Page 25 of Across Time

Then I dream I’m at Mark’s parents’ estate in Westport. From the window I can see the white chairs set out on the hill overlooking the river, the guests milling around already. Mark is there greeting everyone, his gold hair catching the light, million-dollar smile flashing. But my mother is out there too, walking toward him, and my stomach drops to my feet.

I need to find him, I think. I need to tell him the truth before she does.

I go downstairs, pushing my way through the crowd, and then find myself alone, standing just at the river’s edge. No, not alone, because Kit is here too, flailing in the water a foot away. Her small hand latches around my ankle, the grip strong as an adult's, trying to pull me in. “Kit, stop,” I beg. She only pulls harder, glancing behind me at Mark, who is coming toward us with eyes that are wide and shocked, staring at her muddy hand, at the hem of my dress turning black.

“He doesn’t even know who you are,” Kit says. She tugs again, harder. Both my feet sink into the mud and the water rises around my calves. My breath come in tiny, shallow bursts.

“Kit,” I beg. “Please stop.”

"Promise you’ll help Marie."

I’m sinking now and Mark is just watching, as if he knows exactly what led us to this point, as if he’ll never forgive me for it. It was insane to think I could tell him the truth. He will never understand what I am, or what I did.

“I’ll help her,” I cry. “Just please don’t pull me in.”

“I will drown you if you don’t,” she replies, in my mother’s voice. “Mark and I will drown you.”

I wake crouched in the corner of the room, weeping. I can still feel Kit’s grip on my ankle. And I can still feel the promise I made in that dream like a brand on my skin. It’s a promise I’m going to break, though, and I wonder exactly how she’ll make me pay for that once I’m home.

11

* * *

I’d hoped my last full day here would be pleasant, but when I wake the rain is coming down in sheets. Henri drives Marie into town to teach her class and I’m stuck inside, alone and bored out of my mind.

I pace aimlessly, trying to ignore my anxiety about returning home, as well as my anxiety about Kit.

Last night’s dream is never far from my mind. Mark and I will drown you if you don’t. Was it just metaphorical—my own subconscious telling me I’m going to drown in guilt if I don’t tell Mark the truth? Except telling him is not an option. He would never accept me. He would never accept what I’ve done. Whereas, I can live with being drowned by guilt. I’ve survived it ten years already.

I continue to pace, biting my nails and wandering closer and closer to Henri's room. I've never been inside it. Under normal circumstances, the very idea of snooping gives me hives—I can barely even stand to watch it on TV because I’m always waiting for the person to get caught.

But I need something to take my mind off the return home, and cars in 1938 are far too loud for anyone to sneak up on anyone. The truth is, I just want to see his room. Henri is like a song you want to hate yet find yourself humming, ears straining for even a hint of it. Even if I’d never admit to my curiosity openly, a part of me wants to know who he really is.

I push the door open, feeling a trifle guilty but mostly curious. It's fairly austere, as I'd have expected. He's not exactly the needlepoint-and-flower-arrangement kind of guy. Mostly what I notice are the books—lining the shelves, stacked on his nightstand, piled on the dresser.

Yesterday's clothes hang over the back of a chair. I'm not sure what compels me to do it, but I let my fingers run over his trousers. They are heavy, like military fatigues. His shirt lies just under the pants, a coarser material than I’m used to. It smells like him. Like lye soap and skin and something male I sort of like.

I picture him dressing in here alone, and undressing, climbing into that neatly-made bed at night. Who does he think of when he slides between those sheets? My heart gives a single, hard thud at the idea of it.

I run my hand over his pillow, then pick up the book on the top of the large stack near the bed. Baudelaire. Poetry. It's hard to imagine Henri reading anything but farming journals, but it reminds me that he wants things he'd never dare say aloud. A small and very wrong part of me wishes I could be the one to discover what they are.

I hear the rumble of a car on the road and quickly duck out of the room, closing the door behind me. It feels as if I’m leaving a mystery behind, one I’d very much like to solve.

* * *

Marie returns later in the day, but there is no sign of Henri, despite the weather, until he appears at dinnertime, pissed off and covered head to toe in dirt.

He bathes and changes clothes before dinner, but it does not seem to improve his mood. Marie is doing her best to make my last night here a cheerful one. Henri is making no such effort.

"I do wish you would stay," Marie says. "With one more week, I could definitely teach you how to cook. In spite of microwaves, wives should know these things."

Henri looks up from his plate. "Personally,” he says, “if I were Mark I’d prefer a wife who could tell me the truth.”

I roll my eyes. "Are we really back to this? I already told you I’m not jumping again once I get home. So it will be the truth.”

He sits back, pushing his nearly-full plate away from him—something I’ve never seen him do before. "No, it won’t, because that’s not who you are,” he replies, a dangerous light to his eyes. “You’re giving up everything for a man who doesn’t even love you.”

His words shouldn’t hurt, but they do. “What fascinating theories you concoct with absolutely no basis.”