pinpoint exactly when it started â when my wife became a nervous, shaky shadow of herself. I remember her having a panic attack one night after a day out with friends, but thatâs about it. It was gradual, until she couldnât get out of the house any more, and I didnât have my Bell any more, and nothing was right any more.
Sometimes I thought she was like Briar Rose, asleep under a curse. And I hoped, I prayed my kiss would wake her up one day.
17
A world without you
And suddenly there was
A world without you
Â
Torcuil
Of course, I knew what was happening. I just didnât want to believe it. Izzy disappeared for a couple of days â her aunt said she wasnât at home, but I knew she was. I nearly didnât want to speak to her, I was so afraid.
My father knew as well. It was strange how, though he was bedridden and pretty much always stuck in his bedroom, he was always aware of what was going on. My mother was busy with other things.
After three sleepless nights, Izzy came to the house and she told me she couldnât marry me.
I said of course, we were very young, we could take it slow.
No , she said, I canât marry you, and I canât be with you.
As she spoke, her words fell on me and washed away; I couldnât listen, I couldnât let them sink in. It was too cruel; it couldnât possibly be true.
Not my brother.
Not Izzy.
She cried, of course. I thought it was a bit late for crying. I thought I wanted to comfort her because she was upset. I thought I hated her.
I loved her.
Iâd like to say I kept my dignity, but I didnât: I begged with all I had, and then over the next few weeks I phoned her all the time. She would always answer, always be there to take my pain, my rage, my failed attempts at reasoning. I believe she felt she deserved to be punished. That she had to listen to my protestations and my pain. I wrote her long, meandering letters that I never sent, and watched them turn to ash in my fireplace.
I never spoke to Angus, not once.
I stopped phoning Izzy too.
There was silence for almost a year, the longest year of my life. Angus and Isabel got married during that time. It was a lucky, lucky coincidence I was invited to a history conference in Munich, so I had a good enough excuse not to attend the ceremony. If people thought it was strange that I should choose to attend a conference instead of my brotherâs wedding, nobody mentioned it. I could just picture it: me, the best man, my heart bleeding all over my white shirt while my brother married the love of my life. Now that would have made for a nice party.
Then my father died, and Angus and I embraced, in tears, over his grave.
The rift was mended; my heart was not.
18
Wrench
What is good for me
Hurts more than what is bad
Â
Isabel
I saw them coming from my bedroom window, walking up the path and then disappearing along the back wall, towards the kitchen entrance. My heart skipped and jumped. For a moment I thought, absurdly, that I would not answer.
I ran downstairs and, on impulse, bolted the door.
Then I unbolted it. I couldnât lock my husband out. But surely I could lock a stranger out? I bolted it again and ran upstairs, panicked.
âWeâre here! Can Clara come in?â Angus called. He must have tried to open the door and found it locked.
I went to sit on top of the stairs and looked out of the bars, like a shy child when visitors arrive at the house.
âNo,â I said, though I cringed at how childish it made me seem. How childish I actually was. This whole illness had made me revert to being a frightened child, in a way.
âIsabel? Itâs Clara. Please, can I come in and see you?â
I froze. It was a familiar voice, but I couldnât quite place it. I stood immobile, shaking. âIsabel?â she repeated, and suddenly I remembered.
A hazy recollection floated by â lying in my bed, still under the effect of the pills,
Sometimes I thought she was like Briar Rose, asleep under a curse. And I hoped, I prayed my kiss would wake her up one day.
17
A world without you
And suddenly there was
A world without you
Â
Torcuil
Of course, I knew what was happening. I just didnât want to believe it. Izzy disappeared for a couple of days â her aunt said she wasnât at home, but I knew she was. I nearly didnât want to speak to her, I was so afraid.
My father knew as well. It was strange how, though he was bedridden and pretty much always stuck in his bedroom, he was always aware of what was going on. My mother was busy with other things.
After three sleepless nights, Izzy came to the house and she told me she couldnât marry me.
I said of course, we were very young, we could take it slow.
No , she said, I canât marry you, and I canât be with you.
As she spoke, her words fell on me and washed away; I couldnât listen, I couldnât let them sink in. It was too cruel; it couldnât possibly be true.
Not my brother.
Not Izzy.
She cried, of course. I thought it was a bit late for crying. I thought I wanted to comfort her because she was upset. I thought I hated her.
I loved her.
Iâd like to say I kept my dignity, but I didnât: I begged with all I had, and then over the next few weeks I phoned her all the time. She would always answer, always be there to take my pain, my rage, my failed attempts at reasoning. I believe she felt she deserved to be punished. That she had to listen to my protestations and my pain. I wrote her long, meandering letters that I never sent, and watched them turn to ash in my fireplace.
I never spoke to Angus, not once.
I stopped phoning Izzy too.
There was silence for almost a year, the longest year of my life. Angus and Isabel got married during that time. It was a lucky, lucky coincidence I was invited to a history conference in Munich, so I had a good enough excuse not to attend the ceremony. If people thought it was strange that I should choose to attend a conference instead of my brotherâs wedding, nobody mentioned it. I could just picture it: me, the best man, my heart bleeding all over my white shirt while my brother married the love of my life. Now that would have made for a nice party.
Then my father died, and Angus and I embraced, in tears, over his grave.
The rift was mended; my heart was not.
18
Wrench
What is good for me
Hurts more than what is bad
Â
Isabel
I saw them coming from my bedroom window, walking up the path and then disappearing along the back wall, towards the kitchen entrance. My heart skipped and jumped. For a moment I thought, absurdly, that I would not answer.
I ran downstairs and, on impulse, bolted the door.
Then I unbolted it. I couldnât lock my husband out. But surely I could lock a stranger out? I bolted it again and ran upstairs, panicked.
âWeâre here! Can Clara come in?â Angus called. He must have tried to open the door and found it locked.
I went to sit on top of the stairs and looked out of the bars, like a shy child when visitors arrive at the house.
âNo,â I said, though I cringed at how childish it made me seem. How childish I actually was. This whole illness had made me revert to being a frightened child, in a way.
âIsabel? Itâs Clara. Please, can I come in and see you?â
I froze. It was a familiar voice, but I couldnât quite place it. I stood immobile, shaking. âIsabel?â she repeated, and suddenly I remembered.
A hazy recollection floated by â lying in my bed, still under the effect of the pills,
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