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Back The Harpy Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. The Harpy
  2. Also by Megan Hunter
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. The Harpy
  8. Part I
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. Part II
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. Part III
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. Part IV
  51. Acknowledgments
  52. Back Cover

I never imagined that I would hurt a single person. When I first held those boys – my babies – I was afraid that I would drop them, swing them from a window, turn their prams over in the road. It seemed to be a miracle, that this didn’t happen. That we made it through alive.

~

18

18

On the way to the sea, there was almost no traffic; Ted had just grown out of car sickness but we kept one window open anyway, the coolness passing over us, the leafless landscape clouding by. Jake was feeling better, had even put some music on; I wondered if he had chosen it deliberately, an album from the beginning of our relationship, from our early drives. I used to rest my legs on the dashboard, let my hand lie on his jeans. Now, our bodies seemed to be miles apart, glowing with the separateness of strangeness. I held the steering wheel tightly, peered over the wheel. I could tell Jake was nervous, tapping along with the music, occasionally out of time, taking sharp intakes of breath as I rounded a bend at speed, slowed too hard behind another car.

Today, Jake looked almost normal, some colour back in his skin, but in the night I couldn’t stop seeing it: his whole body sickly, weakened. I had slept badly, waking at what felt like hourly intervals, as though by a newborn. But there was no one there: Jake had gone back to the sofa without me having to say anything. It was my own mind waking me up, the same pictures flashing through, fast as a flip book. In the deep, tangled space of 3 a.m., there was no triumph, no energy. My mind had become light, rootless, easily blown from one subject to the next, every one of them dangerous.

This morning I had put make-­up on my face, covering the black circles under my eyes with a glossy beige paste. I had phoned the school, told them the boys were ill, the lie coming out easily, simply. I had never done this before, had never been able to cope with the anxiety of the transgression, the image of the teachers’ faces, sensing an untruth. Now, it seemed like nothing. Even Jake had called in sick without complaining. He just nodded and did it straight away, mumbled a few words into his phone in another room.

When we arrived, the seaside village looked different, warped, somehow, rough at the edges. We had never been there in winter, and at first the boys were bewildered, slow-­boned, reluctant to get out of the car. I remembered that feeling, the sense that the journey was sufficient without an arrival, all that time watching the world unfurl itself, accompanied by music.