I wake with Wesley in my head.
Wesley and a hard-earned hangover. I wade my way down to the study, as if through a fog, then run into the bathroom and vomit. Heavenly Rapture.
As I’ve discovered, I throw up with great accuracy. I could go pro, Ed says. One flush and the mess slides away; I rinse my mouth, pat some color into my cheeks, return to the study.
Across the park, the Russells’ windows are empty, their rooms dim. I stare at the house; it stares back. I find I miss them.
I look south, where a beat-up taxi drags itself down the street; a woman strides in its wake, coffee cup in hand, goldendoodle on a leash. I check the clock on my phone: 10:28. How am I up this early?
Right: I forgot my temazepam. Well, I keeled over before I could remember it. It keeps me unconscious, weighs me down like a rock.
And now last night swirls in my brain, strobe-light dazzly, like the carousel from Strangers on a Train. Did that even happen? Yes: We uncorked Jane’s wine; we talked boats; we wolfed chocolate; I took a photo; we discussed our families; I arranged my pills across the table; we drank some more. Not in that order.
Three bottles of wine—or was it four? Even so, I can stomach more, have stomached more. “The pills,” I say, the way a detective cries “Eureka!”—my dosage. I double-dosed yesterday, I remember. Must be the pills. “I bet those’ll knock you on your behind,” Jane giggled after I’d downed the lot, chased them with a slug of wine.
My head is quaking; my hands are shaking. I find a travel-size tube of Advil hidden in the back of my desk drawer, toss three capsules down my throat. The expiration date came and went nine months ago. Children have been conceived and born in that time, I reflect. Whole lives created.
I swallow a fourth, just in case.
And then . . . What then? Yes: Then Alistair arrived, asking after his wife.
Motion beyond the window. I look up. It’s Dr. Miller, leaving the house for work. “See you at three fifteen,” I tell him. “Don’t be late.”
Don’t be late—that was Wesley’s golden rule. “For some people, this is the most important fifty minutes of their week,” he would remind me. “So for Christ’s sake, whatever else you do or fail to do, don’t be late.”
Wesley Brilliant. It’s been three months since I checked up. I grip the mouse and visit Google. The cursor flashes in the search field like a pulse.
He still occupies the same endowed adjunct chair, I see; he’s still publishing articles in the Times and assorted industry journals. And he’s still in practice, of course, although I recall that the office moved to Yorkville over the summer. I say “the office,” but really it would’ve been just Wesley and his receptionist, Phoebe, and her Square card reader. And that Eames lounge chair. He adores his Eames.
That Eames but not much else. Wesley never married; his lectureship was his love, his patients his children. “Don’t you go feeling sorry for poor Dr. Brill, Fox,” he warned me. I remember it perfectly: Central Park, swans with their question-mark necks, high noon beyond the lacy elms. He’d just asked me to join him as junior partner in the practice. “My life is too full,” he said. “That’s why I need you, or someone like you. There are more children we can help together.”
He was, as ever, right.
I click on Google Images. The search yields a small gallery of photographs, none especially recent, none especially flattering. “I don’t photograph well,” he once observed, uncomplaining, a roily halo of cigar smoke churning overhead, his fingernails stained and split.
“You don’t,” I agreed.
He hitched one bristly brow. “True or false: You’re this tough on your husband.”
“Not strictly true.”
He snorted. “Something can’t be ‘strictly true,’” he said. “It’s either true or it isn’t. It’s either real or it’s not.”
“Quite true,” I answered.
21
“Guess who,” Ed says.
I shift in my chair. “That’s my line.”
“You sound like hell, slugger.”
“Sound and feel.”
“Are you sick?”
“I was,” I reply. I shouldn’t tell him about last night, I know, but I’m too 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