Page 48 of Insidious

Luna

Isaac is hiding something. I know it in my bones. Not because of something he says, but because of what he doesn’t. My husband has become an expert in one-word replies and diversions, but he is always here, watching me like a hawk. Sometimes, his attention fixes on every little thing I do, as though I might disappear if he looks away for too long. And yet, the moment I try to speak, he redirects like it is his job. Usually with something about Amelie.

“Is she eating well?”

“Is she sleeping more?”

The conversation flips before it can wander anywhere meaningful, and just like that, it is no longer about us. It becomes about her, as if she is the safest ground we have left.

He has been skirting the edges for days now, hovering just close enough to keep an eye, but never close enough to touch. Our conversations feel stilted, like we are both tiptoeing carefully around something dangerous lying between us. And sometimes, when I watch him avoid my eyes, I wonder if he is ashamed of what I did. There has been talk of therapy—discussions between doctors, suggestions gently made—but ten days in, and the hospital has already been a game-changer for me. Not fixed, not healed, but my improvement is enough that they decide against moving me to the psychiatric ward. I am breastfeeding in bouts, but also giving Amelie the bottle sometimes. I am not considered a risk to myself or anyone anymore. I am stable as long as I take my meds. The words feel light, like butterflies in my chest.

Isaac does not seem convinced. He hovers constantly, as if his sheer presence might stop me from going off the rails. My husband has been working from home or the hospital, and he keeps busy all the time. He holds the baby, lets me rest, and makes sure I eat. One morning, he brought cinnamon rolls, still warm, and the coffee he makes every day at home, exactly the way I like it. He is doing these loving things, but the cracks stretch between us, and Amelie becomes the bridge we both stand on, the one place where we don’t falter.

Now, she is asleep, heavy with milk, completely unaware of the tension in the room as she passes easily between our hands. Isaac takes her gently, supporting her head without thinking. My husband smiles like he always does when he looks at her, soft and uncomplicated feelings passing across his face. He murmurs something about her having had a rough couple of days—the immunisations, the swelling on her tiny thigh, the way she cried unlike her usual easy-going self, which I know distressed him more than he lets on—and then he lays her carefully in the crib, adjusting the blanket with unnecessary precision. He lingers for a second too long, watching her, and then steps back. And for a brief moment, he looks … lost.

It is fleeting, but I see it.

Then he turns to tidying, straightening things that don’t need straightening, moving objects that are already in place. This has always been him—order and control—while I have always been the one who brings the chaos.

“Isaac,” I try, my voice louder than I want it to be.

“What?” he replies without looking at me, still busy with nothing.

“Isaac,” I insist injecting more firmness into my tone.

This time, I watch as his shoulders slump slightly, as if whatever small respite he had been holding onto is gone now. I pat the bed beside me. “Come sit over here.”

He hesitates, just for a second, and then he comes over and sits. I have never felt more like an executioner in my life.

Up close, it hits me.

He looks thinner. There is a sharpness to the line of his jaw. His clothes hang just a little looser on him. And he is still unfairly handsome. But something in him has changed, like he is carrying a burden he cannot put down.

Not for the first time since I woke up, I realize with a pang that whatever happened to me … didn’t just happen to me.

There is stark fear in his eyes.

For a moment, neither of us speaks, and then whatever was holding him back seems to give way. Isaac shuffles near, closing that careful distance he has maintained for days, and when he finally reaches for me, it is hesitant, like he is not sure of the rules anymore. His gaze flickers from my face to my hands, and then, slowly, he takes one of them in his large ones, his fingers wrapping around mine, warm, familiar, and yet strangely tentative.

It is only when a drop falls onto my skin that I realise he is crying.

Silent tears slip down, one after the other, landing on the back of my hand.

Isaac’s head is bowed, his hair longer than I remember, falling slightly forward as if to shield his face. He doesn’t look at me right away. It takes a few long moments before he seems to gather himself, like he is drawing a shield around his body. He sniffs quietly and finally looks up, his blue eyes red and rimmed with exhaustion.

His gaze shifts to my hair. I know how much he loves my long hair. He could never stop touching and playing with it.

I washed it earlier, carefully avoiding the sutured cut on my scalp. There is a small shaved patch near the wound, but it will grow back. The rest of it falls straight, long, and brown, still damp from the shower.

A gentle, calloused hand comes up, almost without thinking, and smooths over it. His eyes almost close with pleasure, and a slightly whimsical smile plays across his lips.

“Still wet … can I just towel it dry?” he asks softly.

I nod.

Isaac moves behind me, and I feel the bed depress as he settles, the soft brush of the towel as he gathers my hair. He is so gentle, mindful of every movement, every angle, avoiding the healing skin. Not pulling, not tugging. Just slow, patient strokes, like he is handling a fragile treasure.

“Still don’t remember anything from that day?” he asks in a whisper.