He kept avoiding her eye, and it was becoming almost a game to her, to see how long he could get away with staring at the table. On another night, she might have been hurt and offended that he refused to look at her. But that evening, she thought it was funny. And kind of endearing. So she sat there and smiled at him, listening as Dr. Khan's voice rang out from the phone, telling her about his last-minute holiday to Mallorca. He had just gotten back earlier that day.
"Terribly crowded and noisy," Dr. Khan said. "I've no idea what possessed me to go. I had the same experience four years ago, and nothing has changed. Perhaps next year I'll be more reasonable and go to Crete or Algarve."
Christine could only imagine how much this idle chit chat irritated and bored Erik. His fingers were curled slightly on the tabletop, stiffly and unnaturally placed, and she briefly wondered what he would do if she put her hand over his.
"Did you at least get a nice tan?" Christine then teased, and Dr. Khan laughed a little. The phone had been put on speakerphone at Erik's insistence.
"Not in the least. I hid in my room and watched terrible sci-fi movies. Might as well have stayed home and saved myself the money."
Dr. Khan then asked how things were going 'across the pond,' and she gave him a very edited, shortened, and optimistic version of what had happened since he had left, more for Erik's sake than anything. Christine didn't bother to mention that inviting Erik to her apartment was maybe the best and the worst decision she could have made.
For one thing, Erik was there with her, after nearly a year of searching. But...he was there with her. In her apartment. In her tiny studio apartment. And he was going stir crazy.
She didn't tell Dr. Khan that she was growing increasingly scared that Erik would simply leave. Anxiety had begun to choke her, and so she had started to trail after him just like the cat did, not wanting him to leave her sight. She had gone grocery shopping a few times, and each time she left she made Erik promise that he would still be there when she got back. Although she believed him, she would always break into a half-run when she got close to her apartment and throw open the door to see if he had left or if he had stayed. And he was always there, lessening her anxiety just a little. But then it would start to increase again as she thought of the fact that he might leave sometime soon.
Also left out in her brief report to Dr. Khan was the fact that Erik had recently threatened to murder someone and that it had made her sick to her stomach.
She had returned to the insurance office one afternoon, not to ask for her job back, but to apologize, and was then treated to a very long, very stern lecture by her supervisor of how unprofessional it all had been, and how she had better get her act together if she wanted to get anywhere in the insurance world, and that she needn't bother putting him down as a reference for future jobs because he wouldn't have very good things to say about her.
When she told Erik about it all that evening, he had declared that he was going out straightaway to kill him.
"Erik, no!" she had said. "I couldn't care less what he thinks about me. I just went in to make myself feel better."
But she must have looked worried, because Erik gloomily told her later that he hadn't killed anyone since Iran and was not looking to fall back into old habits. It made her feel a little better, but she was still squeamish about the whole subject. So she could only hope that he wouldn't bring it up again.
Christine also refrained from confessing to Dr. Khan about her worries and fears that Erik was bored with her and her company. The apartment was small, and there was hardly anywhere for him to go or things for him to do. Her small television was no good for entertainment. He told her outright that he hated it, and then, after a while, he had grudgingly admitted that there had been a television in the basement with him where he had been kept as a boy, obviously a means to distract and entertain him and keep him quiet and subdued.
"I smashed it when I was eight," he had said tonelessly. "Madeleine was furious."
In an obvious attempt to keep himself busy, he had taken to fixing things around the apartment; a window that had been stuck shut, a flickering light in the kitchen, the creaking front door, the funny noise the refrigerator made when the sink was running…She wasn't sure if he knew the first thing about home repair, but she didn't doubt that he could do it.
But Christine did tell Dr. Khan about the guitar. "He's been playing it nonstop," she said, hoping her tone would encourage Erik to enter the conversation and participate, but he remained stoic, sitting, staring down, only an occasional twitch in his hand to let her know that he was even aware of what was happening.
"He's a genius with it, of course," Christine said. "I'm sure he still prefers piano and violin, but he makes me jealous." That was an understatement. The first time he had played it, she had nearly snatched it away, not wanting to listen. Wasn't there anything she could do better than he could? Guitar had been her instrument. But he had picked it up easily and played in a way that made her burn with envy. He had asked for her help only once—to find a capo for him.
In the end, though, she couldn't really begrudge him for it. He needed an outlet. And if that was what got him to stay, then…
However, when she and Dr. Khan started to talk about the weather and the storm clouds she had seen earlier, she could tell that his patience was finally starting to wear. He cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the table, looking at her at last, a telling glance that she had better get to the point, and soon.
"Anyway, Dr. Khan," she said as a response. "About my fingers..."
"Oh, yes. You've not been straining them too much?" He asked about the pressure and flexibility, and she was thrilled when he said at last, "It sounds like the splint can be removed. Have Erik do it. Just be careful. And send me a picture of your fingers after it's off."
She held out her hand and felt a light blush spread across her cheeks as he wrapped his long fingers around her wrist to hold her hand steady. Gently, he peeled off the bandage and removed the splint, and she wiggled her newly-freed fingers. They were still a little sore, but the pain was nowhere near what it had been, and she felt as if taking off the splint was like finally freeing herself of the trauma of what had happened to her. The last physical reminder was gone. Weight was lifted off of her.
Dr. Khan asked her to move her fingers in certain ways and describe any pain or other unfamiliar sensations. She did so, but they seemed to have healed well.
"They weren't technically broken," Dr. Khan said after she told him that. "Just a severe sprain, more likely. Still send me a picture, though, so I can see if there is any unusual bruising."
Christine pushed the phone over to Erik and held out her hand for the picture. "Would you take it?" she asked. "Oh—3745. That's the passcode to get into the phone."
Erik picked it up and made a strange, soft sound in his throat that sounded like a laugh and a sigh, but he ignored her questioning look and instead took a picture of her hand and sent it. There was a pause on the other end, and then Dr. Khan said,
"They look fine, and if you're not feeling any pain, then I think the splinter can be left off permanently. Remember to be careful with them these next few days."
Apparently satisfied, Erik stood and returned to the couch and the guitar. She turned the phone off speakerphone and chatted with Dr. Khan for only a couple more minutes. Thanking him one more time and promising to call or text right away if there was any unusual pain, she said goodbye and that she hoped to talk to him again soon.
It felt peaceful in the apartment. The weak sunshine from that day had faded away into a gray storm, and a wet summer downpour pattered on the sidewalks and rooftops. They were both quiet, and she somehow sensed that he was doing some thinking and reflecting. He fiddled with the guitar for a while, but she could see that he wasn't focused, and he set it aside soon after. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, as she often did, afraid he would disappear if she looked away too long. He read from one of her old textbooks, a horrible chemistry one that she had never actually opened, but judging by the way his eyes stared at the same spot on the page, he wasn't really reading or absorbing anything. Christine was glad that there weren't any more secret, revealing letters lying around for him to find. She had thrown out the one he had found and was grateful that he hadn't mentioned it since.
She did feel guilty for not telling him earlier that she had found and seen Madeleine, but...she had been afraid that he would have been angry and would have left her. He had a right to know, and she was aware of that. However, besides the comment about the television, he had not mentioned Madeleine to her at all since and she, hoping it was right, simply followed his lead.
As evening fell fully, she turned on some lights and went to the kitchen to make something sweet, knowing he wouldn't eat it but wanting to anyway. She continued to glance at him as she baked. He was jotting down some annotations in a couple of her old music books, the cat purring on the seat next to him, as close as it could get without Erik hissing at it. He had started to call it 'petit diable,' and she was able to pick up quickly enough what that meant.
She smiled a little to herself as she reached for the pan in the oven and then pulled away quickly.
"Ouch!"
Lost in thought and distracted, she had accidentally burned two fingers on the hot pan. They throbbed, and she quickly stuck them under cold water, wincing a little.
"Have you hurt yourself?"
He was up and in the kitchen, close to her to see.
"It's fine," she said, forcing a smile onto her lips. "I was being stupid and got distracted. It's just a little burn."
Wordlessly, he held out his hand, and she glanced at him before turning off the water and putting her injured fingers in his palm. The burn was already bright pink. Erik ran his bony thumb over the skin, and she scrunched up her face to express the discomfort.
"Sit down," he said, his voice soft, and she did so on the sofa. She heard him in the kitchen for a moment before he returned with a clean damp washcloth that smelled slightly like vinegar. For a moment, it looked like he struggled to find a position—bending over was ridiculous, and she knew he wouldn't just sit on the ground. In the end, he sighed a little and knelt in front of her. His legs were very long and required a moment of adjusting. She gave him her hurt fingers again, and he gently pressed the cool, damp cloth to the small burn. After a few minutes, the stinging sensation went away. It still throbbed dully, but the edge had been taken off.
"Wow," she said quietly. "Thanks. That feels a lot better." She gave him a smile. "Now my fingers will have to be wrapped again. It hasn't even been an hour since my splint came off."
"This burn is very minor. You will be fine without any sort of bandage."
So much for a joke. Still, she continued to smile. His skin felt cold, and she looked at the back of his bony hands, seeing the blue veins running across it; his pale skin seemed translucent. His knuckles protruded sharply, and if she looked hard, she could see thin white lines across them. They were old scars.
After a few more minutes, she thanked him for the help, feeling awkward with him simply kneeling and holding a cloth to her fingers, something she could do without assistance. He nodded and stood, and she continued to watch him as he returned to the music. She threw the burned dessert away, feeling like it had betrayed her somehow, and opened a few windows to let the cool, rain-drenched air blow away the lingering smell of burned food.
She played with the cat for a while, teasing it with a little toy of a feather tied to some string, and she giggled as it leapt up and rolled over, pawing at the feather. It was too bad that Erik didn't like the kitty. She was only thankful that he was still here despite his obvious dislike for it. Christine couldn't help but wish that she knew more of what he actually liked instead of all the things he didn't. Tickling the cat's belly and laughing as it gently and playfully bit and pawed at her fingers, she tried to think. Erik liked music. And Dr. Khan. And black clothing. And...her. She blushed a little and glanced over at him. He was reading again.
There was something else he obviously liked, and after another minute she worked up the nerve to ask.
"Erik?"
He looked up from the page, his eyes intense. His unwavering attention still made her blush a little. She sat back, and the cat climbed into her lap, kneading her leg and giving a little meow. Gathering it into her arms, Christine stroked the soft gray fur and then said, "You know that book? Paradise Lost?"
She could tell he was raising an eyebrow. "You are perfectly aware that I 'know that book.'"
Her blush deepened a bit. She continued, "Yeah. Well, I was just wondering why you like it so much."
He paused for a few moments, tapping his long fingers on the arm of the sofa, looking like he was unsure how to respond. Finally, he said, "You read it, didn't you?"
"Um. Not really." She shrugged. "Parts of it. Not the whole thing, though."
"Well, then perhaps you would only understand its appeal if you had read it in its entirety." And he went back to his book. The cat wiggled out of her arms and went to meow at his ankles.
She was tempted to be offended, and she was for a few moments, standing up without a word and stalking to the bathroom to get ready for bed. But as she brushed her teeth, she realized that maybe the question had been too personal at this stage in their relationship. Some of the passages that she had read from it during his absence had seemed like little glimpses into his soul, small windows into a mind that was still trying to block her out. Maybe she would read it all, though. She could pick up her own copy from a bookstore and commit herself to finishing it. It would be an easy thing to do to better understand the man she needed to understand.
Christine slept for only a couple hours that night before waking abruptly, uncomfortable on the couch for the first time. She felt awake and alert, and she lay there for a long time, staring into the darkness, straining to hear his silent breathing, to make sure he was still there. The clock on the wall ticked quietly, and she could hear the cat purring softly nearby. The rain filled the apartment with a wet, fresh scent.
She rolled over and sighed softly, pressing a hand over her eyes, thinking, her mind always returning to the horrible idea of Erik leaving. He had done so much more than she had expected. He had done things he hadn't wanted to, just for her, but she knew after experience that he had a limit. There was only so far he could go without breaking. What would it be this time? To go through everything with her, to have loved her so much, to have nearly killed in order to marry her, and then to have let her go...What would it be like now? If he left, would it be like that night all over again? She would never forget his expression after that second kiss, the tears, and she knew she couldn't go through it again. Neither could he.
Another sigh echoed around the room, and she tensed a little.
"Erik?" she whispered, so softly she could barely hear herself. There was no reply, which meant that he either hadn't heard her, was ignoring her, or was actually asleep. He always woke before she did, and after what happened that first night here, she was upset at the thought that maybe he still slept on the floor, but any half-asleep midnight trips to the bathroom were always free of long, lanky bodies tripping her, so she could only hope that he stayed in the bed.
Trying to be careful and quiet, she sat up and peered through the darkness toward the bed. "Erik?" she tried again, just a little louder. There was still no answer, and so she pulled the blanket off of her and stood, the couch squeaking slightly as she did.
The streetlamps filtered in through the thin curtains, and that, combined with the nightlight that was in the bathroom, gave her just enough light to see. She tiptoed over, holding her breath. If he was awake, she could use the bathroom as an excuse.
An orange strip of light from the streetlamp splashed onto the foot of the bed, and it rose and fell over his long legs, tucked beneath a sheet. One bony hand was resting on his midsection, and his other arm was curled above his head, which was tilted to the right slightly. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing deeply, softly.
His mask had been set to the side.
The sight was powerful. She paused, staring, and then sank to her knees beside the bed, watching, unable to look hard enough, long enough. Of course she knew he had to sleep sometime. He knew he had to sleep sometime as well. But...it was so unreal, so touching, so intimate. A few buttons at the top of his shirt were undone, and the sheet was pulled up to his thin waist, obviously there for comfort more than for warmth.
For the first few minutes, she was nervous that his eyes would open and he would demand to know why she was kneeling beside the bed, staring, but the minutes ticked on, and he continued to sleep quietly. She wanted to touch his hand, his collarbone, his neck, his cheek, his lips, but any contact would undoubtedly wake him, so she had to be content with simply watching. There was a soft rustle as the cat jumped up onto the bed and stretched out near his feet, apparently deciding that if Christine was safe there, then it was as well.
The floor grew hard and unforgiving against her knees. She knew that trying to sit on the bed would wake him up, so she shifted to fully sit on the floor and, very carefully and slowly, rested her arms and head against the mattress next to him, watching him to be sure that he didn't stir. It was hard to imagine that the same man who had done so much, who had killed people, stolen, trapped her, nearly killed the man she had loved, was also the man who was sleeping before her, still, quiet, and serene. He was volatile. He was angry. But he also looked fragile and vulnerable here, and she felt a sudden strong urge to climb into the bed and wrap him in her arms. She fought it back quickly and contented herself with watching him there, as if he would disappear if she looked away.
She already knew she couldn't have him leave. That choking sensation in her chest and throat said so at the mere thought. But if he couldn't leave, then what? He wouldn't want to stay here while she played house with him, while she awkwardly tried to insert him into her apartment as some sort of object that she kept moving around, seeing where it fit and then deciding that maybe it looked better somewhere else. He was just too much for that.
Releasing a second small sigh, she closed her eyes. The stillness and tranquility of the moment felt nice.
Christine had told herself repeatedly during the past year that she did not want to see him again, that it was for the best that they were apart, that it would be too difficult to see him. Now that she had, now that he was with her again, she realized, sitting there in that quiet room, that all of those things she had told herself were lies. She had wanted him back desperately but hadn't let herself admit it, convinced that it was somehow wrong of her to want it.
Her last thought for a while was that the therapist definitely wouldn't have recommended this.
Sharp pain brought her back into consciousness, her neck aching and her backside sore from sitting on the floor for so long. She gave a muffled groan in her arm and then opened her eyes, blinking blearily at the pale sunshine on the sheets in front of her.
The empty sheets.
She blinked again and then immediately sat up, her neck protesting and making an unpleasant cracking sound as she did so, and she winced and rubbed it, panicking.
"Erik? Erik!"
Her fears overwhelmed her, and she felt physically sick at the thought that he had left, that he had snuck out and hadn't said goodbye, that she would never see him—
"What is it?"
Her neck was tight and painful as she turned around quickly, though there was nothing but relief as she saw him standing there in his shirtsleeves, watching her with slight confusion.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, one of her chipped mugs in his long hands.
"No—no, I just thought…" She grabbed the bed to help her clamber to her feet, stiff and sore all over from spending most of the night on the floor.
He eyed her suspiciously. "I did not wish to wake you," he said. "Though perhaps I should have. Do you require a hot compress for your neck?"
She rubbed it again and decided against shaking her head, saying instead, "No, it'll be fine. Thank you." There was inexplicable, overwhelming relief seeing him there, knowing she still had at least one more day with him.
"You should have some tea, at any rate," he said, turning back to the kitchen, and she felt her lips tug into a small smile as she went over to see the two steaming mugs. A newspaper was spread over one side of the small table, and he resumed his seat as well and picked it up, disappearing behind it. She had a suspicion that he was stealing them from her neighbor; it wasn't as if she had any papers delivered here. But she wasn't very upset about it. The newspapers always sat on the sidewalk for weeks and grew soggy and moldy before being thrown away, not once read or even picked up.
She filled a bowl with fresh water and food for the cat (giggling inwardly at the thought of 'petit diable') and set it down before sitting across from him, pulling her mug closer. There was silence for a while, but it didn't feel awkward. It was a morning silence, a still-sleepy, occasional-yawning kind, and she let the tea wake her up a little as she stared out of the window, her eyes adjusting to being open. The day was already warm and bright, the storm having disappeared in the early hours of the morning.
"Anything interesting?" she asked a few minutes later.
He glanced at her over the top of the paper and said, "There is always something interesting happening in the world."
She made a face at him and joked, "Oh, very specific, thank you."
His eyes softened, and she could see his mouth twitching a little. Her heart fluttered.
He didn't bring up the fact that she had slept at his bedside, and Christine suspected it was more a way to protect himself than anything. Ignoring it meant they wouldn't have to talk about it, would spare him any embarrassment, and would mean that he could pretend she hadn't seen his face. She didn't mind, though. It felt like something sacred, an experience just for her that would lose its meaning if she talked about it.
The day turned out to be as quiet as the night previously. She mechanically made food throughout the day, always putting it beside him wordlessly. He barely touched it. She did laundry and paid some bills. He fixed her closet door in the afternoon, and she tried to help, but mostly she just stood to the side and admired him, his long arms and legs and the wide expanse of his back. When it was dinnertime, she turned on some quiet music, hoping it would help him relax. The windows were still open, a tempting summer breeze drifting through, fresh and clean from the rain. As soon as it was sufficiently dark, she went to him. He was sitting on the couch, playing the guitar, and she picked up the cat that was sleeping next to him and put it on her lap after she sat down.
He stiffened and seemed to increase his concentration on the guitar, obviously doing his best to ignore her.
"Do you want to go out tonight?" she asked loudly, trying to be heard over the steel strings. "Like on a walk or something. There are a lot of paths near here. It's supposed to be a nice evening."
He didn't stop playing as he said, "Someone will see."
"No," she said. "There's no one there after dark. It goes through some woods, and people are too scared. Please? We should celebrate my recovery." She wiggled her fingers again.
"If you wish to go, you should," he said, beginning to play even faster. "But it is unwise to take chances of being seen with me."
"What would be wrong with that?" She wanted him to stop playing and look at her. "Erik?" He continued to play, not answering, and she, with a little more force than she meant, reached up and grabbed the neck of the guitar, cutting off the strings and forcing him to stop and look at her, his jaw clenching in annoyance.
"I know you're sick of being cooped up in here," she said. "And there's not...a lot to do, I know. I want you to come with me. We can go to my favorite path. It's really pretty."
"I am not good company for evening strolls..."
She could hear his resolve wavering slightly, probably desperate himself to get out of the apartment for a while, so she pressed one more time. "You're perfect for evening strolls. Please?"
After one more moment deliberation, he sighed in an annoyed sort of way. "Fine."
She smiled in response and went to gather her things. She might have felt bad that she was forcing him to go with her, but she saw him waiting by the door while she was tying her shoes, flexing his fingers and glancing at her a few times, as if nervous she would change her mind.
Unable to hide another smile, she stood and led the way out the door.
