A Nest of Nightmares

‘I know how much this house means to you,’ Sylvia said. ‘And you’re happy here. This is your place. I wouldn’t expect you to give it up just because I . . . you wouldn’t have to pay me back, even though it was half my money.’

‘What are you talking about? ’

‘I mean if I was to go away.’

‘But why should you?’

She shrugged and shifted in her chair. ‘If I . . . stopped wanting to live here.’

‘Have you?’

‘If I was to get married. You wouldn’t want my husband to move in here with us?’

‘No, of course not.’ The idea made me tense. ‘But why talk about that now? It’s not likely to happen for years. Is it? There’s not someone now . . . someone you want to marry?’

She sighed and fidgeted and then suddenly glared at me. ‘No. There isn’t anyone I want to marry. But someday, maybe, I’ll meet a man I do want to marry. And then I’ll want to go away and live with him. That fantasy we had as children would never work, you know. We’re not going to marry two brothers and all live together in one house! Someday I’ll want a house of my own – ’

‘Then what’s this?’ I demanded. ‘This is your house. You can’t go on waiting for your life to start with your husband. You’re not a child, you’re grown up and you made the decision to come live here with me. This is our home; we have an equal responsibility for it. If you’re not happy here, then we can sell it and move somewhere else. We’re not trapped. Only a child would talk about leaving like that, as if the only choice you can see is between running away and staying. Just tell me what you want, and we’ll work together for it.’

‘Maybe I want something you can’t give me.’

‘Oh? And what’s that? Excitement? True love? What is it you want?’

‘I don’t know,’ she muttered, suddenly unable to meet my eyes.

‘Well, if you don’t know, I certainly don’t. You can’t go through your life expecting other people to solve your problems for you, and give you what you want, you know. You’ve got to accept responsibility for your own life at some point.’

‘I’m trying to,’ she said softly, staring into her lap.

‘Sylvia, please tell me about it. I’ll try to understand, but you must give me the chance. Don’t blame me too much – I was trying to help. I wanted to save you.’

She stared at me. ‘What are you talking about?’

I wanted to scrape that fake innocence off her face with a knife. I wanted to slap her, to hurt her into honesty. These lies, the unspoken words kept us apart. If she would only confess we could begin again, start clean.

‘The attic,’ I said, watching her like a hawk. I cleared my throat and began again. ‘Now that the roof has been fixed, and all that garbage cleared out, we could use the attic as another room. You could buy some paints and make it your studio.’

‘Why do you keep going on about that?’ she cried.

‘Going on about what?’

‘About my painting! As if I did!’

‘You used to. You were very good.’

‘I never did.’

‘Now, Sylvia, you know – ’

‘All I ever did was take an art class when I was fourteen. Because I had to do something, everyone did, and if I didn’t find something of my own I’d have had to take dancing classes with you. That’s all it ever was.’

I’d let her evade the real issue long enough. ‘But what about the attic?’

She threw herself out of her chair. ‘Oh, do what you like with it! I don’t care. Just don’t fool yourself that you’re doing it for me.’ She was on her way out of the room as she spoke.

‘Sylvia, wait, can’t we talk?’

‘No, I don’t think we can.’ She didn’t look back.

Later that night, after I had gone to bed, I heard Sylvia moving around restlessly in her room. Then I heard the soft, unmistakable clatter of the attic door.

I held my breath. She was safe; I knew she was safe. The attic was clean and bare and utterly empty, and the roof was intact. But I had to know what she was doing up there. Since she wouldn’t tell me, I would have to find out for myself. I rose from my bed and went onto the landing, where I could hear.

I heard her footsteps, light and unshod, making the softest of sounds against the wood floor. She was walking back and forth. Pacing. First slowly, then more quickly, almost in a frenzy. She began to cry: I heard her ragged, sobbing exhalations. She said something – perhaps called out a name – but I could hear only the sounds, not the sense of them. The cold air on the landing made me shiver, but I worried more about Sylvia, barefoot and in her thin nightdress in the unheated attic. I longed to go and comfort her, but I knew she would reject me. She needed time to adjust, time to accept what I had done for her. Finally I went back to bed, leaving her to her lonely sorrow.

It was mid-morning when I awoke, and the room was filled with sunlight. My heart lifted with pleasure. It would be a beautiful day for a long drive in the car. There was a ruined castle not far away that Sylvia would love. We could take a picnic lunch with us.

When I had dressed I went to her room and flung open the door. ‘Wake up, sleepyhead!’