“What’s that?”
“They’re antidepressants,” he says. “Dr. Heller thought they might help.”
“Oh God.”
“Rosie…”
“I’m not taking those,” I say. “I don’t have depression. My situation is the problem. Anyone would be depressed in my situation.”
“They still might help.” He tries to reach for my hand, but I pull away. “Please, Rosie. Just try it. For a few weeks. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to keep taking them. But maybe they’ll help.”
I look into his eyes. He still loves me, for some reason. He’s just trying to help.
“Fine.” I accept the bottle. “I’ll try them for a few weeks.”
But that night, I flush all the pills down the toilet.
_____
Whenever I hear footsteps on the stairs, my heart leaps into my chest.
It’s almost always Nick. Who else would it be, visiting me in the middle of the day? That butterflies sensation reminds me of when we were first dating, of how excited I used to be to see him.
Except that’s not why I get butterflies now. I’m worried that any day now, Nick will throw up his hands. Tell me he’s done with me. He’s had enough.
It hasn’t happened yet, but it will. A person can only take so much.
But this time, it’s not Nick at all. It’s the silver haired, elderly woman who has permanently moved into one of the rooms at the motel. Her name is Greta, and she and Nick struck up a deal for a reasonable monthly rate to allow her to live at the motel long term.
I like Greta—she’s my only friend right now. She’s incredibly eccentric, with her long silver hair and her propensity to wear nightgowns twenty-four hours a day. But her visits to my room are the only bright spot in my week. She entertains me with stories about her life back in the carnival, or about her childhood back in Hungary. Or about Bernie, the carnie who used to be her husband before he dropped dead of a heart attack.
“Hello, Rosalie,” she says in her East European accent.
“Hi, Greta.”
She cocks her head to the side. “You need to eat more. Soon you will be so skinny, my bad eyes won’t be able to see you anymore.”
I laugh and tug subconsciously at my T-shirt, which was snug when I bought it five years ago, and now is swimming on me. “I’m fine.”
“I will bring you food next time,” she says. “Something I cooked myself. And you will eat every bite.”
“Sure,” I murmur.
She sits beside me—her on the bed and me in my wheelchair. Her eyes rake over me and I shift in my chair. “I don’t like your aura today, Rosalie.”
“Sorry?”
She frowns at me. “I will read your fortune today.”
A sick sensation washes over me. I knew Greta used to tell fortunes in the carnival, but this is the first time she offered to tell my fortune. I never told her about that experience with Naomi, the woman who warned me about the terrible things that would happen if I married Nick.
She was right about the tragedy that changed my life. On the plus side, Nick hasn’t murdered anyone. Not as far as I know, anyway.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I say.
Greta clasps my hand in hers. It’s cold and bony, the same as the fortune teller at the carnival all those years ago. “Tell me. What is your hesitation?”
“I just think… It’s all sort of silly.”
She studies my face. “No. You don’t think it’s silly. You are afraid.”
I swallow, my mouth suddenly bone dry. “I had my fortune told a long time ago and it didn’t go well.”
Greta’s eyes widen. “Tell me what happened.”
I realize I haven’t told anyone about that day at the carnival. I told Nick part of it, but not the entire story. I have carried it alone all these years.
“She predicted my multiple sclerosis,” I say. “She told me I was going to have a life-changing event.”
Greta waves a hand. “I am not impressed. What else did this charlatan say to you?”
“She told me not to marry Nick.” I bite down on my thumbnail. “Because… she… she said he was going to kill somebody if I did.”
Greta stares at me for a moment. And then she bursts out laughing. “Nick? Kill somebody? Oh, you did not believe that, did you? Nick wouldn’t hurt a fly! He is just as gentle and kind as my Bernie.”
“Well…”
“Listen to me, Rosalie.” Her wrinkled face becomes serious again. “Very few people have the gift. But I do. Let me tell your fortune.”