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I ring work to tell them I’ll be in late, then I stretch the hair shirt out on the bed and wonder how it would look on him. Imagine his gray hair curling out at the collar, his fur that I love to sniff, to whirl around my fingers as I lay my head on his wide barrel of a chest, feeling safer than I ever do in the outside world. Daddy.
Shit! Did I just call Robert daddy? I twist the word around in my mind and change it to a Marilyn Monroe sexy sort of daddy. Daddy Sophisticate who picks you up in the BMW. Daddy Sophisticate who drives you to the Aria awards because you are his little girl ripe with cleavage and dripping in diamonds. Daddy Sophisticate who yanks your pants down and puts you across his knee to spank you ever so lightly. Yum. I’m wet between the legs.
Now I’m lying on top of the hair shirt. Close up I can see the forest of intricately woven hairs, each one plucked from a session of lovemaking, each one a chronicle of whispered promises—all of them broken. One loose thread sticks up like a deserting soldier. Without thinking I pull it out.
The accident happened suddenly, out of the blue. I was driving the Mercedes when the steering wheel jumped out of my hands and turned itself toward the oncoming traffic. Luckily it was in Paddington late on a Monday morning and everyone else seemed to be at work or looking at real estate, so all that happened was I slammed into the side of a Volvo in the oncoming lane that was traveling at about 15k. I think I must have passed out after that, because all I remember is coming to slumped over the steering wheel with a sharp pain shooting through my midriff. There was a tapping sound, and as my mind cleared the face of the Volvo driver—a young Greek incongruously wearing a fireman’s uniform—came into focus as he knocked on the car window. I managed to unlock the door for him before the screaming siren announced the ambulance’s arrival.
A shattered pelvis and one broken leg. Strangely, the Mercedes wasn’t damaged much at all.
Robert was furious. I can only surmise it was a mixture of guilt and fear that somehow he might have been responsible for what he seemed to view as suicidal behavior.
“Are you sure you didn’t fall asleep at the wheel?”
“Robert, it was eleven in the morning!”
“Well, there has to be some rational reason. Mercedes are virtually accident-proof.”
“But not wife-proof evidently.”
“Georgina, I’m sorry you broke your pelvis and I’m sorry about the leg, but it isn’t my fault. I’m just concerned that there might be some unconscious…”
What a coward. He begins a sentence he can’t finish. I deliberately let him struggle for a few more seconds.
“You think I want to kill myself?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just that you’re coming up to that time of life…”
“Robert, I’m forty-two! I’m a good ten years off menopause.”
“Well, would you like to provide another reason why a perfectly healthy woman in full control of her faculties swings into oncoming traffic in broad daylight?”
“I told you, I don’t know. It was like the steering wheel was operating independently.”
What could I say? It was the truth. Muttering something about losing his no-claims bonus he walked out, leaving a dozen roses and a box of candied fruit as consolation beside the bed. I hate candied fruit.
I lie back on the pillows now, gazing at the harness that holds my leg and pelvis in place. What did happen? Am I really suffering from some kind of unconscious self-destructiveness? But as I reconstruct the accident the memory of the steering wheel swinging around by itself as if powered by some invisible external force becomes increasingly clear.
I’m still lying on the bed with one hand on the hair shirt, the other between my thighs, when my mobile rings. I must have fallen asleep. Bleary-eyed I check the incoming number. Robert.
“Hey, babe, listen—I can’t see you tonight, something’s come up. Georgina’s had an accident.”
“That’s terrible.” Beat. Always play the sympathetic ear. Never display malice. “Is she okay?”
“She’ll live, but it’s ugly—a broken pelvis and one busted leg. Weird thing is the car seems comparatively unscathed, although you should see the other guy’s. It’s gonna cost me my policy and some.”
“What happened?”
“She swerved into the opposite lane for no apparent reason. Crazy bitch.”
“What time?”
“About eleven this morning. Why?”
“No reason. Robert…listen, I’m really sorry about the other morning. I had no right to question your judgment on Play 360. I’ve been thinking and you’re totally right about them.”
Silence. I know he’s melting at the other end of the line. Fluffing up with self-justification. I love it when he gets like that, all bristly like a tomcat.
“It’s okay, baby. But next time just agree with me, okay?”
