The Swan Wife, by Adrienne Clarke. Page 3/8
Wife:
Lena is finally asleep after hours of crying and chewing frantically on her fingers. But, instead of relief, I feel lost and restless. When she is awake and needing me my hands know what do; work makes me calm. But when I am alone the walls press in on me and my throat feels tight and dry.
If I remain here much longer I do not think I will ever be able to go back. The mirror tells me how much I’ve already changed. The first time my husband touched me in the forest his fingertips left a faint smudge on my shoulder. I tried to wash if off, but even after scrubbing the area so hard my skin turned red and raw, the mark remains. And it grows darker every day. When I take off my clothes at night I see it like an angry red gash on my white skin. I know my husband sees it to but he does not ask me about it. He knows that it his mark and he is ashamed. And that is not the only change. The smooth white skin of my belly is marred by a faint brown line that runs from my navel to the sharp, slanting bones of my pelvis. A transformation has begun and I do not know how to stop it.
Every day the memory of my wings grows fainter and the sound of Lena’s cry grows stronger my head. Last night when I lay her down in her crib, the soft lines of her face still hovering between dreams and wakefulness, I stayed to watch her tiny features melt into sleep. Her eyes are like mine – calm and grey, filled with secrets. “Who are you to take so much of me?” I whispered to her. Sometimes, I dream of leaving her. I see myself descending the stairs, my feet moving slowly, reluctantly, as though through thick mud instead of carpet. And when I finally reach the front door, I open it, but there is nothing on the other side save a vast empty darkness. And when I wake, I am filled with a certainty that is more unsettling than any dream. Even if I had my wings I could not fly fast enough to escape Lena's hold on me.
My husband feels it too, this change in me. Sometimes I see him watching us and I wonder what he is thinking. Does he feel safe yet? Have I been good enough, quiet enough, happy enough to let him believe he’s won? When he looks at me in this measuring, thoughtful way I hate him like I did that first night. I wish I could hate him all the time. But when I hear his key in the door I am surprised by a feeling of lightness beneath my chest. It is not like the wind beneath my wings, or the feel of water rolling gently over my back, but it reminds me of these things. When the feeling leaves me I long for its return. I know I must escape before it is too late - before I forget myself entirely.
