Page 21 of Rock Paper Scissors
“No! Don’t, you’ll… fall.”
“Stop talking and focus on your breathing. I’m coming.”
I feel my way slowly, one foot connecting with one step at a time, the sound of Amelia’s panicked breathing guiding me in the darkness. I find her against the opposite wall from where she neededto be, and put the inhaler in her trembling hands. She shakes it and I hear two puffs. Then the power comes back on, the fluorescent tube on the ceiling flickers back to life, and the crypt is bathed in ghostly light.
“There must be a generator,” I say, but Amelia doesn’t answer. Instead she just clings to me and I wrap my arms around her. We stay like that for a long time and I feel oddly protective of her.
What Ishouldfeel is guilt, but I don’t.
AMELIA
He holds me and I let him, while I wait for my breathing to return to normal. I think about what the marriage counselor asked at our very first session. “Call me Pamela”—as Adam nicknamed her—always sounded as though she knew what she was talking about, but I confess my confidence in her dwindled a little once I discovered she’d been divorced twice herself.What does marriage mean to you?I remember how she purred the question and I remember Adam’s answer.Marriage is either a winning lottery ticket or a straitjacket.He thought it was funny. I didn’t.
He kisses me on the forehead, gently, as though scared I might break. But I’m tougher than he realizes. Cleverer too. The kiss feels antiseptic, nothing more than something to soothe.
“How about we take this bottle to bed?” he asks, picking up the Malbec and holding my hand as he leads me out of the crypt. Sometimes it is best to let people think you will follow them, until you are certain that you won’t be lost on your own.
There is a circular wooden staircase in the middle of the library lounge, leading up to what must have been a first-floor balcony when this was still a chapel. I’m guessing the woodwork isall original, it certainly looks it, and every second step creaks in a rather theatrical way. Bob charges ahead, trotting up the stairs, almost like he knows where he is going.
I can’t help but stare at the pictures we pass on the whitewashed stone walls. The series of framed black-and-white portraits starts at the bottom of the staircase, and winds all the way to the top, like a photographic family tree. Some of the pictures have almost completely faded, bleached of life by sunlight and time, but the newer ones—closer to the first floor—are in good condition, and even look a little familiar. I don’t recognize the faces in them though. And there is no point in asking Adam, who doesn’t even recognize his own in the mirror. I notice that three frames are missing; discolored rectangular shapes and rust-colored nails where they used to hang.
A red carpet held in place with metal rods runs up the middle of the stairs—unlike the cold flagstone flooring downstairs—and they open out onto a narrow landing. There are four doors in front of us. All of them are closed and look exactly the same, except for one that has a redDANGER KEEP OUTsign hanging on its handle. There is a tartan dog basket in front of it, along with a typed note like the one we found in the kitchen when we first arrived:
No dogs in the bedroom.
Please.
We hope you enjoy your stay.
The word “please” seems like an afterthought and a little passive-aggressive on a new line all by itself, but perhaps I’m reading too much into it. Bob sniffs the bed, wags his tail, and sits down contentedly as though it were his own. My dog doesn’t suffer from separation anxiety the way I do, and—unlike me—he can sleep anywhere, anytime.
“Well, that’s him taken care of. Didn’t the note earlier say that one of the bedrooms had been made up for us?” Adam says.
“Yes, but I can’t remember which.”
“Only one way to find out.”
He tries each of the available doors, which are all locked, until the final one opens with a dramatic creak to match the soundtrack of the stairs. Along with the howling wind outside, it’s enough to give anyone a dose of the heebie-jeebies.
“This place could really do with some WD-40,” Adam says turning on the light, and I follow him inside the room.
I’m shocked by what I see.
The bedroom looks just like ours at home. Not a carbon copy—the furniture is different—but the bed is covered with the same pillows, blankets, and throws. And the walls have been painted in the exact same shade: Mole’s Breath by Farrow and Ball. I redecorated as a surprise a couple of years ago, and I’ll never forget how much Adam hated it.
We both stand and stare for a moment.
“I don’t understand what I’m seeing,” I whisper.
“I suppose it does look a bit like ours—”
“A bit?”
“Well, we don’t have stained-glass windows in London.”
“This is too strange.”
“We don’t have a grandfather clock either,” he says, and that’s true. The antique-looking clock in the corner of the room is completely out of place, and the sound of it ticking seems to get louder in my ears.
