When you purchase an independently reviewed book through our site, we earn an affiliate commission. One night, I woke up to find I no longer recognized my husband. The room was dark and still and blue. The computer in the kitchen glowed.
I had woken, as I sometimes do, in a fit of desire that was usually reciprocated, as if Misha and I were wired to the same internal alarm: we woke up as one. This was often how we began to make love. We reached for each other through the film of separate dreams and then fell back in states of mutual surprise, nonverbally reaffirmed. That night, however, he slept.
The thin light spilled through the air shaft and onto our bed, and in it he looked strange. Not less attractive—if anything, more so—but also not quite like the man I’d married not so long ago. His chin was slack. His brow furrowed with some small concern.
I rubbed my eyes. Misha was older than I was by only a few months, but in that moment it seemed a whole decade had intervened. I reached out to touch his cheek across a stretch of time. He didn’t stir.
He always was a wonderful sleeper. On trains, in waiting rooms, sprawled across the slanted floorboards as he lay down to perform the stretches the chiropractor had prescribed for his back. Once, in July, when all the stores were filled with crowds, I left him at the deli counter to wait for meat, and when I returned, I found him dozing on a stool before the domed cases of salads and cold cuts and spreads, our order long since priced and wrapped. I tugged at a stripe on his sleeve.
Then, too, he hadn’t stirred, and I’d felt frustrated and alone, all on my own in the crush of the holiday crowd, freighted with grapes and milk and womanhood. I was embarrassed to find how much I cared about what the deli men would think, how to get the ice cream home. Really, I thought, is this the sort of woman you’ve become? I felt similarly disappointed in my humorlessness now, in bed, where Misha lay unresponsive to stimuli.
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I imagined what I’d say to him come morning. You were out cold! Nothing doing! He loved his idioms.
I shifted in the sheets. I said his name, though I don’t know what I would have done if he’d woken up. I had no agenda. It seemed to me that if only he moved or responded, then everything would be as it was before.
I could go back to sleep. For now, I missed him acutely. I touched his face. My fingers skated across the hard, hot plane of his cheek, down the bridge of his nose.
Then, in a small and violent impulse I still don’t understand, I pinched his airways closed. I am not a violent person. When I was a girl, my father often told me I ought to stick up for myself a little more. I remember he used to try to wrestle with me to impart the importance of self-defense, ignite in me some passion for survival.
The only move I ever really mastered was to twist against the thumb whenever an attacker grabbed my wrist, and after this, to run. Misha, too, felt distressed by my lack of indignation. I was like damp wood that will not spark, he said, no matter the heat applied. Once, while we were walking along Central Park, after dinner, a child stole my purse.
I watched him dash away down the street, his small red cap tracing a lovely, bouncing pattern along the gray stone of the boundary wall, like a paintbrush loaded with red paint. Misha threw up his arms in exasperation. What was I doing? Run!
But I stood still and calmly stunned, watching the red cap fade. It didn’t seem important enough. [ Return to the review of “The Exhibition of Persephone Q. ” ] This is all to say I was as surprised as anyone by the situation I found myself in now.
I pinched Misha’s nostrils. He held his breath. I waited for him to wake, protest. And then?
I didn’t know. It was as if the two of us had been reversed. Because, to my amazement, Misha did not struggle. He did not inhale or fight or push away.
Never opened his mouth to gulp. I held on for a few seconds, a minute, two, I don’t know how long. The blood mounted quietly in my ears. Still he did not stir.
I don’t know which of us frightened me more, Misha or myself. Then a door slammed down the hall, footsteps dissipated on the stairs. I watched my hand float away from Misha’s face. I slunk out of the bed, to the edge of the room, into the corner of the kitchenette, the farthest possible point from my husband, in case that unbidden impulse tried to exercise itself again.
I hovered in the dark. I felt slightly lifted out of myself, like an acrobat suspended just above the stage. The waste bin stood solemnly in shadow. I raised the lid.
The test was still there among the rest of the trash, brandishing its positive result: I was six weeks pregnant, more or less. I looked across the room at Misha. What a way to begin, I thought. I hadn’t even told him yet.
I stood very still. The kitchen tiles were cool against the soles of my feet. The stove was a cold white tomb, and it shone when a taxi passed. I drew a glass of water, ran the faucet over the insides of my wrists.
As I stepped away, my foot met something sharp. I looked down. There, in front of the sink, I found what had likely woken me. It was a serving bowl that had belonged to my mother, fallen from a high shelf.
The large, pale shards lay scattered across the tiles. I thought of the soap operas I often heard unfolding on the TV in the apartment next door, the clatter of clichés. And that’s just what Misha and I were, clichéd! Newlyweds with growing pains.
I made a mental note to do something completely extraordinary as soon as he woke up. Then I crouched and ran a finger through the ceramic silt. The mess had not been there earlier, I would have noticed. I looked around the apartment for an explanation.
It was withheld. Misha’s desktop, the deep reds of the carpet, the cupboards, the oven, the door were all variations on the same black box. The speakers were upright, the books silent and orderly. Clean glass jars stood on the shelves in rows.
The furniture seemed innocent, sanctimonious, a coven of children wrongly accused. I held my breath, listening for another presence in the quiet room, something tall and menacing, to step forward and claim responsibility. I heard nothing but the hum of the building itself, the pulse of a car radio in the street. I pulled the chair from the credenza and stepped onto the seat, feeling along the high plank from which the bowl had fallen for some evidence of trauma to the wood.
For a moment, as my hand disappeared farther into the shadows, it seemed very possible that whoever had done this would grab me by the wrist, and I would be pulled through the plaster, through the shelves, into some secret prison, like the original Persephone into her underworld. And like her, I’d probably stay. Although in my case winter would not fall to mourn my absence, the tilt of the earth would stay the same—I was not such a narcissist as that. Still, I’d always thought of that myth as having a happy ending.
She hates Hades at first. Then adapts. Sometimes I think Persephone took those six pomegranate seeds deliberately. She wanted to stay— But I’ve always had a gift for extrapolation.
In the real world, sometimes pottery just falls from shelves. A broken bowl was a perfectly acceptable reason to wake up in the night. That’s what Misha would have said. I replaced the chair, got a broom, dutifully swept up the dust and shards, wrapping the larger pieces in a cloth in case they might be of some later use.
Then I lay down on the floor and waited for morning. Unusual things happen all the time, I thought. Everyday, inexplicable things. And yet: I relapsed.
A few nights later, I went to sleep full of good intentions, only to wake up and turn to Misha. Before I could stop myself, I pinched his nose. I held his breath. We both held it, until the moment I was stunned into remission, into guilt, and became myself again.
I poured a glass of water. It happened maybe four or five times in all. I didn’t know what to do. I loved Misha.
I even began to wonder, was it really so bad? He rose unharmed. It frightened me, however, that Misha did not struggle. I would have liked for him to struggle.
I would have liked for him to shove me into the door. To yell, What are you doing? Instead he slept.
“Maybe it would have been better to confess, but it was impossible to bring up my momentary murders now.”
They were too much a part of me. I was afraid to go to sleep. I no longer went to bed. Our schedules drifted gradually apart, like continents into different time zones, until there was hardly any overlap at all.
I went to sleep when woke up. [ Return to the review of “The Exhibition of Persephone Q. ” ] I lived nocturnally and slept alone. Still my husband did not respond.
I am fully aware that Misha’s and my decision to marry will strike— did strike—the people close to us as rash. We’d tied the knot only recently, in late October, when Lower Manhattan opened its gates to the general public again. I checked my horoscope; the day was auspicious for love. Other people must have felt the same.
At City Hall, the queue spilled through the doors and onto the municipal steps, and I felt at one with the crowd, which I imagined to have gathered like us on the whim of proposals not yet twenty-four hours old. Traffic cones were placed every which way, trees released poisoned leaves to the green, a light northward breeze perfumed the air with drywall dust and soot. The proceedings were efficient, almost abrupt. The witness clapped when Misha and I exchanged our tarnished rings—rings that Misha himself had found buried in the Rockaway sands—and it was only then, as we were emerging from the courthouse, hand in hand, that I felt the first stirrings of surprise.
I looked around. There ought to be some other queue to join, I thought, for the only just married. But there were no more forms to fill, no more lines in which to stand. We were free to go.
I took Misha’s arm. (The nebula, only recently conceived, would also have been present then. ) At the time, I’d known Misha all of four months, long enough to understand that he was not, as they say, “all there. ” Then again, neither was I.
I was suspicious of anyone who still claimed a stake in normal. Who was to say what constituted “all there” when we looked south and saw the great gap tooth against the gullet of the sky? I admired the way Misha sank beneath the surface of a day to reach a deeper kind of calm. He carried a metal detector as casually as a cane, rode the A train to the end of the line to sift through the tiny treasures that the Rockaways, like some obliging oyster, betrayed.
He eschewed mail order and raffles and instant messaging (they’ll steal your data, he said) and spent his afternoons bowed over the altar of the keyboard, tapping out lines of code. He lay motionless on the floor for hours, thinking up new problems to solve. As is the habit of a mathematics Ph. D.
I respected it. Though it raised for me questions of an epistemological nature: Did the problems already exist before Misha articulated them, or did he instead conjure them into being, ipso facto making the world more problematic than before? Be careful of your karmic balance, I warned. My psychic says— Misha cut me off.
I know what your psychic says. I will point out to her that I am solving your problems all the time. This was true, I was often a problem to solve. For thirty-three years I had been bringing problems into the world simply by breathing and responding sentiently.
Misha calmed me down. That is, he used to, until the night his slumber drew from me an aggression that, to this day, I do not recognize as my own. At night, I slipped out of bed, across the floor, took my keys from the hook. I didn’t trust myself to be in the room.
So began my life as a somnambulist. Through November, whenever Misha went to bed, I ventured around the block. I did the shopping, went on endless walks. I sat in the diner down the street, drinking flavored coffee, hazelnut and Irish cream and other variations it wouldn’t have occurred to me to try until after midnight, when—why not?
During a detour to the laundromat, I studied the infomercials on the TVs mounted over the dryers. I was lulled by the sound of the machines soaping up the clothes, the manufactured scent of mountain springs, the manicured hands that maneuvered the red buttons of a blender on all three screens at once: a trio of zucchinis went to shreds. 1-800-BLENDIT! I traversed the edges of the park, whose lawns dulled to a shadow at my left, a dark so thick it felt like something I could disappear into forever—I suppose that’s why they close the parks after 1:00 a.
m. People often assumed I was lost. They mistook me for a student. I stalled outside a bodega, trying to remember what it was I’d gone out to buy.
Keep your head up, someone called. I watched him disappear down the dappled neon street. Thanks, I replied. I was the sort of person who accepted rather than shaped her circumstances.
My life was a long hallway punctuated by a series of open doors. I wasn’t used to obstacles—not that that’s how I viewed the nebula, of course. There was no question as to whether I would keep it. And yet, there was this hesitation.
One night, before I stepped out into the streets, I pushed a second test (still positive) deep into the trash, buried it with paper towels. I glanced at Misha asleep in our bed. Omission was not the same as denial, I thought, which in turn was distinct from a lie. When I was feeling adventurous, I caught the crosstown bus to visit my friend Yvette.
Percy, she said, astonished in her scrubs. What are you doing out? She was a surgeon and was always up, though hardly available. But the hospital had an excellent cafeteria, I thought.
We met for tea and quiche and cake. Sometimes I strolled all the way to the pub on 149th, for jazz. One crowded night, as I shoved through the door, I pronounced, I’m pregnant! It was the first time I’d said it aloud.
And what a magical effect! People made room. Once I found myself at a table with an elderly gentleman whose knees were bad, he couldn’t dance, though he used to, professionally. I asked him if he missed it.
His face opened, like a fresh egg cracked onto a plate. He told me that back in the day, after rehearsal, you grabbed whatever it was you had: hot shorts, ball gowns, heels. There was red night, blue night, voguing night. The themes were decided the evening of, and news spread by word of mouth.
You could be anyone you wanted back then, he said. But those clubs had all closed down. Someone offered me a seltzer. And what do you do?
he asked. I reached into the pocket of my pink trench for a cigarette, then withdrew my hand. I felt I could instantly fall asleep, fade out like the shiver of the cymbals. I pinched my palms, sipped through a straw.
I’m married, I told him. I’m a mom. When the rain chattered rudely on the sill, I stayed in. I stood in the center of the room, resisting the urge to join Misha in bed, afraid my hands, of their own free will, might very well try to suffocate him again.
I placed them on my hips and looked away. My gaze alighted on the shelves. One night, it occurred to me to rearrange the items on them. They rose floor-to-ceiling and were filled mostly with Misha’s things.
Glass jars glinted with treasures he had retrieved from the Rockaways, door hinges, pennies, rings encrusted with sand. A chessman army held its ranks. I remembered Misha’s confusion when he first confronted all the empty space that used to occupy these shelves. Percy, he’d said.
Where are all your things? I did have a few keepsakes, actually. They were stored in a soapbox near the floor. I knelt and brought them out.
A set of Russian nesting dolls, a copper Buddha statuette, the remains of my mother’s serving bowl, wrapped in a cloth. Also a marble brick, cracked in half. It was the remnant of a church that had been struck by lightning years before. There had been a terrific storm.
I’d shut the windows and gone to bed, and in the morning the sky was a terrible blue, the sun was bright, and everyone was outside, standing on the corner. The church, sandstone, was dusty rose, and a tall iron fence ran around the lawn, which on that day was dotted delicately with debris. Through the ruching of the roof, torn open as if by a serrated knife, you could see straight through the halved bricks to the bell. The rumor was a man had died, he’d been caught beneath the rubble when lightning lanced the steeple.
And what could he possibly have been doing, out in a hurricane? He wasn’t even homeless. We stared at the deep soot stain. Slowly, the crowd began to thin.
People had to buy milk, go to work, take their children to school. I took a long walk around the block. When I returned, the spectators had cleared, and in their place I found the anemic marble brick with its bluish, marshy veins. It seemed imbued with inarticulable wisdom, a silent bodhisattva.
I took it home. Now I placed it beside the Buddha himself and stood back to admire my arrangement. The artifice struck me as profound. I glanced at my husband, fast asleep in our bed.
Then I reached for my keys and stepped into the rain. [ Return to the review of “The Exhibition of Persephone Q.
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