“Marissa Bishop.”
Clearly the housemate has no idea who Marissa is. “Polly works for me.”
The woman pushes her glasses up on her nose as she examines Marissa more closely.
“Oh, right, at the real estate company? Anyway, she’s not here. Sorry.”
Behind her Marissa can hear laughter and then a male voice shouts, “Is it the pizza guy?”
“Nah, someone for Polly,” the woman calls back. Then she turns back to Marissa. “Maybe she’s in class?”
Had Polly once mentioned she was taking a design course? Marissa can’t remember. She knows so little about her assistant—she didn’t even remember Polly once had a job in real estate—even though she has asked Polly about her life from time to time. But Polly, so seemingly artless in some ways, is adept at always turning the conversation back to Marissa.
“Please tell her I stopped by and would love for her to call. And if the exterminator isn’t finished, she can stay at the store tonight.”
“Exterminator?”
The words die in Marissa’s throat before she can utter them. For the mouse problem.
There is no mouse problem, she realizes with a start. Polly fabricated that story.
The question filling Marissa’s mind is, Why?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AVERY
“SO, HOW ARE YOU HOLDING up?” My primary care physician, Dr. Hernandez, fixes me with warm brown eyes. I’ve been seeing her for years, since I was in grad school. She guided me through a cancer scare—the lump in my breast was benign—as well as my thyroid issue and has seen me transform from a single woman, to a married one, to a widow. Now I sit in her private office, with a view of the Potomac River and a vase of irises on her uncluttered desk, for my annual wellness visit.
Dr. Hernandez is in her early sixties, and wears a slim gold band on her ring finger. A photograph of her with her wife is on her desk, and I sometimes wonder if her life is as serene and well-ordered as it appears.
“Pretty well,” I say.
“Are you still taking the trazodone? Do you need a refill?”
“I’m okay.”
The truth is I never even picked up the prescription she gave me shortly after Paul’s death. I know Dr. Hernandez meant well when she suggested the antidepressant. It’ll help with your sleep and anxiety.
Like everyone else, my doctor assumed Paul’s death would upend my world. And it did, but not in the way she anticipated.
My feelings about Paul are complicated, though their jagged edges have softened with time. I am grateful I never told Paul I was planning to move out, so I could at least spare him that emotional pain, even if I couldn’t rid him of his physical suffering. And I will never regret caring for him during those final months.
Before Paul got sick, I’d drafted a different ending for us; I assumed that after the bumpiness of our divorce, we’d become friends. I didn’t know if either of us would remarry, but we’d always be linked by our years together, and through our love for Lana. I could see us consulting on patients, and perhaps sharing holiday dinners now and then.
But we don’t always get to write our own stories.
Paul was robbed of his second act. But I can’t deny that I’m enjoying mine.
Maybe it sounds selfish, but I sleep better these days, alone in my bed, than I ever did by Paul’s side, even before he got sick. The vibe in my house is no longer dictated by his mercurial moods.
Most of all, I find relief in not having to be accountable to anyone. I can book a client for any hour, get a massage during dinnertime, spontaneously meet a friend at 8:00 P.M. for cocktails—then stay out even later if I meet someone interesting.
When my husband died, my life opened up. It isn’t the right thing to say, which is one of the reasons why I’ve never said it to anyone.
“Uh, I actually haven’t been taking it,” I tell Dr. Hernandez. “I adopted this dog, Romeo, and that’s really helped. The extra exercise and companionship.”
My implication is that I adopted Romeo shortly after Paul’s death, rather than just last week. I don’t enjoy misleading Dr. Hernandez, but it’s easier this way.
“Okay … how are you eating?”
“Pretty well. I’m not getting my seven servings of fruits and veggies a day, or whatever they recommend, but who really does that?”
She smiles. “It’s nine. Just do the best you can. What about drinking? How many units of alcohol would you say you consume per week?”
“Five or six.” I watch as she types the information into her laptop. “Actually, it’s probably more like ten or so. Does everyone undercount when they come in here? You should probably just double whatever people say to be safe.”