Читать книгу The Dark Path: The dark, shocking thriller that everyone is talking about - Michelle Sacks - Страница 16

Sam

Email this morning from the guys in Uppsala. They’re going with another director for the snow tires. Assholes. Top of the class, I was, graduated cum fucking laude. Fellowships, scholarships. Tenure. Now this.

It’s all right. I’ll get there. Just got to stick it out. Keep at it.

From the studio I could hear Conor whining. He’s been out of sorts for a couple of days.

Teething, Merry says. She tells me it’s normal. She read it in the parenting book I bought her.

Let’s take a long walk, I said. I want to encourage Merry to exercise. Tone up. Lose the baby weight that’s still sticking to her. Discipline, I say, all it takes.

I lifted Con into the backpack and hoisted it onto my shoulders. Merry put sunscreen and a hat on him, and dabbed the back of my neck so I wouldn’t burn.

We closed the door behind us and made for the forest trails that surround the reserve. The day was warm but not too hot, a low hum of insects and birds. We walked in silence.

A sweat will do us good, I said, heading for one of the more difficult routes.

Merry walked behind us. I could hear her breathing.

Beautiful, I said. The summers here are incredible.

Merry was quiet.

Hon?

Sam, I say it all the time, don’t I. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. It’s amazing.

Jesus, I said. Guess you’re not pregnant this month after all.

What?

Take it easy, I said. I’m joking. Clearly this is some heavy-duty PMS, right? Your foul mood. Hormones in a spin.

I laughed. You women, always so sensitive. And you think you want to run the world.

I walked on, leaving her to stew. I won’t indulge these moods; she knows better than to think that I will.

Tuesday morning and I’m taking a hike with a baby strapped to my back. Guess this is life in Sweden for you. Transculturation. In anthropological terms, it’s what happens when you move to a new society and adopt the culture.

Professor. I always liked being called that. Guess it doesn’t work so well out here. Hey, Professor Hurley, can you zoom in on the snow tires?

Conor started to whine and I stopped to check on him.

He’d pulled off the hat and was damp with sweat. Merry caught up to us.

He feels really warm, I said.

He’s fine, Merry replied. Just needs some water. She gave him a bottle and he pushed it away. She poured some water onto a cloth and nestled it against his neck to keep him cool.

Wonder-mom, I said. You know all the tricks.

Sorry about earlier, she said. You’re probably right. It must be PMS.

We looped back along the trail and made our way down toward the lake.

I bent to feel the temperature. Icy, I said. Give it a couple of weeks, it’ll be just right.

Merry stood staring into the endless blue of the water, transfixed.

Thinking about going in? I teased.

Something like that, she said vaguely, and stayed a moment longer, lost in her head.

Back at home, Merry prepared a light lunch, cheese and fresh bread, a salad. She seemed to be distracted still. She forgot the lemon in my soda, the oil for the salad.

You’re not yourself today, I said, and she appeared to shrink.

I’m sorry, Sam, I don’t know what it is.

Has Frank confirmed dates yet? I asked, trying to brighten her mood.

No, she said, shaking her head. Something about wrapping up work. Apparently she’s taking a sabbatical.

Bread’s good, I said, and she smiled.

It’s a new recipe I tried.

That’s my wife, I said. Always outdoing herself.

Merry beamed. She needs this kind of reassurance, I guess. Or she loses sight of herself, starts to fade.

Hey, I said. I got that job.

Oh, Sam, she said, I knew you would.

After lunch, she laid Conor down for a nap and emerged back outside with a couple of blankets, which she spread out on the lawn.

There, now we can take a little nap too. She smiled, squinting her eyes against the light, looking at me the way she does.

Merry, I said, it’s Tuesday afternoon. I’ve got work to do.

I left her alone on the empty lawn and went inside. In the darkened studio, I sat and watched other people’s videos on the thirty-inch monitor I bought in anticipation of my new career. I read my emails. There was one from Columbia, an invitation to apply for an upcoming grant. Must be an old mailing list.

After an hour or so, I pulled back the blinds to peer outside. Merry was still sitting on the blanket, cross-legged and facing the house. No sign of any particular pleasure. No sign of anything much at all.

How I love this woman, I thought.