meds for me.
He holds up his phone. “There’s an app on here, Elena. It’s connected to the house security system. I’ll likely be around most of the time, but I might go out.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. For groceries. Whatever. Maybe I’ll be gone an hour; maybe ten minutes. Maybe I’ll park down the street and get some paperwork done. I’m going to stay close to you. Just in case you need me.”
In other words, I shouldn’t try anything. Like the windows.
“Malcolm,” I say, pleading.
“Don’t beg, Elena. It isn’t your style.”
When he leaves, the lock clicks again, sealing me in this room. But my pillows are fluffed, so there is that.
Outside, his car starts up and the engine fades to a hum as he backs out of the driveway.
Along with my breakfast, there’s a book. It’s one of my favorites, spine broken from repeated readings, held together with a thick rubber band. Right now I have zero interest in reading tragic love stories; the title reminds me too much of Anne’s note—I guess you made your choice—and I can’t help but think Malcolm is trying to send me a message. Underneath the book is a torn-out crossword puzzle from today’s paper, as if I needed any more puzzles. Also a napkin and a bottle of sparkling water. There’s no phone because Malcolm hasn’t given my phone back yet.
And I know he isn’t going to.
SIXTY-SIX
I must have slept through the morning and early afternoon. When I wake, my untouched breakfast is replaced by a slice of quiche and a salad, another bottle of water, and a bottle of cranberry juice. I drink the last of these down greedily, get up, and go into the bathroom to do the necessary.
Nothing happens, even though I finished off the liter of water before I crashed, so I go back to bed, sweat-sticky and shivering. There’s also a note on the tray from Malcolm reminding me that he’s not far from home. The words disguised as reassurance are, in fact, threatening. I prop myself up in a half-sitting, half-lying position and stare at my lunch.
There are no pills. No Motrin, no Augmentin.
I can understand his wanting a divorce—I never climbed aboard his commonsense train, or if I did, I stepped off long ago, maybe before Freddie was born, maybe years before that. What I can’t understand is why my husband is going to let me die in my own bedroom.
This is when I start feeling like the worst mother in the world. I should be wondering about Freddie, asking myself if Anne is really at a friend’s house or somewhere else. I should be crying for both of them. Instead, all I can do is cry for me.
I know more about septicemia than I want to right now. Undiagnosed and untreated, it can kill inside of a week, poisoning the blood, shutting down organs, twisting the insides of its victims to the point where they want nothing more than the quiet of death. I know the only thing that will help me is massive, gargantuan doses of antibiotics, right the hell now. So I pardon myself for the self-pity. If twenty-four hours has brought me to this state, I’m not sure I want tomorrow to come.
I’ll try the lock on the door soon. Very soon. Just after I rest for a bit.
Get the fuck up, you.
I will. In a few minutes. First, I’ll shut my eyes and will the nausea away.
Get. Up. Now.
Two sides of me are fighting, the woman and the mother, the part of me who is me, and the part of me I gave away when I delivered my daughters. I think the woman may be winning, but the mother is putting up a good fight. She doesn’t seem to want to let go.
Okay. I’ll try.
Good girl.
Malcolm cleaned out the bathroom, taking everything. But I know things most men don’t. I know that you can always find bobby pins in the corners of drawers, hiding in crevices, invisible in the shadows. I used to count them as I found them. One pin, two pin.