Robber Bride - Margaret Atwood [142]
She did all of this inside her head, because the events there are just as real as the events anywhere else. Still inside her head, she walked to the shore of Lake Ontario and sank the leather bag into the water.
That was the end of Karen. Karen was gone. But the lake was inside Charis really, so that’s where Karen was too. Down deep.
36
Until now, in her house on the Island, until this windy night with the scraping branches. Karen is coming back, Charis can’t keep her away any more. She’s torn away the rotting leather, she’s come to the surface, she’s walked through the bedroom wall, she’s standing in the room right now. But she is no longer a nine-year-old girl. She has grown up, she has grown tall and thin and straggly, like a plant in a cellar, starved for light. And her hair isn’t pale any more, but dark. The sockets of her eyes are dark too, dark bruises. She no longer looks like Karen. She looks like Zenia.
She walks towards Charis and bends, and blends into her, and now she’s inside Charis’s body. With her she brings the ancient shame, which feels warm.
Charis must have said something or made a sound, because Billy’s awake now. He has turned over, he’s pulling her to him, he’s kissing her, burrowing into her with his old urgency. It isn’t me, Charis wants to tell him, because she’s no longer in charge of her own body. This other woman has taken over; but Charis doesn’t float away, doesn’t watch from behind the curtain. She’s in the body too, she can feel everything. She can feel the body moving, responding; she can feel the pleasure shoot through her like electricity, unfold in a hundred colours, like a peacock’s tail on fire. She forgets about Karen, she forgets about herself. Everything in her has been fused together.
“Hey, that was different,” Billy says. He’s kissing her eyes, her mouth; she’s lying in his arms, limp as a sick person; she can’t move. It wasn’t me, she thinks. But it was, partly. What she feels is difficult: guilt, relief. Anguish. Resentment, because Billy has the power to do that; resentment also, because she has lived for so many years without knowing about it.
Deep inside, far inside her body, something new is moving.
(That was the night her daughter was conceived. Charis is sure of it. She has always known who the father was, of course. There weren’t any other choices. But the mother? Was it herself and Karen, sharing their body? Or was it Zenia, too?)
In the morning she feels more like herself, like Charis. She doesn’t know where Karen has gone. Not back underneath the lake; it doesn’t feel like that. Possibly Karen is hiding somewhere else inside their shared body; but when she closes her eyes and searches with the mind’s eye, here and there within herself, she can’t find her, although there is a dark patch, a shadow, something she can’t see. When she makes love with Billy she doesn’t think about being Karen, or Charis either. She thinks about being Zenia.
“Promise me she’s leaving soon,” says Billy. By now he’s no longer angry. He’s insistent, pleading, almost desperate.
“She’s leaving soon,” says Charis, as if reassuring a child. She loves Billy more now, in some ways; but in some ways less. Once greediness comes into a thing, the greediness of the body, it gets in the way of pure giving. She wants Billy’s body now, for itself, not just as a manifestation of his essence. Instead of simply ministering to him, she wants something back. Maybe this is wrong; she doesn’t know.
They’re lying in bed, it’s morning, she’s stroking his face. “Soon, soon,” she sings, crooning, to soothe him. She no longer thinks his body wants Zenia. How could he want Zenia, now that Charis wants him?
It’s the middle of December. The frost is in the ground, the leaves are off