as both a professional and a homemaker. There was no denying that she had a competitive streak. They talked about the traits she had taken from each of them: from her mother a love of domesticity, from her father a devotion to method and detail. She was more the product of her family of origin than she had ever supposed.

Her sessions were engaging, even enjoyable, but she began to suspect that her insights into her relationship with Ryan were destined to be the apotheosis of her work with Gerard, that there was nothing of any significance left to accomplish. Accordingly, she grew restless, even a little bored, and expressed to Gerard her feeling that she was wasting his time. Privately, she began to fear that she was shallow, tragically lacking in any real depth or substance. It came to the point where she could almost wish she'd had a horrible childhood, an abusive father, an alcoholic mother. What she wouldn't have given on some days for a history of depression or anxiety, an eating disorder, low self-esteem, mood swings, panic attacks. If only she stuttered or compulsively washed her hands. She wasn't even a procrastinator. As the weeks went by, her stasis became the subject of banter. She would arrive for her session and say, “Doctor, I love my life and I'm happy. What should I do?” And Gerard would reply, “Don't worry. I know the cure.”

And then came the turning point.

It was not a propitious-seeming day, hardly a day that held
out any hope of progress. Outside the consulting room it was spring and there were blossoms on the trees, but inside Jodi was wearing a cardigan over a pullover to fend off the air-conditioning, and Gerard was a little off his game, lacking his usual focus. They'd been jumping from one topic to another, unable to come up with anything of interest, and as the session neared its end they were flagging. She figured they were done. It was time to go home. And then, in a valiant last-ditch effort, Gerard inquired about her dreams.