I STILL LOVE YOU, BUT...

CHAPTER 19

IRIS

I ease right onto our street. Ed's street, rather. I haven't seen it in almost seven months. The coffee shop at the corner: still there, the table next to the window where Ed and I used to sit at, sipping the bitter brew. The house beside it, brick-red. The empty grocery store just across, a For Sale sign pasted at the front. I used to come here to buy frozen steaks, which I would grill for dinner. Ed loves grilled steaks. I would grill two steaks, and Ed would eat his and most of mine, while I nibbled on the salad. Then we would relax with two glasses of wine and watch TV, while Ed massaged my feet, stretched out over his lap in front of our couch.

A sudden wave of longing for the past, for Ed, engulfs me.

A deep, deep sadness smothers me.

And as the street opens before me, as I drive west beneath a vault of bare branches, I feel tears brimming in my eyes.

As the car nears the far end of the road, I see it. There's our house --- no, no longer mine. It's Ed's house: the black front door, the panes of leaded glass on either side, the twin lamps next to them; two stories of glass windows staring blankly straight ahead. The stone is duller than I remember, stained, with green moss peeking out in between the crevices. The glass windows are dusty and grimy.

"We're going to be happy here, darling," Ed said to me the day we moved in, smiling, his eyes soft with love.

I had smiled back at him adoringly, young and grateful, filled with awe that a wonderful man like him, Ed, my saviour, my hero, so kind, so warm, had actually loved me, loved me enough to marry me. I was still stunned. Reeling with disbelief. Me, the girl from the wrong side of town, passed around, worthless, was actually married to this rich, lovely man. I looked at Ed, my husband, and he pulled me gently to him, pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.

"Welcome to your new house, Mrs. Cartwright," he said softly.

I leaned my head against his shoulder, and sighed with content. The future stretched before us, filled with endless possibilities. I had never been happier in my life.

When had it all changed? When had the restlessness started? When had Ed become not enough for me?

I park at the side of the lane, and cut the engine. I step out of my car. The porch light is on, illuminating the bright-yellow tape strung between the columns and stakes in the yard. I step forward, my heels crunching across the gravel. I ache everywhere, my muscles strained and stretched with exhaustion and stress, the endless questions, the accusations, the repetitions of my explanations, my denials over and over again. I spent ten hours in that miserable shithole of a room, ten hours that have convinced me that someone is behind the break-in and is out to pin the blame on me.

I ring the doorbell. I peer in through the leaded glass pane. The interior is dark. Ed has to be here. A shadow piles up against the frosted glass. The door swings open.

Ed stands in the doorway, staring at me.

"Ed." My voice is quavering. "May I come in?"

He stands still. He makes no attempt to move aside, his body blocking the doorway.

I swallow.

"Please," I try again.

"Ten minutes," he says, his face hard. "Or, I'll have that officer escort you out." He jerks his chin, and I turn, and notice a police car parked on the grass verge, its headlights dimmed.

I grit my teeth. I must remain calm. Find out what he said, what he told the police. I mustn't get on his bad side. Ed has a temper. I've seen it for myself. Seen with my own eyes what he's capable of doing.