her own son. And she seemed to sense that something was wrong. Her dementia varied from day to day, and sometimes she would ask, over and over, if Natalie was happy, if Dan was a good husband, if the marriage was still strong.
“Yes,” Natalie would answer, because why distress the old woman further? And why distress herself? Was she happy? Generally, yes. She was comfortable. Was Dan a good husband? In a manner of speaking. It depended on what standard you used. Was the marriage still strong? Yes. In fact, it felt like a train rolling along a slight decline. It required little energy. It just kept going. Something would have to happen to make it stop.
And then one day, in the middle of that aching year after her own mother died, she came home from the grocery store and asked Dan if he thought of her as a separate and complete human being. She wasn’t sure what made her do this—what, exactly, set her off. Her mother’s death had left her restless, ready to say things as soon as she thought them. And on the drive home from the grocery store that day, it occurred to Natalie that Dan didn’t really listen to her when she talked. He liked to talk to her about his work—the funny thing a client had said, the arrogance of some judge. He was a good storyteller, and she was a polite and interested listener, so this was how most of their conversations worked. But when she tried to talk, and tell him about her day—about her conversations with repairmen and dry cleaners and nursing home attendants—she couldn’t keep his attention. His gaze wandered. He would start reading something, anything—the back of a cereal box on the table, old text messages on his phone. If she called him on it, he would apologize. And then he would do it again.
When her mother was dying, she’d noticed all this, but she’d been too preoccupied to really think about it. And then her mother died, and she had some time to think about it, and it started to really bug her. On that particular morning, coming home from the store, she was thinking about it. When she got home, Dan was right there, coming out to help her with the bags. Veronica was at a friend’s house and thus unable to overhear. And so she asked.
“What?” He had on an undershirt and sweatpants, and the bifocals he needed when he read. He squinted at her over them, as if he were having trouble seeing her, though she stood only a couple of feet away. She held a paper grocery bag in one arm. Her purse was still slung over the other.
“Do you think I’m interesting?” She switched the bag of groceries to her other arm. She focused on keeping her voice neutral, no judgment at all. She wasn’t trying to pick a fight. She really just wanted to know. “Also, when you think of me, when you picture me in your head, do you see me as a separate entity? Or do you only see me in relation to you?”
He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. And he said absolutely nothing. It was, in twenty-six years of marriage, the only time she’d caught him speechless, too stumped even to nod or shake his head.
“I’ll get the rest of the groceries,” he said, as if that were the question she’d asked. “Don’t let the dog follow me out.” He walked past her, out into the garage. She stood where she was, still holding a bag of groceries, a stalk of celery just under her nose. When he came back in, holding four bags, two in each arm, he made a big production out of having to walk around her to the counter. Bowzer hurried behind him, head raised, sniffing the air.
“What?” he asked. He looked at her only briefly before he set the bags on the counter. He took a box of ice cream out of a bag, holding it up in front of his glasses, checking the ingredients perhaps.
“I asked you a question.” Her voice was quiet, no threat at all in it. But she held the bag of groceries like a shield in front of her, ready and waiting. His reluctance seemed a bad sign.
He bent down to pet the dog. When he looked up at her again, he sighed. He stood and leaned on the counter, one hand on