I was silent, not knowing what to say. A part of me wanted to scream at her, to hang up, to protect my poor husband from these horrible suspicions. But another part, the one that had frozen in the bedroom doorway yesterday, whispered icily: “What if she’s right?”
— I have to go, — I said numbly. — It’s time for Dima’s injection.
— Okay, but promise me you’ll think about what I said, — Olga insisted.
— I’ll think about it. Bye.
I ended the call. My heart was pounding. Her words were cruel, unfair, but they hit their mark. I sat down on the floor right in the hallway and buried my head in my hands. What if this isn’t my paranoia? What if I’m living in a lie? A terrible, monstrous lie that I help build every single day.
After talking to Olga, I started paying attention. I turned into a spy in my own home. I memorized how the book lay on the table, the angle of the remote on the bedside table, how the blanket was folded. I felt like a complete idiot, but I couldn’t stop.
Dima didn’t seem to notice anything, only complaining more often about pain and demanding attention. For a couple of days, everything was as usual. I was beginning to think that Olga had needlessly sown those seeds of doubt in me, and the incident with the phone was truly a figment of my tired imagination.
But then I saw the scratch.
I was washing the floors in the bedroom. Dima was lying with his eyes closed, listening to an audiobook on his headphones. I moved the light curtain aside to wipe under the window and froze. On the light parquet floor, right by the windowsill, was a fresh white line. Not deep, but distinct, as if someone had dragged a chair leg. But the only chair in the room was at the desk in the opposite corner. Dima couldn’t possibly have reached the window from his bed. And yesterday, when I was vacuuming, that scratch definitely wasn’t there.
I straightened up, my heart beating faster. No one had visited us yesterday; we were alone all day. I hadn’t been near that window. Which means…
I went to the bed and pulled one earbud from his ear.
— Dima.
He opened his eyes, annoyed.
— What now? I asked you not to disturb me.
— Look, — I pointed to the window. — Where did this scratch on the floor come from? Did someone move the chair?
He squinted, looked in the direction I was pointing, then at me. His face instantly turned to stone.
— Are you crazy? Playing detective now? What scratch?
— Right there, by the window, a fresh one. It wasn’t there yesterday.
— And what do you want to hear from me? — his voice began to rise. — That I did it? Maybe you moved it when you were adjusting your curtains? And forgot. Stop interrogating me!
— I didn’t move the chair, Dima, — I couldn’t hold back either. — We were the only ones home.
And then he exploded.
— Why are you bugging me with your scratch? Have you gone mad from boredom? Or do you just enjoy torturing me, huh? Reminding me again that I’m a helpless cripple? You think I ran over there on my feet, moved the chair to look outside, and then jumped back into bed? Are you out of your mind?..
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