and went to the bathroom.
On the way back to bed, I found a bottle of water on the floor, knelt, and drank every last drop. I lifted myself onto the bed. Robin stirred. Her arm reached for me. I could see the book about pregnancy on her side of the bed. The spine of the book wavered in my tired mind until it became any number of book spines, and before I knew it, I was falling surely and fitfully asleep, with the image of Cozimo and his dusty bookstore spinning and swirling in my already dizzy head.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROBIN
When I woke on that snowy Sunday morning, I was immediately aware of what had gone between us the night before—my revelation and all that followed. In the quiet of the early morning bedroom, I lay there and thought about it, about what it would mean for us, about how things would be different now. It was as if the house itself felt changed. It seemed enveloped in a new calm. This house, with its ancient walls, its creaky floors, its shifts and moans, had always seemed to be a living, breathing thing. Sentient, almost. The life force of the previous inhabitants had seeped into the raw materials of the house, the sheen of their spirits adding another layer to the multiple layers of paint and varnish and the stains of generations. But on that early Sunday morning as I silently pulled back the covers and put my feet to the floor, I listened to the silence around me, and it was as if the breathing of the house had slowed, had grown easy. There were no creaks or moans as I got out of bed and padded across the floor, closing the door softly behind myself, leaving the room and Harry sleeping peacefully together.
Downstairs, I put the kettle on and looked about. I was taken with a new energy, a sense of urgency about my need to tackle the house. This restlessness rumbled about inside me as I walked from room to room, assessing the varying degrees of dilapidation and making a mental list of what needed to be done. I looked through the doorway that led into the garage, and in the half-light I could see the cold, quiet space that would soon become Harry’s studio. It seemed to be waiting for him to begin, and I thought of how this room would soon be transformed into a place of creativity, of art, and I pictured Harry working away in here, deep in concentration, a quiet contentment possessing him and seeping out to every corner of our home. I thought of this and felt a tingle of excitement pass through me: things were about to change.
The kettle whistled; I turned away, back toward the kitchen. I put a mug on the counter, and it was as I was pouring water over the tea bag that it came for me—that old memory, swooping down out of nowhere—and all at once I was standing once again in that tiny bathroom in Tangier.
* * *
It had been hot. Even in that room, the one cool spot in the apartment, the air had felt heavy and dull with heat. Outside, in the hallway, I could hear Harry pacing up and down. Every couple of minutes, his footsteps stopped and I knew that he was right there, right on the other side of the door, and that he was listening for me, for some clue as to what was going on. I had locked him out, had told him to wait, but his impatience and his barely contained excitement seemed to push up against the closed door. I could feel the insistence of it. Inside, I held myself very still, sweat gathering on my forehead and upper lip as I stared down at the white stick in my hand.
“Well?” he asked through the door. “Have you done it yet?”
His voice hit a nerve. Something inside me seemed to plummet.
“Just a minute,” I said, my voice thin and stretched.
I needed to compose myself.
I put the stick down and leaned against the sink. It felt cold to the touch. I would have liked, then, to lie down on the tiled floor and press my face and body to the cool ceramic. I was so tired I could have fallen asleep right there, right then, and maybe, when I woke, I would have found that everything
On the way back to bed, I found a bottle of water on the floor, knelt, and drank every last drop. I lifted myself onto the bed. Robin stirred. Her arm reached for me. I could see the book about pregnancy on her side of the bed. The spine of the book wavered in my tired mind until it became any number of book spines, and before I knew it, I was falling surely and fitfully asleep, with the image of Cozimo and his dusty bookstore spinning and swirling in my already dizzy head.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROBIN
When I woke on that snowy Sunday morning, I was immediately aware of what had gone between us the night before—my revelation and all that followed. In the quiet of the early morning bedroom, I lay there and thought about it, about what it would mean for us, about how things would be different now. It was as if the house itself felt changed. It seemed enveloped in a new calm. This house, with its ancient walls, its creaky floors, its shifts and moans, had always seemed to be a living, breathing thing. Sentient, almost. The life force of the previous inhabitants had seeped into the raw materials of the house, the sheen of their spirits adding another layer to the multiple layers of paint and varnish and the stains of generations. But on that early Sunday morning as I silently pulled back the covers and put my feet to the floor, I listened to the silence around me, and it was as if the breathing of the house had slowed, had grown easy. There were no creaks or moans as I got out of bed and padded across the floor, closing the door softly behind myself, leaving the room and Harry sleeping peacefully together.
Downstairs, I put the kettle on and looked about. I was taken with a new energy, a sense of urgency about my need to tackle the house. This restlessness rumbled about inside me as I walked from room to room, assessing the varying degrees of dilapidation and making a mental list of what needed to be done. I looked through the doorway that led into the garage, and in the half-light I could see the cold, quiet space that would soon become Harry’s studio. It seemed to be waiting for him to begin, and I thought of how this room would soon be transformed into a place of creativity, of art, and I pictured Harry working away in here, deep in concentration, a quiet contentment possessing him and seeping out to every corner of our home. I thought of this and felt a tingle of excitement pass through me: things were about to change.
The kettle whistled; I turned away, back toward the kitchen. I put a mug on the counter, and it was as I was pouring water over the tea bag that it came for me—that old memory, swooping down out of nowhere—and all at once I was standing once again in that tiny bathroom in Tangier.
* * *
It had been hot. Even in that room, the one cool spot in the apartment, the air had felt heavy and dull with heat. Outside, in the hallway, I could hear Harry pacing up and down. Every couple of minutes, his footsteps stopped and I knew that he was right there, right on the other side of the door, and that he was listening for me, for some clue as to what was going on. I had locked him out, had told him to wait, but his impatience and his barely contained excitement seemed to push up against the closed door. I could feel the insistence of it. Inside, I held myself very still, sweat gathering on my forehead and upper lip as I stared down at the white stick in my hand.
“Well?” he asked through the door. “Have you done it yet?”
His voice hit a nerve. Something inside me seemed to plummet.
“Just a minute,” I said, my voice thin and stretched.
I needed to compose myself.
I put the stick down and leaned against the sink. It felt cold to the touch. I would have liked, then, to lie down on the tiled floor and press my face and body to the cool ceramic. I was so tired I could have fallen asleep right there, right then, and maybe, when I woke, I would have found that everything
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