Camila cocks her head thoughtfully—I’m relieved she hasn’t immediately rejected my request right off the bat. “Maybe in a bit. I’ll let him out into the backyard. It’s fenced in.”
Ziggy clearly understands the word “backyard” because he is nearly levitating with excitement. He follows her to the back door, and so do I, although my legs are unsteady after what was apparently a seizure. I watch as she pulls a key from a chain around her neck. She fits the key into the lock on the back door and turns it. Ziggy bounds outside.
“I’ll go sit with him,” I say.
At first, I think she’s going to slam the door shut and lock it again, but instead, she steps back. “Go ahead.”
I feel a rush of relief as I step out into the fresh air for the first time today. I feel almost as happy as Ziggy looks. The locked door was so claustrophobic, but maybe that’s just something they do at night. Obviously, I’m not a prisoner in the house.
I pick up a stick from the ground and I toss it into the air. Ziggy goes wild with excitement.
While Ziggy retrieves the stick, I survey the backyard, which is different than it was when Harry and I bought the place. It was mostly dirt back then with a few scattered blades of grass, possibly weeds, sprouting every few feet. But Harry loved it. He grew up in an apartment in Brooklyn and we lived in a shoebox in Manhattan for the entire time we’d been together. This was his first house. His first backyard.
We should put a hot tub out here, he said with a glint in his eyes.
And now I see it. The hot tub we dreamed about, surrounded by purple shrubs, at the far end of the yard. It’s empty now, but I can imagine it filled with piping hot water. I can imagine sitting in a hot tub with Harry, him grinning at me with that suggestive look that never fails to turn me on.
But no. I’ve probably never shared this hot tub with Harry. I’ve only been in it with Graham. But the thought of sitting in this tub naked with that man makes me sick to my stomach.
Don’t trust the man who calls himself your husband.
Ziggy is looking up at me, the stick in his jaw, nudging my hand so that I’ll take it from him. He wants to play. At least I know my dog isn’t lying to me. Dogs aren’t deceptive the way people are.
I’ve got to meet the stranger who’s been texting me. Maybe I can go now.
I take the stick from Ziggy and I toss it one more time, all the way across the backyard. While he runs to get it, I go around the side of the house, to the fence out of the backyard. There wasn’t a fence here when Harry and I first moved in. But now it’s around the entire backyard, and it goes up higher than my head.
And on the gate to get out of the backyard, there’s a big thick padlock.
They have got to be kidding me.
I can’t leave the backyard. I’m trapped here.
A sob forms at the base of my throat. What’s going on with my life? Yes, my memory isn’t what it used to be. And I had that strange episode this morning, which, okay, I’m going to admit might’ve really been a seizure. But I’m not so bad that they need to keep me locked away like a prisoner. I should be allowed to walk around the neighborhood.
My phone vibrates inside my pocket. At first, I think it’s another text message, but the vibrating doesn’t stop. Somebody’s calling me.
Maybe it’s Lucy. Or my father.
But then when I pull my phone out, Graham’s name is on the screen. My stomach sinks. I’m not sure I want to talk to him. But what can I do? He’s my husband. So I jab at the green button to take the call.
“Tess!” His voice is upbeat. “How are you doing? How is your day going?”
A tear escapes from my right eye and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “You locked me in the backyard.”
There’s a long silence on the other line. “Tess…”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Christ,” he mutters under his breath. “I’m coming home.”
In the background, he’s telling somebody to cancel a meeting. I feel a sting of panic in my chest. I don’t want him to come home. If he comes home, I will have no chance of getting to the dog park on my own. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“You don’t have to come home,” I say to him.
“You’re upset though.”
“I… I’m okay.” I take a breath. “Camila will take me out later, right?”
“Of course she will.” Graham’s voice is gentle. He doesn’t sound like an evil person. He sounds like he’s genuinely worried about me—his wife of four years. “Are you sure you’re okay though? If you need me—”