Sure enough, two mornings later . . . “Did you change something on my computer?”
“What? No. You have it with you all the time,” I said, pouring myself some more coffee. “Why?”
“Well . . . they got my title wrong.”
“What title?”
“The doctor title, Lillie. It used to be Dr. Fairchild. Now I’m listed as Mr. everywhere.”
“Huh.” I held up my cup to hide my smile.
Then came the ironing.
Oh, the ironing. Brad was fastidious in dressing and always had been, even when he’d been preppy instead of hipster. He didn’t trust me to iron his shirts, saying I did it wrong （I hated ironing, so it was probably true）。 Fine by me. He should iron his own shirts.
But now, I wanted to . . . how to put this . . . leave my mark.
So I peed in a cup, diluted it with water, and poured it into the iron. It was subtle enough that he wouldn’t notice it at first, not until the water evaporated and the urine remained.
“Dad,” Dylan said one night at dinner. “Uh, no offense, but you smell like pee.”
“What?” Brad said. “No, I don’t!”
“I just walked past you, and you do.” Our son shrugged, then sat down. “Oh, wow, Mom! Clams in garlic sauce! Thank you!”
“Amêijoas à bulh?o pato,” I said. “Be proud of your culture.”
“I don’t smell like urine,” Brad said. He’d always been squeamish about using words like pee and crap, preferring the more medical-sounding words. Had he always been so prissy? Yes, I decided. He had.
“Did you have a little . . . leakage?” I asked, feigning concern. “I do smell something.”
“I don’t have leakage!” Brad got up from the table and stormed off into the guest room to sniff himself. （We’d told Dylan his snoring was too much for me.）
“It happens to men as they get older,” I said to Dylan, knowing Brad could overhear. “It’s probably not prostate cancer. Don’t worry.” A second later, I heard Brad tapping the keys of his laptop, doubtlessly googling “prostate cancer” and “leakage.” I knew my husband, after all. And I knew how to punish him. I texted him. Urinary incontinence and leakage could be a sign of gonorrhea or chlamydia. Best get an STD panel.
I heard him yelp from the other room. “Sit down, Dylan,” I said to my son, smiling. “Eat, honey.” A second later, Brad texted back, I do NOT have an STD! And neither does she!!! But he’d get the test, I knew. Hey. I’d had to. It was only fair that he did, too.
I cleaned the toilet and tub drain with his toothbrush. The bathroom had never been so clean. I changed the passwords on our Netflix, HBO and Hulu accounts, since we didn’t watch TV together anymore （but put the new password on Dylan’s account so only Brad had the problem）。 I cut a small hole in the crotch of his new bathing suit, which was embarrassingly small （and ridiculously expensive）。 Melissa had not just waterfront property, but that infinity pool, sauna and hot tub as well.
In our den was a picture of Brad and Big Papi, the beloved Red Sox slugger, which Brad had paid $500 for on a trip to Fenway years ago （a necessary trip, he said, because he needed a break from our son’s colic）。 Now, I took a tiny bit of bleach and rubbed it onto Brad’s face, blurring it just enough so you couldn’t tell who it was. I left Big Papi untouched, of course. My moral compass wasn’t that bent.
I put Nair in Brad’s body wash and waited for it to take effect, and sure enough, his eyebrows began to thin, and his arm hair was patchy within days. “Do you . . .” Brad began one morning, looking at his arms. He hesitated, then continued. “Is there a reason I might be losing hair on my arms and legs?” he asked, unable to resist the temptation of asking a nurse.
“Hm,” I said. “Well, there are a lot of reasons. Alopecia universalis, which is basically inherited baldness. You know. Like your father. Could be anemia, an autoimmune disease or thyroid cancer, too. Or maybe it’s your guilty conscience, eating away at your flesh.”
His blue eyes narrowed. “You did this, didn’t you?”
“What, Brad? I plucked you in your sleep? You’re so neurotic.”
Unfortunately, he did throw out his body wash and shampoo, replacing it with expensive, all-natural stuff that smelled like sage and patchouli.
As for Melissa, she was not left alone, either. I had her email address, since I’d shown her the house last winter. So I went to websites and logged in under her name, giving them her phone number and email and checking yes at every box that asked if I wanted text message updates and newsletter enrollments. Her inbox and phone would be full of offers for products to help with incontinence, body odor, and vaginal atrophy, odor and itching. I registered her for a support group for women with personality disorders. Gamblers Anonymous.