Page 7 of We Live Here Now

6

Freddie

What the hell has she been doing?

The footprints run from the top of the stairs to our bedroom door, and even in the gloom of the night they’re distinct, clear marks of toes and soles, a ghostly dark gray against the wood. I yawn, shivering, having been in the depth of a dark sleep when noises woke me, and crouch to look closer. Each print is made from a thick layer of dust. Did Emily knock over the ash bucket in the sitting room? Maybe she couldn’t sleep and went down for a cup of tea and knocked it over and then trod in it. She’s clumsier than she was, unsteady on her feet.

Unsteady on her feet. That makes me think of that day, of watching her fall, and I shiver some more. I should feel worse about what happened and what came after. But I don’t. Maybe I am a truly terrible person. A monster.

There’s a wash of yellow coming from under the bathroom door on the other side of the landing, and when the sound of a toilet flushing doesn’t come, I don’t go downstairs to put the heating back on as I was planning but go to check on her. The door’s not locked—and Emily always locks the door if she’s using the toilet—so I push it open, and for a moment I can’t bring myself to speak, taking in the sight. She’s sitting on the floor, pressed against the wall, and she looks like a madwoman, or someone from a horror movie, her hair hanging over her face as she stares intently down at the sole of her foot.

Something about the image both unsettles me and gives me a sense of relief. She looks terrified and panicked, as if something on her foot is going to harm her, and I realize that while Emily might not be fully better yet, all the worries she’s left the hospital with might buy me some time. Maybe it will be good for me if she stays messed up for a little bit longer. There’s no real harm in it, after all.