Michael calling him to make the request, and Dean was all too happy to make one of Joanna’s favorite treats.
“Maybe we should talk to Dr. Souza,” Michael suggests, “to see if exhaustion and mood changes are normal for this stage of the pregnancy.”
“Every pregnancy is different. There is no normal.”
“I’m concerned, that’s all. The last time—”
And then he stops. Just like that. Mid-sentence, moments before he compares this pregnancy to the last one, with her. He clears his throat as if he’d meant to stop, as if some random piece of sand flew off the beach and lodged in his throat at the opportune moment. I know better, and it burns me inside.
Joanna’s here, even now, on our way to a dinner party next door.
She might as well still be living in Ravenwood. If I’m curled up on the couch, staring out the window at the cypress grove, a whisper in the back of my head says this was her view, and she had it first. When I’m taking a bath and slipping underwater, I close my eyes and get the feeling she’s looming over the tub. Late at night, when I’m lying in bed, I think I hear footsteps creeping down the hall, softly scuffing the floorboards. Ravenwood creaks when the wind howls through it, and I can swear it’s calling her name. Even it knows I’m an imposter. I thought moving my things into Ravenwood would’ve solved everything. It was supposed to fill the void in Michael’s world that Joanna left. When I curl up on the couch, my blanket is the one we now use to warm our bodies. My clothes are the ones filling the empty rods. And late at night, I’m the one he draws close.
But, according to Samara, Michael insisted everything else in Ravenwood remain the same. Exactly as Joanna had wanted it. Same meals. Same cleaning schedule. “Minimal change,” he’d told her.
I’m already eating her favorite meals, bathing in her tub, and making love to her husband. Do I have to sleep in her sheets too?
I find myself exhausted from the stress of it all. It’s no wonder I can’t sleep.
“What I meant to say was, it wouldn’t hurt to call the doctor,” Michael corrects himself, much too late.
“I’ll call in the morning.”
“I think that’s best. Can never be too careful.”
As we cross the driveway, I peer through the glass, into the privacy of the Martin home. A streak of wickedness rushes through me as I drink in the details, feeling like a voyeur, but in an acceptable way. Because if they didn’t want anyone peeking inside, they’d invest in curtains.
The house is spacious and immaculately clean, light bouncing off the bright white cabinets in the kitchen. Rachael is curled up on the white couch, a glass of red wine in her right hand, a magazine open on her lap. I can’t see Travis, but Lord knows it’s not for lack of light. It’s as if God kept every inch of the earth dark at night except for 200 Cypress Street. That house and the creatures inside, He must’ve decided, were so glorious they deserved to be permanently bathed in light.
Michael’s finger hovers over the doorbell. “You ready?”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, but my stomach aches.
I thought I could handle Rachael’s snide remarks and her references to Michael and Joanna’s relationship. But now, standing on her doorstep, I just don’t think I can keep up the charade.
Every time I look at Rachael, I see what I should be, and what I’m not. I see Joanna’s friend, not mine.
I suppose I could always stay for dinner and then say I’m not feeling well. No one is going to question a pregnant woman’s motives for heading home and crawling into bed. On second thought, if I chickened out, I’d be going back alone, to stare at the ceiling. Michael would probably stay with them. And I’d inevitably drive myself crazy wondering what was going on next door.