Page 64 of The Quiet Tenant

She’s here.

Cecilia.

She attempts a smile, shyly. She must be wondering where things stand between you two. Maybe she has a sense that she got you into some kind of trouble. She must remember as well as you do your last moments together, before her father tore into the living room.

What did he tell her? You feel around for it, a narrative of confusion. He heard her scream. He thought she was scared, or hurt. He wanted to get to her as quickly as possible. And so he put himself between the two of you. He grabbed her and he grabbed you. She didn’t see the next part. But she saw something, and she has to find a way to make sense of it.

He hid his anger from her. Tried to. Even if she sensed it, you could see her being used to it—his temper, its unpredictable flare-ups. And then, everything de-escalating as quickly as it started. Just wait for it to be over, and he returns. The father she knows. The dad she trusts.

She was angry at you, too. Before he barged in. But now she istrying to make amends, a smile like an extended hand from the other end of the table. She’s too lonely to be mad at you for long.

But you do not smile back. Can’t bring yourself to.

You could have left.

The thought clings to you as you go through the motions. You could have left. You could have run away, you could have saved yourself. Your body was getting stronger. And now this.

You convinced yourself you couldn’t leave without her, but she wouldn’t let herself be saved. She ruined it. She ruined everything for you.

And now you hate her.

It takes you by surprise, this torrent of hostility, but it’s here. A kind of hatred that rages inside you like wildfire. You feel it rise and rise and you worry he’s going to notice. He’s sitting right next to you. How can he not feel this new force, this heat radiating from every inch of you?

The most terrible thoughts cross your mind. It feels unnatural, hating a girl. In your previous life, you gave women and girls the benefit of the doubt, always. You made a point of it. Even when it came to the objectively reprehensible ones, you could never bring yourself to join the pile-on. You could never sayWhat a bitch, what a cunt, what a fucking whore.There was something unholy about those words. You didn’t want them in your mouth.

But now you see her, his kid. You’d be out of here if it weren’t for her. You would have made it out. You would have started the truck. He would have heard the engine, but it would have been too late. You would have driven and driven and driven until you found something, anything—a convenience store, a gas station, somewhere with security cameras and witnesses.

At the dinner table, Cecilia reaches for the salt. It’s only a couple of inches to the left of your hand, but you don’t move. She doesn’t dare ask. There is spectacular cruelty, and then there is this: small gestures, rife with plausible deniability, so minimal that if she were to say anything, she would sound crazy. Paranoid. Self-centered. But you know and she knows, and it feels good, good to make her feel small, good to let her know how much she has disappointed you, how little she means to you now.

She gets up to retrieve the salt, eyes on the table.

You stare at your soup. You are aware that you share some energies with her father. That a part of you takes pleasure, occasionally, in hurting others.

You never said you were perfect.

She pokes at her soup for a while, until finally she sets her spoon down, turns to her father, and asks if she can go back to her room. She’s not hungry, she says. She doesn’t feel very well. He nods. You watch her go up the stairs, one heavy step after the other. No movie tonight. No couch. No love lost.

The house. Closing around you like a wolf trap. In this narrative, from this point of view, you will be the wolf.

—

AT NIGHT, YOUdon’t sleep. Your own anger turns against you.

You decided you couldn’t leave without her. You got distracted. You betrayed them, everyone you left behind. Your mother. Your father. Your brother. Julie. Matt. You are one big question mark in their lives and you had a chance to bring it all to an end. The doubt, the not knowing. The empty seat at the table, the extra space under the Christmas tree.

You imagine they have found ways to move on. No one puts their lives on hold forever. But it must tug at them still. The thoughts must take them by surprise on a hot Monday morning, waiting to cross the street in front of the office. Saturday night at the movies, fingers in a buttery bucket of popcorn. Trying to go about their lives, trying to enjoy their time on earth, and always that question gnawing at a corner of their brains:What happened to her?

They must think you’re dead. They must think, inevitably, that you did it to yourself. Whenever you consider this, a silent scream tears through you. They are, relatively speaking, maddeningly close to you—all on the same planet, same country, same plane of existence. And still, you are lost. You are Ulysses. You were working through some stuff. You went on a journey, and now you can’t get home.

You could be telling them the truth right now. They wouldn’t understand—not all of it, not right away. You know how these things happen. You’ve read articles and books. You’ve watched movies. Youknow it’s not easy, going back into the world. People ask the wrong questions. They have no idea. But people try.

You could all be doing the work together, at this very moment, if it weren’t for this girl. If it weren’t for you, and this kid, and your heart. Your tender, stupid heart, that, after all this—after all five years of this—saw a girl and told you,We are not leaving without her.

—

THE NEXT EVENING,he brings you downstairs again. The words find you at the table. Two words he has never told you.

He goes to sit and gets back up again, pulls the envelope from the back of his jeans. Drops it on the table and sits.

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