“Why didn’t you tell me my mother was alive?” I blurt out.
He blinks, confused. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Because when I was … ?sedated I thought she died.”
His breath gusts out. “Oh my God, Diana.”
“I saw her on a FaceTime call, fighting to breathe,” I tell him. “And then she …” I can’t say it. I feel like I’ll jinx this unexpected resurrection. “I asked you about her, when I first woke up. You said you’d take care of everything. So I assumed that meant you knew what had happened. That you’d been talking to the memory care place and the funeral home and everything.”
“Well,” he says tentatively, “silver lining, right?”
“When I thought she’d died, I didn’t feel anything. I thought I was a monster.”
“Maybe you didn’t feel anything because on some unconscious level you knew it wasn’t real—”
“It felt real,” I snap, and I swipe at my eyes. “I want to visit her.”
“Okay. We will.”
“I think I need to go by myself,” I say.
“Then that gives you even more incentive to get better,” Finn replies, gentling his voice. “How’s rehab?”
“Torture,” I say, still sniffling. “Every inch of me aches and my bed has plastic under the sheets so I’m sweating bullets.”
“You won’t be there that long,” he says confidently. “It usually takes three times as long to get back to where you were after you’re intubated. So that would be fifteen days for you.”
“My physical therapist said two weeks.”
“You’ve always been an A student,” Finn says.
I peer through the screen at his face. “Did someone punch you?” I brush my finger along the orbital bones of my own face, mirroring where his is bruised.
“They’re from the N95 mask,” Finn says. “That’s how tight they have to be fitted to keep us safe. I don’t even notice it anymore. Of course, that’s probably because I’m always wearing the damn mask.”
All of a sudden, I am ashamed. I jumped all over Finn the minute the call connected, all but accusing him of not being more clear that my mother was healthy. Of course he couldn’t have known that I’d be doubting this. Plus, given the limited exposure I’ve allowed my mother in my life, she would not be anywhere near Finn’s first, fifth, or even fiftieth topic of conversation after I awakened from a medically induced coma. “I haven’t asked about your day,” I say. “How was it?”
Something in Finn changes, like a shade being drawn down, not to keep me out but to protect him from having to see what he doesn’t want to revisit. “It’s over,” Finn says. “That’s about the best thing I can say about it.” He smiles at me, and his eyes light again. “I thought maybe both of us could use a little treat right now.”
I snuggle down further in bed, curling on my side so that the phone is propped on the pillow beside me. “Does it involve a bath? Please tell me it involves a bath.”
He laughs. “I was thinking more like … ?porn.”
My jaw drops. “What? No! Someone could walk in here any minute …”
Finn starts typing, sharing his screen, and a moment later the Zillow website loads. “I didn’t specify what kind of porn,” he says.
I cannot help but grin. Finn and I have spent so many lazy Sunday mornings in bed with coffee and bagels and a laptop balanced between us, surfing through the real estate of our dreams. Most homes were out of our price range, but it was fun to fantasize. Some were just ridiculous—sprawling mansions in the Hamptons, a functional ranch in Wyoming, an actual treehouse in North Carolina. We would scroll through the pictures, scripting our future: This screened porch is where we’ll eat the saved piece of wedding cake on our first anniversary. This is the alcove room we’ll paint yellow when we find out we’re having a baby. This is the yard where we build her swing set when she’s old enough. The carpet in this room has to go, because our Bernese puppy will pee on it.
Finn loads a modest Victorian with an actual turret. “That’s cute,” I say. “Where is it?”
“White Plains,” he says. “Not a bad commute.”
The house is pink, with violet trim. “It’s a little Hansel and Gretel.”
“Exactly. Perfect for a fairy-tale ending.”