flynn_gillian_gone_girl (1) (858987), страница 40
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The park sparkled with candles. Amoment of silence was supposed to be observed, but babies were crying, and onestumbling homeless man kept asking loudly, “Hey, what is this about? What’s it for?,”and someone would whisper Amy’s name, and the guy would say louder, “What? It’s forwhat?”From the middle of the crowd, Noelle Hawthorne began moving forward, her tripletsa xed, one on a hip, the other two clinging to her skirt, all looking ludicrously tiny to aman who spent no time around children.
Noelle forced the crowd to part for her and thechildren, marching right to the edge of the podium, where she looked up at me. I glaredat her—the woman had maligned me—and then I noticed for the rst time the swell inher belly and realized she was pregnant again. For one second, my mouth dropped—four kids under four, sweet Jesus!—and later, that look would be analyzed and debated,most people believing it was a one-two punch of anger and fear.“Hey, Nick.” Her voice caught in the half-raised microphone and boomed out to theaudience.I started to fumble with the mike, but couldn’t find the off switch.“I just wanted to see your face,” she said, and burst into tears.
A wet sob rolled outover the audience, everyone rapt. “Where is she? What have you done with Amy? Whathave you done with your wife!”Wife, wife, her voice echoed. Two of her alarmed children began to wail.Noelle couldn’t talk for a second, she was crying so hard, she was wild, furious, andshe grabbed the microphone stand and yanked the whole thing down to her level. Idebated grabbing it back but knew I could do nothing toward this woman in thematernity dress with the three toddlers. I scanned the crowd for Mike Hawthorne—control your wife—but he was nowhere. Noelle turned to address the crowd.“I am Amy’s best friend!” Friend friend friend.
The words boomed out all over the parkalong with her children’s keening. “Despite my best e orts, the police don’t seem to betaking me seriously. So I’m taking our cause to this town, this town that Amy loved, thatloved her back! This man, Nick Dunne, needs to answer some questions. He needs to tellus what he did to his wife!”Boney darted from the side of the stage to reach her, and Noelle turned, and the twolocked eyes. Boney made a frantic chopping motion at her throat: Stop talking!“His pregnant wife!”And no one could see the candles anymore, because the ashbulbs were goingberserk. Next to me, Rand made a noise like a balloon squeak. Down below me, Boneyput her ngers between her eyebrows as if stanching a headache. I was seeing everyonein frantic strobe shots that matched my pulse.I looked out into the crowd for Andie, saw her staring at me, her face pink andtwisted, her cheeks damp, and as we caught each other’s eyes, she mouthed “Asshole!”and stumbled back away through the crowd.“We should go.” My sister, suddenly beside me, whispering in my ear, tugging at myarm.
The cameras ashing at me as I stood like some Frankenstein’s monster, fearfuland agitated by the villager torches. Flash, ash. We started moving, breaking into twoparts: my sister and I eeing toward Go’s car, the Elliotts standing with jaws agape, onthe platform, left behind, save yourselves. The reporters pelted the question over andover at me. Nick, was Amy pregnant? Nick, were you upset Amy was pregnant? Me,streaking out of the park, ducking like I was caught in hail: Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant,the word pulsing in the summer night in time to the cicadas.AMY ELLIOTT DUNNEFEBRUARY 15, 2012DIARY ENTRYWhat a strange time this is. I have to think that way, try to examine it from adistance: Ha-ha, what an odd period this will be to look back on, won’t I be amusedwhen I’m eighty, dressed in faded lavender, a wise, amused gure swilling martinis, andwon’t this make a story? A strange, awful story of something I survived.Because something is horribly wrong with my husband, of that I am sure now.
Yes,he’s mourning his mother, but this is something more. It feels directed at me, not asadness but … I can feel him watching me sometimes, and I look up and see his facetwisted in disgust, like he’s walked in on me doing something awful, instead of justeating cereal in the morning or combing my hair at night. He’s so angry, so unstable,I’ve been wondering if his moods are linked to something physical—one of those wheatallergies that turn people mad, or a colony of mold spores that has clogged his brain.I came downstairs the other night and found him at the dining room table, his headin his hands, looking at a pile of credit-card bills.
I watched my husband, all alone,under the spotlight of a chandelier. I wanted to go to him, to sit down with him andgure it out like partners. But I didn’t, I knew that would piss him o . I sometimeswonder if that is at the root of his distaste for me: He’s let me see his shortcomings, andhe hates me for knowing them.He shoved me.
Hard. Two days ago, he shoved me, and I fell and banged my headagainst the kitchen island and I couldn’t see for three seconds. I don’t really know whatto say about it. It was more shocking than painful. I was telling him I could get a job,something freelance, so we could start a family, have a real life …“What do you call this?” he said.Purgatory, I thought.
I stayed silent.“What do you call this, Amy? Huh? What do you call this? This isn’t life, according toMiss Amazing?”“It’s not my idea of life,” I said, and he took three big steps toward me, and I thought:He looks like he’s going to … And then he was slamming against me and I was falling.We both gasped. He held his st in the other hand and looked like he might cry. Hewas beyond sorry, he was aghast. But here’s the thing I want to be clear on: I knewwhat I was doing, I was punching every button on him.
I was watching him coil tighterand tighter—I wanted him to nally say something, do something. Even if it’s bad, evenif it’s the worst, do something, Nick. Don’t leave me here like a ghost.I just didn’t realize he was going to do that.I’ve never considered what I would do if my husband attacked me, because I haven’texactly run in the wife-beating crowd. (I know, Lifetime movie, I know: Violence crossesall socioeconomic barriers.
But still: Nick?) I sound glib. It just seems so incrediblyludicrous: I am a battered wife. Amazing Amy and the Domestic Abuser.He did apologize profusely. (Does anyone do anything profusely except apologize?Sweat, I guess.) He’s agreed to consider counseling, which was something I neverthought could happen. Which is good. He’s such a good man, at his core, that I amwilling to write it o , to believe it truly was a sick anomaly, brought on by the strainwe’re both under. I forget sometimes, that as much stress as I feel, Nick feels it too: Hebears the burden of having brought me here, he feels the strain of wanting mopey me tobe content, and for a man like Nick—who believes strongly in an up-by-the-bootstrapssort of happiness—that can be infuriating.So the hard shove, so quick, then done, it didn’t scare me in itself.
What scared mewas the look on his face as I lay on the oor blinking, my head ringing. It was the lookon his face as he restrained himself from taking another jab. How much he wanted toshove me again. How hard it was not to. How he’s been looking at me since: guilt, anddisgust at the guilt. Absolute disgust.Here’s the darkest part.
I drove out to the mall yesterday, where about half the townbuys drugs, and it’s as easy as picking up a prescription; I know because Noelle told me:Her husband goes there to purchase the occasional joint. I didn’t want a joint, though, Iwanted a gun, just in case. In case things with Nick go really wrong. I didn’t realizeuntil I was almost there that it was Valentine’s Day. It was Valentine’s Day and I wasgoing to buy a gun and then cook my husband dinner.
And I thought to myself: Nick’sdad was right about you. You are a dumb bitch. Because if you think your husband is going tohurt you, you leave. And yet you can’t leave your husband, who’s mourning his dead mother.You can’t. You’d have to be a biblically awful woman to do that, unless something were trulywrong. You’d have to really believe your husband was going to hurt you.But I don’t really think Nick would hurt me.I just would feel safer with a gun.NICK DUNNESIX DAYS GONEGo pushed me into the car and peeled away from the park.
We ew past Noelle, whowas walking with Boney and Gilpin toward their cruiser, her carefully dressed tripletsbumping along behind her like kite ribbons. We screeched past the mob: hundreds offaces, a eshy pointillism of anger aimed right at me. We ran away, basically.Technically.“Wow, ambush,” Go muttered.“Ambush?” I repeated, brain-stunned.“You think that was an accident, Nick? Triplet Cunt already made her statement tothe police.
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