Quiver by Tobsha Learner Page B

shining. In my drunken haze I assumed that Adrian had left it on for me. The kitchen light was on too. I’d only eaten a couple of peanuts that night, so I was starving. There was a smell of cooking, something I didn’t recognize. I thought that maybe Adrian had left a container of take-out food in the microwave, but it was empty. I made myself some toast and honey, and ate it quickly to stop the room from spinning. I realized I wasn’t going to make it to the bedroom so I lay down on the couch.
    I open my eyes and look down at my body. Under a long, old-fashioned white linen dress is my belly. Swollen, pregnant. I run my hands over my body—I am large. I shift my weight, feeling the baby press against my lower organs. My bladder feels tight. I am so happy, I want to cry out to Adrian to tell him. I sit up, and feel long hair fly back over my shoulders. I look down—it is black hair, long black hair. Terrified, I stand up, the sudden weight of my womb sending me stumblingagainst the couch. The carpet has changed to an old-fashioned floral. As I fall, I realize that the room has no sound. No echo. I’m dreaming, I think, and shut my eyes, trying to wake up. I open them again, but nothing has changed. My belly protrudes in front of me. My feet, normally small with tiny toes, are not my own. I walk soundlessly toward the bathroom. It is behind the same door, but the white tiles Adrian and I put in have been replaced by old-fashioned green ones, and the shower unit has been replaced by a huge white enamel bath. There is no sink—only an old tin baby’s bath propped up against the cracked wall. I lean over and pick up an oval shaving mirror that hangs off a bare hook.
    My hands shake as I lift it up toward my face. Staring back from the mirror is a completely alien face. I scream. I mean, my mouth opens and I scream, but no sound comes out. I lift the mirror again. She is in her early thirties, with a long angular face, high cheekbones and deep-set brown eyes. Long black hair frames her face. It is the eyes that terrify me. They are full of pain and sadness, but totally vacant. They are the eyes of a dead person.
    The next day I had a terrible hangover, not to mention a neck-ache from sleeping with my head pushed up against the arm of the couch. I glanced at my watch and realized I was an hour late for work. I didn’t remember my dream until much later at the parlor, when I noticed that a long black hair had wound itself around my wedding ring.
    I found another letter the day after Adrian got back from Canberra. This one was in English. Bad English. It hadn’t been sent. It was tucked behind the bathroom cabinet and the wall, all folded up as if someone had left it there for me to find. I think it was from the woman, the one in my dream. I think she was Mr. Mantilli’s dead wife. I don’t know why, but I hid the letter from Adrian. Before I’d even opened it. I knew immediately that he mustn’t ever see the letters. I guess I thought he’d never understand, like the way I could never tell him that I saw things. Knowing Adrian he’d probably send me to a shrink or ban me from drinking with Gina.
    I waited until he left for work and then I opened it. It was on expensive paper that had yellowed with age. A mold staincovered a quarter of it, but the spidery writing was still visible underneath.
    13 August 1942
    Mi darlin Harry,
    I love yu, truelly I do. But I donta think we meet in the park by the ponda no more. People are talkin an their mouths are cruel.
    Please understand mi love.
    Leonie
    The letter really depressed me. I hid it in an old makeup box I keep in my underwear drawer.
    When Adrian came back from Canberra he seemed to have reverted back to his normal self—you know, tired every night, obsessive about the crossword, worried about money. Then gradually, after two days, a change came over him. Chicken cacciatore on Tuesday. Fettuccine puttanesca on Wednesday. He’s a meat-and-two-veg man from way back. I