Page 35 of We Live Here Now

34

Freddie

Emily’s car is in the driveway but the house is quiet— and freezing, why is it always so bloody cold? —so I light a fire in the sitting room and then get the tools from under the sink to see about this nail. Now that I’m back in Larkin Lodge, I feel my irritation with her returning. How many nails can possibly be sticking out of our floor? And why was she so quick to disbelieve me?

She probably hasn’t forgiven me for burning that Ouija board. I’ve been feeling a bit bad about calling Dr. Canning and not telling her, but that guilt is vanishing. After all, she was going on about bad feelings and smells. The doctor needed to know. Also, I’m starving after work, and I wasn’t expecting a three-course meal or anything, but I thought she might have at least thrown some pasta in a pan or be here to welcome me.

The irritation is like bees buzzing in my head. I don’t know where it’s come from and it’s not like me, but I can’t shake it off. And it certainly isn’t helped by what I see—or more accurately, what I don’t see—when I get to the middle landing.

It’s only as I swear out loud in a burst of annoyance that there’s the rustle of bedclothes and she appears, still in pajamas, in the doorway. I look up at her, surprised.

“Have you been in bed all day?”

“I was exhausted.” She’s barely awake but glances down at her watch. “You’re home early.” She gives me a half smile, but then it falters, my irritation obvious.

“What’s the matter?”

“Look.” I point down at the floorboard. At a single tiny spot on the floorboard. At the small hole tinged at the edges with a stale red. The hole where the nail used to be.

“I told you I’d taken it out,” I snipe as she follows my gaze. “I don’t know what you saw, but it wasn’t that nail. In fact”—I scan across the rest of the hall to double-check—“there are no nails.”

She frowns. “There has to be. I saw it.” She flinches as she tries to crouch, awkward and obviously in pain with her leg. Her eyes dart across the wood. “It was there. It was.”

Her sudden insecurity—her terrified self-doubt—gives me a flash of victory. Not always right, are you, Emily?

“It doesn’t matter, Emily.” I’m softer. “Maybe it was a splinter you saw. It was the middle of the night.”

“It was the nail. It was right there.” She looks up at me, suspicious. “Did you take it out? Just now?”

“Of course I didn’t.” My irritation rises again. “Look, it was probably just a trick of the mind. Dr. Canning says—”

“You called him, didn’t you? He rang this morning, asking questions about if my senses were working properly.”

“I was worried about you, that’s all. I was going to tell you.” An icy draft slinks like a cat around my legs. No wonder it’s always so fucking freezing in here. “I’m your husband, Emily. I’m allowed to worry. And he’s not just your doctor. I spent days with him by your bedside. Days and weeks you don’t remember. I have a relationship with him. He helped me too.”

She can’t argue that and instead shrinks back toward the bedroom door, as if afraid of my snippy tone. Always the wounded party. “But honestly, Emily. What’s more likely? That you imagined the nail due to your post-sepsis, or that I snuck up here when I got home to quickly take it out before you woke up? Do you want to check my pockets?”

She doesn’t answer but looks down once again at the tiny hole in the wood. “I don’t understand it, because it was definitely there. And there was that awful smell.”

It’s so typical of Emily to never admit she could be wrong even when all the evidence points that way, but there’s no point in continuing to argue with her. I soften my tone. I’m freezing, and I want to get down beside the fire to warm up with a nice glass of wine. I’ve got enough bullshit on my plate to sort out.

“There’s no smell now, is there?” I reach out and touch her arm.

“No. But there was one.”

“I’ll take a look under the floorboards tomorrow if you want.” The smell is the clearest indication that she’s been having a post-sepsis syndrome moment, but I’m not going to spell that out. She must know it even if she won’t admit it.

“And as for the doors and windows slamming shut, it must have been the draft that’s always coming through. No wonder I’m always freezing.”

“Maybe we should go upstairs and check the rooms there. See if that’s where the draft is coming from.” She’s almost hopeful as she looks at me. “Or the smell.”

“Not tonight, Em. There’s no smell now, and I’m shattered. Why don’t you have a bath?”

She opens her mouth as if she’s about to push it, but then doesn’t. Finally she nods. “Okay. And thanks.” I guess she wants a truce too.

She’s still concerned, glancing down at the floorboard, not trusting herself, but she looks up at me, grateful and nodding, and I have a pang of how scary it must be for her to not trust her own senses. And then I’m awash with guilt again. I’ll stop , I think as I head to the bathroom, happy to warm my cold hands under the hot water tap for a bit as the bath runs. I’ll stop tonight.

But first I need to get by the fire and get rid of this awful cold in my bones.