??34??
Addison
I am alone in the house—Julian was called out on some sort of emergency. He apologized profusely for leaving me on my first day here but promised to be back as soon as he could. I’m actually relieved; it gives me a chance to explore the house unobserved. The door to his bedroom is closed. I turn the doorknob, half expecting it to be locked. I step inside, onto the cool wood floor. A king-size bed sits in the middle of the room, on top of a beautiful Oriental rug in golds and greens. There are photos on the walls, beautifully framed pictures of boats and bodies of water. The photos seem hopeful, even happy.
After I’ve examined the photos, I walk to the dressing table and sit tentatively, feeling like I’m trespassing. It’s the only old-fashioned piece of furniture in the room, dark wood with a velvet stool and a large beveled mirror above it. Picking up a bottle of Clive Christian, I spritz some on my wrist and inhale. The effect is immediate. Loud music. Arms holding me tight and swirling me around. I’m dancing. A face, Julian’s, smiling, leaning down and kissing me. The kiss is intoxicating. I put the bottle down with a shaking hand. I think I must have been happy. In love. I search my memory for more, but as quickly as it came, the memory is gone.
I stand up and walk into the attached bathroom. I step inside the huge walk-in shower. Shampoo and soap on one shelf. A pink razor and shaving cream on the other—clearly belonging to a woman. I frown. Are they mine? Certainly if Julian had had another woman here, he would have cleared out her things. But it seems odd to me, if they are mine, that he’s left them here for two years. Every time he took a shower, he’d have seen them. I swallow hard and rush out of the room.
When I go to the kitchen, I see a note on the counter next to the coffee machine: “Coffee all teed up. Just hit start when you’re ready.—J.” I press the button, and the machine comes to life. I wonder if he’s always this thoughtful, or if he’s just trying extra hard because of the circumstances. I search the cabinets until I find the mugs. My breath catches when I see the one on the top shelf—a homemade mug, the kind kids make in preschool. There’s a childish drawing printed on it of a woman holding a little girl’s hand, and the words “I love Mommy.” I reach for it, but it’s too high. Dragging a chair over, I stand up and take it from the shelf, running my finger over the words. Suddenly feeling like an impostor, I put it back and get down, pulling a plain white mug from the first shelf.
I take my coffee and walk around the downstairs, looking around at everything. I don’t know how much time I have before Nancy returns from grocery shopping, and I don’t want to have her watching my every move. The living room is tastefully decorated in what looks like antique furniture, in a much more formal style than I like now. I wonder if I had a hand in it, or if Julian oversaw the design. Over the fireplace is a twelve-by-twelve photo from our wedding. I move closer to study it. We’re standing in front of a wedding cake, his hand over mine, which is on the knife. I have a wide smile on my face, as does Julian. We look in love. I don’t particularly like my wedding dress, which makes me look a little plump. I also wonder at the choice of such a casual photo in this formal room. Who chose it? I’ll have to ask Julian.
I move into the den, where the decor is a bit less formal: a fluffy blue sofa with two plush chairs on either side, with matching ottomans; a long table running the width of the windows on one wall, holding framed photographs. I pick up the first one, a shot of Julian and me on the beach. We’re holding hands, smiling, and the wind is blowing my hair. We both look happy and relaxed. I can’t tell where the photo was taken, except that the sand is smooth, and it looks like the ocean but I have no idea if it’s on the East or West Coast. I put it down and pick up the next: Valentina sitting on my lap, a birthday cake in front of her. There are five candles on the cake. In this shot, I’m not smiling but look lost in thought. Was I depressed? I go down the line, more photos of the three of us in various domestic settings. They yield no clues other than the passage of time. I suddenly realize that I haven’t seen any other wedding photos.
Putting my coffee mug in the dishwasher, I hear my cell phone ring. I pick it up and look at the caller ID. Gabriel.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Hey,” he says, his voice sad. “How are you?”
“I’m hanging in there. How are you?”
“Shitty. I miss you. I still can’t believe this.”
I hate what this is doing to us. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”