“That would be very nice,” I tell her. Then I turn away from her and trudge to my front porch. I don’t know what awaits me on the other side of the door. But I will face it, whatever it is. I have no choice.
When I walk into the living room, I’m surprised to see that the curtains have been pulled back and the windows are open. The smell of cleaning solutions fills the air, and every surface—the hardwood floors, the tabletops, the mantel—is freshly wiped. The house is cleaner than it’s been since the day of the funeral.
Even more surprising is that Rachel is seated on the couch, her legs crossed beneath her, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair is curly, spilling down her back, and she wears clean clothes, sweats and the yellow sweater with the unicorn on the front. She holds a cup and saucer in her hands, and she gazes into the cup as though trying to read tea leaves on the bottom.
I set down my briefcase and walk toward her, slowly so as not to startle her. She doesn’t look up, but I see her body tense slightly. Beneath the shawl, I see the stuffed monkey, its arms spanning Rachel’s waist. My own shoulders tighten.
“Hello, Sam.” Ruth’s voice comes from behind me. I turn to see my sister-in-law walk through the dining room. She wears her usual expression—the slightly-disappointed-that-I’m-not-someone-else look, which she quickly covers with a smile. Her smile is like my neighbor’s—pained.
“Hi, Ruth.” I turn back to Rachel. “Hi, Rach. How are you feeling?”
She still doesn’t look up at me. “Hi, Sam,” she says softly.
“She’s feeling much better, aren’t you, Rachel?” Ruth takes the seat next to Rachel and pats her knee. “Much better. She’s had a bath, and she even managed a piece of toast with honey.”
“That’s terrific,” I say with a little too much enthusiasm. Rachel shrinks into the couch. I lower my volume. “I’m glad.”
I stand awkwardly for a moment. It would be nice to sit next to my wife, but there isn’t room for me with Ruth there. There isn’t room for me in my bedroom, either. Rachel’s grief has taken my place. I glance at the bedding folded neatly and stacked on the easy chair. Ruth has laundered it—the sheets have that crisp, clean look about them. Ruth has been sleeping in the guest room at the back of the house. It’s only right that she has her own bed, that’s what I keep telling myself, even though the couch is horrible for sleeping and I hardly manage to get an hour or two at a stretch and I wake each morning to searing back pain that only a handful of Advil can touch.
“I’ve made tea, if you’d like some,” Ruth says. What I’d like is two fingers of bourbon, neat. That will have to wait.
“I’ll get it.”
“I’ll come with you,” Ruth says, and I feel my jaw clench.
She doesn’t say anything until we are safely in the kitchen, out of Rachel’s earshot. Shadow lies on his bed in the corner. His tail thumps enthusiastically when he sees me. He starts to get up to greet me but freezes when Ruth enters. He lies down and tucks his head into his chest.
I cross to the far counter where the teapot sits, lean against the counter, and wait for Ruth to speak.
“She had another bad day, Sam. I went to the market—I wasn’t gone for more than forty-five minutes. When I came back, she was screaming. She’d been sick. I think she took too many pills at once on an empty stomach.”
I remember retching into my trash bin at work. No pills necessary.
I tell Ruth the same thing I tell her every day, because she needs to hear it, to feel validated. “Thank you for being here, Ruth. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
She nods as if she agrees. And she does. My sister-in-law is grieving. She loved Jonah. But I think she secretly likes the fact that my family would be completely fucked without her help. Our need gives her power. She has none in any other area of her life.
“She looks . . . better. Better than she has in weeks,” I say, pouring some tea into a waiting mug.
“She’s clean, Sam. That’s all. And medicated. Which I’m worried about. We can’t leave the pills with her anymore. We have to start doling them out. She can’t be trusted to stick to the dosage.”
“I know Rachel is in bad shape, but I think you’re being a little dramatic.”
This wouldn’t be the first time my sister-in-law has created a nonexistent issue. It’s happened frequently over the course of my marriage.
Ruth withdraws the bottle of meds from her pocket and hands them to me. “I have to go home and get some things, Sam. You keep these for now.”
Worry blanches her features. I try to reassure her.
“Ruth, Rachel would never go overboard. You know that. She’s grieving, she’s devastated. But she’s not going to do anything stupid.” As I say the words, I realize that I’m not completely sure if they’re true. I don’t know the woman sitting on the couch in the next room, the woman who won’t look at me and barely speaks to me and banished me from my bedroom. What is that expression? The one about how dealing with challenges and tragedies reveals the character of the person? If that’s true, then I’m screwed. And so is Rachel. And God help Eden, because her mother is totally gone.
Ruth sniffs, then gives me a pointed look. An I-told-you-so look even before she tells me. “She thinks she saw Jonah.”
“What?” I stare at her. “She dreamed about him?”
“No, she says she saw him. Sitting on the end of her bed. Uh, your bed. Floating on the end of your bed. And then he disappeared.”
“The meds, right? She was hallucinating.” Even as I say the words, some deeper part of me wonders—hopes, prays—if it’s possible that Jonah could still be here. Ridiculous, I know. Absurd. Again with the fucking madman business. I focus on Ruth.
“Of course she was hallucinating, Sam. But that’s not the point. If she continues to hallucinate and see Jonah, and she thinks he’s a visiting spirit, and then she thinks the only way she’ll get to him is by becoming a spirit herself, well . . . I called her GP, and she’s worried, too. She suggests we start cutting back, start the weaning process.”
A fist of tension forms in my gut. “Right now, Rachel needs those pills.”
“She needs counseling, Sam. For crying out loud, it would be good for all of you. The three of you need to talk to someone, or get into a group.”
“We’ve been through this before, Ruth. Now isn’t the time. We’re not ready.”
“Now is exactly the time. How long are you going to wait? Until my sister goes completely insane or winds up an addict?”
The fist tightens. I don’t want to see a counselor. Things might come up. Things I’m not prepared to explain. Things I need to discuss with my wife first. I can’t say this to Ruth. So I placate her instead.
“I’ll think about it. I really will.”
“You should do more than think about it, Sam. This is serious.”