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Getting to the heart of the matter turns out to be easier than I thought. I emerge from the shower to a cacophony of noise. I rush to the window, thinking that Eve has escaped—that the police have surrounded the house, that if my life wasn’t fucked before, it’s certainly fucked now.
Only when I peel back the shutters, I’m only slightly relieved that’s not what I see at all. There’s a flurry of activity…the kind that can only mean one thing.
Liam has decided to throw another one of his parties.
To cheer her up, naturally.
I learn this the way I learn most things: after the fact. Out my window, there are teams of people working in unison, scattered amongst the property, rushing around hurriedly, making preparations. And it’s white. As far as the eye can see. White flowers. White tents. White cushioned furniture. White gloves. You’d think he was having a goddamned wedding.
For a moment, I think maybe Eve really has killed me, and I’m about to witness my funeral.
Once I’ve dressed and tended to my injuries, I spend a good portion of the day sitting at my desk, attempting to write. This is how I know I’m not dead. It’s strenuous, trying to work out the ending to this book. I thought I knew how things would turn out, but apparently my characters have different ideas in mind. With my head feeling the way it does and my eyes nearly swollen shut, I have a hell of a time staying focused on much of anything. My wrist throbs, and the rest of my body is stiff, but my mouth works just fine and I am at least able to dictate words into a recorder.
In the afternoon, with the turn of the key in the lock, I check in on Eve. She’s drowsy on account of the sedative but awake as much as one could expect, considering. When I say I have something to tell her, she stares at me eagerly. I know I probably shouldn’t do it. I should keep it to myself like the other stuff I don’t want her to know. But I need her to know what’s at stake if something were to happen, if she were to get out of this room, if she were to have an episode like the one she had last night. “I need you to remain calm,” I tell her, patting her hand.
She peers up at me through sleepy eyes. Eventually her scornful mouth curls upward. “I’m calm,” she says, motioning around the small room.
She likes it in here. For me, it offers a creepy vibe, the kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. I’ve always gotten the feeling that something very bad once happened in here. At any rate, it was meant for storage, not to house a human. But we needed something without a window, something without objects that could be used for harm. “How could I possibly get more calm than this?”
“You’re not going to believe it,” I say. “It’s about Liam.”
Eve leans forward and rocks slowly back and forth. It’s the meds. She seems to space out, to withdraw into herself, away from me, toward something else entirely, traveling somewhere I cannot reach. Eventually, she whips her head around and faces me. “She’s back, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” she says softly, almost too softly to hear, as though she’s speaking only to herself. “I suppose we have to let them be.”
“You’re not feeling well,” I tell her, rage suddenly boiling inside. “I’m going to put a stop to this. The last thing we need right now is a party.”
“Just wait a second, George.”
“What do you mean wait a second—what makes him think he can make decisions like this about our home? Without even consulting anyone?” I received an email from Liam which was supposed to serve as a consultation—maybe. He’s put me back on the bestseller list. Now, he’s planned a pre-release party for the new book. He says to “build excitement.” What he really means is to bribe his friends and people in literary circles, to not only buy the book but to actually read it and speak positively about it. It’s a big feat, I realize, but this seems like a bit much.
“I don’t understand the point of parties,” Eve tells me, her voice sounding very far off.
“Aside from the booze? Yeah, me either.”
She shakes her head like she’s trying to rattle a thought loose. “It’s all for show.”
Even when she’s sick, my wife has a brilliant way of stating the obvious. In fact, I think it’s her illness that makes her better at this than the rest of us. There’s no pretense—just blatant honesty, a rare thing in this business and in life, and despit
e all the rest is one reason I can’t seem to fall out of love with her. “That’s why I just said—I’m going to put a stop to it.”
“On the other hand,” she says, turning toward me, her eyes brightening. “It could be fun.”
“You hate parties.”
“I think I can manage one more.” I watch as she chews at her bottom lip until it bleeds. “He won’t be here that much longer anyhow.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“The best ones,” she says, “usually are.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Eve insists I come down for a visit. She wants to see me before the party. Not that I plan to go anywhere near it, not in my condition. Instead, I plan to spend the night in my study, writing, inching ever closer to the finish line and to getting Liam off my property and out of my life. He apparently did more today than plan parties and canoodle. He worked, emailing me some outstanding notes, and also some feedback that I hadn’t considered.
“I don’t know why you keep saying that,” Eve snaps. For most of the day, the sedative offered her the sweet release of sleep. But she’s fully awake now, the waning meds and lowering sun having its usual effect on her. I promised to read her a little of the book before guests began arriving and I have to dose her again.
