Page 51 of Hex House
“It’s okay if you’re talking to her.”
“It was just my niece.”
Siobhan looks at the clock above the fridge. It’s ten thirty in the evening. “You know, Iwantyou to talk to her. It was my idea.”
“Siobhan.” He sets down his plate. “We can’t talk about this. I could… I could get into trouble, you know. I could lose my job.”
“Only if you’re doing something wrong. Only if you’re abusing your position.” She meets his eye. “Are you?”
“Siobhan,” Owen warns.
Her pulse is a moth, her skin is the light. She keeps her teeth clenched together.
Owen sighs, deflates. He comes over to where she’s sitting and places one hand on either side of her face. She flinches – she doesn’t like it when he touches her without her touching him first. “I think you’re trying to push me away,” he says, very gently, as though she’s a feral animal. “I want to care about you. I want to be there for you. I wish you’d just let me.”
It all sounds so disappointingly innocuous, so banal. You can care about anybody. You can be there for anybody. She holds his eye and can’t believe that he can’t see her thoughts written across her face.I want you to do every single little thing that I tell you, she thinks, tries to think it loud, tries to think it out into the space between them.I want to own you. Maybe there has to be a compromise.Maybe she has to listen to what he needs from her, first. She lets her head tilt forward, so that her forehead is resting on his chest, wetting the soft cotton.
“I’m so tired,” she says.
He has one hand on the small of her back and the other finds its way behind her knees, so that he can scoop her up. They abandon their full plates in the kitchen and move into the lounge. They are around the same height, so she’s surprised at how easily he’s able to carry her. The living room is dark. When he sets her down on the sofa she clicks on the lamp, and he doesn’t complain. He brings through a dressing gown and she’s able to change into it without him seeing her scar. He settles in beside her and she leans her head against his shoulder, lets him put his arm around her and kiss her on the top of the head, lets him make her feel small.An American in Parisis showing on an old movie channel and he makes a small grunt of satisfaction. Siobhan feels safe; she feels claimed. She thinks about couples all over the world sitting in this very position, and wonders how many are making concessions, how many are giving away tiny parts of themselves with every second that goes by.
“It could always be this easy,” Owen is saying, stroking her wet hair, and Siobhan makes herself nod.
His phone is on the table closest to her, so when the text arrives, she sees it before he does. She picks it up and reads the words,I can’t stop thinking about seeing you tomorrow, under Sylvie’s name. She hands it to him with a smile.
He stares at his screen for a long time before saying, “You really don’t mind?”
“I encouraged you,” she says simply. Then, with a coy kind of shrug, “I like it.”
“Butwhy?”
“I don’t know.” At least that part is honest.
“Because I never meant for this to happen, you know. I didn’t want it to. But there’s… there’s something there. We both feel it, Sylvie and I.” He locks his phone screen and turns his torso so that he can fully face her. “You really can’t tell anyone about this. You understand that, don’t you? How serious it could be?”
Siobhan nods.
“Can I trust you?” He is so raw and vulnerable. The power he places in her hands is so heavy that it almost topples her.
“Of course you can,” she whispers. She nuzzles into his neck, drawing her knees up to her chest, fitting into the smallest space possible. “Now text her back.” She feels him hold his breath, the sudden stillness of his chest. “Tell her you can’t wait either.”
Only once she’s watched him type out the reply, only once she’s watched him hit ‘send’, does she kiss him fully on the mouth; an enthusiastic, full-blooded reward.
***
The next day at the Showroom, Siobhan works the morning shift with Sylvie. Sylvie’s hair is worn down and straight, ringed with shine from the overhead lights, making her look angelic. Her long fingers are adorned with silver rings and her make-up is simple and classic. She wears red lipstick.All this for Owen, Siobhan thinks.Why did you bother? You are already worth a hundred of him. Throughout the shift, Sylvie taps her boot against the leg of the desk. It ticks and tocks in Siobhan’s brain, a timer counting down to noon.
When Sylvie picks up her bag and heads for the cinema door, casting an absent-minded goodbye over her shoulder, Siobhan knows where she’s going. She watches her leave and tries to tame the riot in her blood.
THEN
The twisting in Elly’s stomach is so intense that she feels as though she can’t exist inside her own body. With each contraction she tries to escape herself, to rip free of her skin, clawing at her own face and the faces of the women who kneel beside her. They hold her hands, coo comforting words, but Elly can only scream. She makes silent bargains –Please, I’ll do anything– but she doesn’t know what she’s asking for, or who she’s pleading with. The sensation is so all-encompassing that it near-blinds her; she can’t distinguish one woman from another, they are simply a presence, one entity that mops her forehead and massages her back and tells her the baby is coming soon, soon, I promise.
There is pain – so much pain – but this feeling is more than that. She has become mighty, more powerful than she has ever been, perhaps even in her hex form. Her body rides the riptide of each contraction, following an ancient code it has understood all along. Everything inside her workstogether to bear down, her teeth clamping so tightly she feels something at the back of her mouth crack. The night hours are lost to her. She turns her focus inwards to the soft, quiet world behind her eyelids. She already knows this time is sacred, that she will think of it every day for the rest of her life, and she wants to immerse herself in its truth and brutal beauty. When she’s lucid, it’s only in snatches. She stores up the small details that make themselves apparent: the red sisters singing their melancholy Gaelic songs; the brush of Margot’s curls against her cheek; the way the air smells like candlewax and damp. Theo’s panicked voice, further away.Should it be taking this long?A sprig of lavender held under her nose. Haina’s face, those dark eyes, constellations of obsidian and cinnamon.You clever, clever girl. The darkness fading, the sun coming up, milky and weak.Turn her over. That’s it, gently now.
Finally: a startled cry that doesn’t belong to her. The baby. Her baby. A baby that has somehow, miraculously, come out of her body and is now in the room, breathing and crying and stretching out its tiny arms. The gloomy mid-morning is suddenly momentous and strange. A sharp cracking, an erupting, pieces of dark brown shell littering the parlour floor. A warm, slippery body placed on her chest, still attached to the cord.
You, she thinks, looking down at the perfect, swollen face.Of course it’s you.
