I say yes. Just to shut her up.
She turns down the lights first, and as the room descends into darkness, she sits down again on the bed beside me and takes my hands in her cold, wrinkled ones. She closes her eyes, and I can feel the gentle pressure on my fingers.
“You don’t use Tarot cards?” I ask.
She scoffs. “Only for charlatans. I do not need them.”
I sit there, in my wheelchair, feeling her icy hands in mine. The pressure intensifies and her eyelids flutter. If Nick were here, he would laugh at this display. He doesn’t believe in any of this stuff. Neither do I. Not really.
Except I wonder what she’s seeing.
“Your future is bright, Rosalie,” she says.
I stare at her. “What?”
“I see happiness,” she says. “I see great joy coming into your life. Joy like you have never felt before. For you and for Nick.”
“Really?” I say flatly.
“I see a happy future for you and Nick. Together. It is your destiny.”
I was more willing to believe Nick could be a murderer. There’s no happy future for me and Nick. Everything is different between the two of us now. I fell in love with Nick because I felt like I could tell him anything. But now it’s like we’re strangers, even though he’s constantly helping me with the most intimate things. He doesn’t look at me the way he did before. And who could blame him?
No, Nick and I will not have a happy ending.
“Right,” I say. “Sure.”
She squeezes my hand in hers. For an old woman, she’s strong. “I lost my Bernie—it was the greatest tragedy of my life. Do not let Nick get away from you. Do not lose what you have with him. You must protect your marriage at all costs.”
I shake my head. “I…”
“Promise me, Rosalie. Promise me you will not let him go. Protect your marriage at all costs.”
Her grip on my hand is so tight, it hurts. I try to pull away, but she’s too strong. Or I’m too weak. “I… I promise.”
She gives me a hard look, then she releases my hand. The imprints of her fingers remain on my skin, darkening into what will become bruises. Greta made me swear not to let him go, but I don’t know what she means. If Nick wants to leave, there’s nothing I could do to stop him.
Chapter 29
Two Years Earlier
Nick is whistling in the shower.
I’ll take it as a good sign. He only whistles in the shower when he’s in a good mood. Like when I was pregnant. Or every day of our honeymoon. He always whistled in the shower after we had sex.
Well, that’s definitely not why he’s whistling. Before I got sick, we made love every single day, sometimes multiple times. We couldn’t get enough of each other. But in the years after my diagnosis, it’s become less frequent. Once a week. Then once a month. Lately, every time he reaches for me, I cringe and push him away. He’s stopped trying. It’s been…
I’m not even sure how long it’s been. A very long time.
Nick comes out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around his waist. He smiles at me. “Good morning, Rosie.”
“Morning,” I mumble.
He’s so sexy in just that towel. The years have been good to him. The problem is me. The thought of being with anyone—even my sweet, sexy husband—makes me sick.
I watch as he throws on some clothing. He is still whistling to himself. I squirm under the blanket, feeling sweaty and greasy.
“Ready to get up?” he asks.
I nod.
As he helps me transfer from a bed into my wheelchair, I catch a whiff of aftershave. Nick rarely wears aftershave. Why is he suddenly so concerned with smelling good?
At first, I was pleased about the whistling. But now I feel distinctly uneasy. Why is my husband so happy all of a sudden? Why is he in such a good mood? And why does he take an extra second to check out his appearance in the bathroom mirror before he leaves for the motel?
Fortunately, I have an excellent view of the motel from my bedroom window.
It doesn’t take long to have the answer to my question. Later in the morning, I see Nick outside the motel, talking to a curvy blonde who is several years younger than me. I’ve seen her before out the window, maybe yesterday or the day before. The point is, she’s been staying at the motel for several days. And now she’s talking to my husband.
I wrench the window open, trying to hear their conversation. But they’re too far away, and I only catch a few snippets. I hear him call her Christina. She calls him Nicky, and then she reaches out and adjusts the crooked collar of his shirt. He grins at her.