measured in fingers,” I can hear Ed say. I push him away, pour another finger.)
Now: Vertigo, round two. I settle into the sofa, skip back to the beginning, to that lethal lunge-and-plunge rooftop sequence. Jimmy Stewart rises into frame, scaling a ladder. I’ve spent a lot of time with him lately.
An hour later, during my third glass:
“He was prepared to take his wife to an institution,” intones the court official, presiding over the inquest, “where her mental health would have been in the hands of qualified specialists.” I fidget, get up to refresh my drink.
This afternoon, I’ve decided, I’ll play some chess, check in on my classic-film website, maybe clean the house—the upstairs rooms are powdery with dust. Under no circumstances will I watch my neighbors.
Not even the Russells.
Especially not the Russells.
Standing at the kitchen window, I don’t even look at their house. I turn my back on it, return to the sofa, lie down.
A few moments pass.
“It is a pity that knowing her suicidal tendencies . . .”
I slide a glance at the buffet of pills on the tabletop. Then I sit up, plant my feet on the rug, and sweep them into one hand. A little mound in my fist.
“The jury finds that Madeleine Elster committed suicide while of unsound mind.”
You’re wrong, I think. That’s not what happened.
I drop the pills, one by one, into their canisters. Screw the lids tight.
As I sit back, I find myself wondering when Ethan will arrive. Maybe he’ll want to chat some more.
“This was as far as I could get,” says Jimmy mournfully.
“As far as I could get,” I echo.
Another hour has passed; western light slants into the kitchen. By now I’m pretty buzzed. The cat limps into the room; he whines when I inspect his paw.
I frown. Have I thought about the veterinarian even once this year? “Irresponsible of me,” I tell Punch.
He blinks, nestles between my legs.
On-screen, Jimmy is forcing Kim Novak up the bell tower. “I couldn’t follow her—God knows I tried,” he cries, clutching Kim by the shoulders. “One doesn’t often get a second chance. I want to stop being haunted.”
“I want to stop being haunted,” I say. I close my eyes, say it again. Stroke the cat. Reach for my glass.
“And she was the one who died, not you. The real wife,” shouts Jimmy. His hands are on her throat. “You were the copy. You were the counterfeit.”
Something chimes in my brain, like a radar ping. A gentle tone, high and remote, soft, but it distracts me.
Only briefly, though. I lean back, sip my wine.
A nun, a scream, a tolling bell, and the film ends. “That’s how I wanna go,” I inform the cat.
I scrape myself off the sofa, deposit Punch on the floor; he complains. Bring my glass to the sink. Must start keeping the house orderly. Ethan might want to spend time here—I can’t go all Havisham. (Another Christine Gray book-club pick. I should find out what they’re reading these days. No harm in that, surely.)
Upstairs, in the study, I visit my chess forum. Two hours go by, and night drops outside; I win three straight matches. Time to celebrate. I fetch a bottle of merlot from the kitchen—I play best when well oiled—and pour as I ascend the stairs, blotting the rattan with wine. I’ll sponge it down later.
Two more hours, two more victories. Unstoppable me. I drain the last of the bottle into my glass. I’ve drunk more than I meant to, but I’ll be better tomorrow.
As my sixth game kicks off, I think about the past two weeks, the fever that seized me. It felt like hypnosis, like Gene Tierney in Whirlpool; it felt like insanity, like Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight. I did things I can’t remember. I didn’t do things I can remember. The clinician in me rubs her hands together: A genuine dissociative episode? Dr. Fielding will—
Dammit.
I’ve sacrificed the queen by accident—mistook it for a bishop. I swear, detonate an F-bomb. It’s been days since I last cursed. I chew on the word, savor it.
Still, though. That queen. Rook&Roll pounces, of course, claims her.
WTF??? he messages me. Bad move lol!!!
Thought it was another piece, I explain, and lift the glass to my mouth.
And then I freeze.
84
What if . . .
Think.
It curls away from me, like blood in water.
I grip the glass.
What if . . .
No.
Yes.
What if:
Jane—the woman I knew as Jane—was never Jane at all?