weak. And I want to be honest with Ed. He deserves that.
He’s displeased. “You can’t do that, Anna. Not on medication.”
“I know.” Already I regret having said anything.
“But really.”
“I know, I said.”
When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “You’ve had a lot of visitors lately,” he says. “A lot of stimulation.” He pauses. “Maybe these people across the park—”
“The Russells.”
“—maybe they can leave you alone for a little while.”
“As long as I don’t go fainting outside, I’m sure they will.”
“You’re none of their business.” And they’re none of yours, I bet he’s thinking.
“What does Dr. Fielding say?” he continues.
I’ve come to suspect that Ed asks this whenever he’s at a loss. “He’s more interested in my relationship with you.”
“With me?”
“With both of you.”
“Ah.”
“Ed, I miss you.”
I hadn’t meant to say it—hadn’t even realized I was thinking it. Unfiltered subconscious. “Sorry—that’s just the id talking,” I explain.
He’s quiet for a moment.
Finally: “Well, now it’s the Ed talking,” he says.
I miss this, too—his stupid puns. He used to tell me I put the “Anna” in “psycho-anna-lyst.” “That’s terrible,” I’d say, gagging. “You know you love it,” he’d reply, and I did.
He’s quiet again.
Then:
“So what do you miss about me?”
I hadn’t expected this. “I miss . . .” I begin, hoping the sentence will complete itself.
And it spouts from me in a torrent, water pluming from a drain, a burst dam. “I miss the way you bowl,” I say, because these idiot words are first to my tongue. “I miss how you can never tie a bowline right. I miss your razor burn. I miss your eyebrows.”
As I speak, I find myself climbing the stairs, past the landing, into the bedroom. “I miss your shoes. I miss you asking me for coffee in the morning. I miss that time you wore my mascara and everybody noticed. I miss that time you actually asked me to sew something. I miss how polite you are to waiters.”
In my bed now, our bed. “I miss your eggs.” Scrambled, even when sunny-side up. “I miss your bedtime stories.” The heroines rejected the princes, opting instead to pursue their doctorates. “I miss your Nicolas Cage impression.” It got shriller post–Wicker Man. “I miss how for the longest time you thought the word misled was pronounced ‘mizzled.’”
“Misleading little word. It mizzled me.”
I laugh wetly, and find I’m crying. “I miss your stupid, stupid jokes. I miss how you always break a piece off a chocolate bar before eating it instead of just biting into the fucking chocolate bar.”
“Language.”
“Sorry.”
“Also, it tastes better that way.”
“I miss your heart,” I say.
A pause.
“I miss you so much.”
Another pause.
“I love you so much.” I catch my ragged breath. “Both of you.”
No pattern here, not that I can see—and I’m trained to discern patterns. I just miss him. I miss him, I love him. I love them.
There’s a silence, long and deep. I breathe.
“But, Anna,” he tells me, gently, “if—”
A sound downstairs.
It’s quiet, just a low roll. Possibly the house settling.
“Wait,” I say to Ed.
Then, clearly, a dry cough, a grunt.
Someone is in my kitchen.
“I have to go,” I say to Ed.
“What—”
But I’m already stealing toward the door, phone clutched in one hand; my fingers glance across the screen—911—and my thumb hovers over the Dial button. I remember the last time I called. Called more than once, in fact, or tried to. Someone will answer this time.
I stalk down the stairs, hand slick on the banister, the steps beneath my feet invisible in the dark.
Round the corner, and light swerves into the stairwell. I slink into the kitchen. The phone trembles in my hand.
There’s a man by the dishwasher, his broad back to me.
He turns. I press Dial.
22
“Hi,” David says.
For fuck’s sake. I exhale, quickly cancel the call. Tuck the phone back into my pocket.
“Sorry,” he adds. “I rang the bell about half an hour ago, but I think you were asleep.”
“I must have been in the shower,” I say.
He doesn’t react. Probably embarrassed for me; my hair isn’t even wet. “So I came up through the basement. Hope that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay,” I tell him. “You’re welcome to anytime.” I walk to the sink, fill a glass with water. My nerves are shot. “What did you need me for?”
“I’m looking for an X-Acto.”
“An X-Acto?”
“X-Acto knife.”
“Like a box cutter.”
“Exactly.”
“X-Acto-ly,” I say. What is wrong with me?
“I checked under the sink,” he continues, mercifully, “and in that drawer by the phone. Your phone’s not plugged in, by the way. I think it’s dead.”