She’s a forever friend, though, the kind you can always pick up with no matter how long it’s been since you last connected. It’ll all be okay. I can only hope that, in the meantime, Fireman Chad is buying her flowers and breaking her headboard on a nightly basis. After her engagement blew up in her face last year, good sex with a good man is the very least she deserves.
There’s also the other thing separating me from her: the fact that I’m currently incubating a life inside of me. The bean is making itself known in new ways, each more hellish than the last.
My breasts ache like I’ve been getting whacked with a crowbar in my sleep. The peony smell from the foyer has become nauseating, so on Wednesday evening, I drag the whole arrangement to the trash chute and stuff it in stems-first, then stand there panting like I’ve run a 5K.
There’s a tiny, almost-not-there pull low in my belly when I sit up too fast, which the internet insists isround ligament discomfortandvery normal at this stage.
That just makes me laugh. Normal? Me? Hell no. I’m a would-be homicidal wife to a criminally involved asshole, pregnant by another man with questionable ethics and a loose regard for the law, caught in the middle of so many criss-crossing conspiracies that my head starts to spin like a merry-go-round every time I try to get a hold of things.
Like Elvis,normalhas left the building.
Thursday morning is Bill’s funeral.
I still haven’t seen Raymond.
I lay my outfit on the bed. At least this part of things is straightforward. Black wool dress, knee-length, high neck, long sleeves. Black tights. Black pumps with the heel low enough that I won’t sink into wet sod in the graveyard. Black coat. Black hat. Pearl studs in my ears, but no other jewelry except for my gaudy wedding band.
I’m in the bathroom in my slip, doing the concealer under my eyes, when I hear a sound I’ve almost stopped dreading.
A key in the front door.
I freeze with the wand halfway to my left cheekbone.
The door opens and creaks closed. There’s the rustle of a coat coming off, the metallic clink of the key going into the foyer dish, the groan of the second floorboard inside the front hall. And then:
“Cassandra.”
Raymond’s voice is calm. There’s no edge in it. It’s just my name, devoid of anything that tells me what kind of husband I’m getting this morning.
“In here,” I call. I’m honestly amazed at how level my voice comes out. Years of practice will do that, I guess.
I hear him come down the hall. When he stops in the bathroom doorway, I turn to look.
He’s in a black suit. He shaved this morning, wherever he was. His mustache is crisp and his shirt is freshly pressed. There’s a black tie folded over his forearm, not yet knotted. His hair is a little damp at the temples, like he’s just come out of someone’s shower.
“You look nice,” he remarks. “Black suits you.”
I’m baffled. Compliments? From Raymond Snyder?! Hath hell frozen over? Hath pigs begun to fly? Hath I sustained massive blunt force trauma to the head?
Is hath even a real word?!
“Oh. Uh, thank you,” I mumble, eyes downcast.
He walks into the bathroom and stops politely out of arm’s reach. He doesn’t try to touch me. He just looks at me, head tilted slightly, eyes flat like two coins.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Okay, now, I’mdefinitelysure that I was cold-cocked with a two-by-four, Looney Tunes style. This cannot be reality. Next thing I know, he’s gonna plop a romantic smooch on my lips and tell me he loves me.
I blink. “Sorry for what?”
“For disappearing on you without a word. That was unkind of me.”
“Oh. I mean, sure. It’s been a hard week,” I venture. I’m so lost right now it’s actually crazy.
“Yes, it has.” He looks past me, into the mirror, then back. “For everyone.” He shakes his head slowly and, dare I say it, he actually looks kinda sad? “I keep thinking about Bill. The man worked through cancer in ‘04, did you know that? Never lost a step. And now, this…” He spreads one hand. “Agas leak. In a hotel that charges twelve hundred dollars a night.”
“It’s awful,” I manage.