Page 33 of We Live Here Now

32

Freddie

“It must be a different nail.” I’ve finally got a word in as she pauses for breath, her anger exhausted, after ranting at me like I’m some difficult child she needs to discipline.

“Because I pulled out the one you trod on.” I stay calm and reasonable, in part because one of us has to, and in part because I know it will irritate her more. “You saw me go up to do it. And it’s one o’clock in the morning, Em. Why are you ringing me now?”

I wasn’t asleep when she rang. I’d been on my phone, lost in the screen, tapping away despite all my promises to myself. Seeing her name come up out of the blue so late jolted me into such a guilty panic I almost didn’t answer.

“Because the nail is there.”

She’s sullen now, annoyed that I haven’t capitulated and apologized but too passive-aggressive to keep pushing. But in this instance I’ve got nothing to apologize for. “Don’t you believe me? Why would I lie?”

Lies, lies, lies. I don’t want to think about them. I haven’t lied , I tell myself. Not yet. But that doesn’t make me honest. I’d lie if she asked the right question. I’ll stop. I will. I have to.

I feel sick and dirty, and even her unusual anger isn’t tempering that. Maybe this is all part of the post-sepsis thing, and the grief from the miscarriage, because she’s never been a quick-to-rage person before and neither have I. I was angry with her when I burned the Ouija board, but now that I’m here, in Johnny from work’s spare room—I couldn’t stay with Mark and Iso after his probing questions—I can’t remember exactly why.

“If I hadn’t taken it out, I’d tell you. I’d have told you at the time. I mean, why would I lie about that? What would be the point?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, eventually and reluctantly. “If you say you got it out, then I believe you.” If you say… What she really means is I don’t believe you but let’s not argue anymore. She’s like that, Emily. She always likes to be right. I used to like it about her. Now it just irritates the shit out of me. I think back to what she said to Russell.

There are plenty of things about Freddie I used to find charming but now just annoy the shit out of me so much I could happily strangle him.

Yeah, well, that goes both ways, Emily.

“It’s this house,” she continues. “It freaks me out.”

“It’s just a house, Em. And a beautiful one.”

“Did you get a survey done? When you bought it?”

“Why?”

“There was an awful smell just now. It was like rotting meat. Coming from under the floorboards. Where the nail is. Anyway, it was so horrible I opened all the windows and was nearly sick.”

“If you’re thinking it’s the drains, get a plumber in.” I avoid the mention of the survey. I cut that corner, but there’s no need for her to know that.

“The windows all slammed shut. And the doors.”

“The house is on a hill on a moor. There’s always a breeze there.” My head is starting to ache and I want to sleep. I’ve got too much other shit to deal with.

“Yeah,” she says, defeated. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“There’s nothing else it could be.” She doesn’t say anything to that, and I realize what she’s thinking. I knew she’d believed in that Ouija board and I’m glad I burned it. “And please, for god’s sake, don’t tell me you think our new house is haunted.” I rub my hand across my face. And she had the nerve to talk to me like I was a child. “Think about it logically. You’ve been told that post-sepsis syndrome can affect your senses. Which is most likely, that or a ghost?”

“I guess.” She doesn’t sound convinced, but then she’s always had her beliefs in ghosts and mediums and the paranormal, as if that is somehow superior to wanting proof.

“Is this because of what the vicar said? About the house being built on a crossroads? The suicide victims buried under it?”

“No.” She’s indignant. “God, no. I wasn’t thinking about that. It’s just weird, that’s all. Weird shit happens here.” She’s getting irritated again.

“Do you want me to drive back now?” I ask. “I can if you want. I’m sure work will understand.”

“No, it’s fine,” she answers eventually. “You’re back tomorrow anyway.”

We say our good nights and hang up and I ignore the next notification that pings up, turn my phone to silent with Emily on cut-through, and put it on the other side of the room to avoid more temptation.

I have to stop. I will stop. This mess can’t get any bigger.

I imagine Emily alone in that big house, all the lights on, afraid, and then think about all the things those post-sepsis brochures talked about. Paranoia. Sensory hallucinations.

Maybe I should speak to Dr. Canning.