by Britney King
“You’re home early.”
“Sit down, Jos—” Grant tells me, kissing my cheek.
I’m washing something in the sink, and I have to turn so I can see his face. Something is off. It’s there in the crease between his brow.
“What?” I ask, cocking my head. I turn off the faucet and dry my hands. “What is it?”
He presses his lips together and takes a deep breath in. “June is dead.”
The news comes out on the exhale, like it was nothing at all. I drop the towel I’m holding. Just let go. I shake my head. This can’t be right. “I just saw her.”
He smacks his lips and readies his doctor voice. The one with authority. “She died at 14:00.”
I suck my bottom lip between my teeth and hold it there. I can’t compute what he’s saying. Also, this is not an occasion that calls for military time. It takes me a few seconds to mentally calculate what that means. Finally, it hits me. “I don’t understand.”
“The infection was worse than they thought,” he says, scanning the mail I left for him on the counter. When I don’t say anything, he looks up. “She turned septic.”
I can’t breathe. My lungs are seizing. “How can that be? I just talked to her…a few hours ago.”
“I’m sorry Josie,” he says, setting the mail aside. He walks over to where I’m standing. “That’s just how it works out sometimes.”
I collapse into his arms, and I want to cry, I really do. For June. For the guilt I feel. Instead I feel numb. He holds me for several long moments, and then he pulls back and looks into my eyes. “I brought you something from the hospital.”
He leaves me to walk over to his bag. I stare at the towel on the floor. I mean to pick it up, but I can’t make myself. Grant does it. He hates anything out of place. “Here,” he says. My vision is blurry. I shouldn’t have been so short with her.
“Josie,” he says. “I brought this for you.” I think he’s going to hand me something of June’s, but he doesn’t. Instead, he places a well-worn book in my hands. How To Cope With Sudden Loss. I turn it over, and Grant turns to go. I thank him, and then I remove my phone from my pocket and snap a photo of the book in one hand. I make sure my new heels are in the shot, too, because I’ve been meaning to post about them. I caption the shot: Hug your loved ones close. You never know. #nothingrealeverdies
It’s a silly thing to do, but all over town, other members of New Hope are getting the news too. I have to be a leader. I have to stay on top of things. June would understand.
Grant interrupts me by asking where the kids are. I point upstairs, press the button to upload the photo, and that is that.
Three weeks later it feels like déjà vu when Grant comes walking in the door before dark.
I look up from my phone. “You’re home early.”
“We have a dinner,” he tells me, kissing my cheek.
I cock my head. “But I made dinner.” This is random, out of the blue. My husband hates anything out of the blue. In his line of work, the unexpected never signifies anything good.
I await his response, but none comes. His face is relaxed. He smiles. He takes me in his arms. “I can’t wait to show you off.”
I grin. His mood feels contagious. Trouble is, I just fixed the most amazing meal, and I’ve already uploaded the spread in my dining room to Instalook, and I’m not sure how I’ll fit this into my feed. Then a hashtag comes to mind— #husbandhadotherplans then #blesssedlife and instantly I feel better, knowing there’s a solution. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
He pulls away. “Tom is back,” he tells me nonchalantly.
I bite my lip. “Tom?”
His whole demeanor changes. He leans down, and then hands me his things to put away. He could do it himself, but he’s used to having nurses and assistants take care of the minutiae for him. Why should it be any different at home? Habits are hard to break. He always says that.
“Did he bring her?” I tread carefully.
I watch my husband’s expression, blank as he mulls over what I’ve asked. “Of course he brought her.”
I scan the room, looking for a way out. “In that case—I don’t know if I can go…”
He cocks his head, shuffles his feet, and then crosses one ankle over the other. It’s as though he hasn’t heard me. Until he meets my eye. “You can go.”
My stomach flip-flops. It doesn’t help that it’s empty. “It just feels like such a betrayal to June. I just don’t get it—it hasn’t even been that long.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle. I can see that he’s analyzing me carefully. “June is dead.”
“Yes. But I don’t know…” I admit as I dry my hands. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. “I think something is off.” I turn toward him. “It doesn’t seem right that he’d do this, Grant. Also—she said things—she said someone was out to get her.”
He shrugs.
“That doesn’t seem like the June I knew…”
He walks over to where I’m standing and runs his hands down the lengths of my arms. I close my eyes. Bile rises. Grant hates being challenged. Everything in me tenses. He sighs deeply before he leans forward and kisses my forehead. “June was sick, dear. Shame makes people do all sorts of things.”
“Shame?”
He glances up at the ceiling, and then back at me. “Ok, grief.”
I don’t say anything. I miss June. I feel terrible about what happened. But if I feel grief over the loss, it has to do with more than the fact that she’s not around anymore. He steps away. I watch as he retrieves his phone from his pocket. I take note of the time on the clock above the oven as he stares intently at the screen. When just enough time has passed that it doesn’t seem confrontational, I say, “I just don’t see how he could replace her so soon.”
He raises his head slowly. I think I see disappointment in his eyes. “What choice did he have?”
I purse my lips and busy myself with cleaning up the meal that will go to waste. I don’t know what he means by choice, but I know better than to ask. Sometimes it’s best to avoid the hard stuff. Grant abhors all forms of gossip. It’s firmly and righteously against our agreement.
He exhales loudly.
“Long day?” I ask because it’s too early in the evening for him to be this irritated on account of me. Not if tonight is going to turn out well.
“They added another surgery onto my schedule tomorrow.”
I pick up a knife and scrape my effort into the trash bin.
Grant clears his throat. “You will be kind to her, Jos—we can’t afford anymore mishaps. Not if we want to remain a part of the congregation.”
Truth be told, I don’t really know whether or not I want to remain a member of New Hope. It has its benefits sure. But it has major drawbacks, too. My husband likes to allude to the fact that they’ll kick us out. “They won’t kick you out—they need you too much.”
“Who knows what they’ll do, Josie.”
“I’ll get dressed,” I say, changing the subject. Mishaps are not something either of us are in the mood to discuss.
“Where are the kids?” he asks as I straighten the mail he’s just tossed on the table.
“Avery is at Carly’s. She’s staying the night. And James is upstairs working on homework.”
My husband does a double-take. “You let her go to the Clarks?”
I furrow my brow. “You told her she could, remember?” It’s not the whole truth, of course. She asked him when he was distracted, and he answered in kind.
“The Clarks are under investigation,” he says matter-of-factly.
“What?” I drop the mail. “You didn’t tell me—”
He scoffs. “You know the rules.”
Boy, do I ever.
I wait for him to say more, but he closes his eyes instead. I hold my breath. It’s always been my mission to keep the kids out of these things. “I can’t tell you every detail of everything, Josie. Sometimes you have to think for yourself.”
“But this applies to our child, Grant. You could’ve said something.”
“I didn’t tell her she could go,” he assures me. “I would remember that.”
“Should I call her home?”
He considers my question, although I know my husband. He’s already thought it through. “No,” he says finally. “It’s a minor infraction,” he adds. He chooses his words carefully. “Something in an audit. A red flag…I don’t think we should make a big deal out of it. Yet.”
Yet. A minor infraction could mean a lot of things. But so far as I know, the Clarks have always had a good track record. I exhale deeply. I’m lightheaded either from holding my breath or not eating.
I need to know how bad it might be. “What did they do?”
“You know I can’t tell you that Jos—why do you even ask?”
“Because Avery and her safety mean more to me than anything in this world,” I say, and immediately I know it was both the wrong and the right thing to say.
“I see,” he says. “It’s nice to know where I rank in your little world.”
I lean against the counter, and he does the same. We stand facing each other. He places his phone in his pocket, and then watches me for several moments. “It’s nothing you should worry about, love.”
But I do worry. My husband is third in command at New Hope. It can be dangerous for him, and thus for those related to him, if another member is backed into a corner. This alone is why he should tell me.
“You know talking about the infractions of others is prohibited.”
“But I’m your wife. And this is our child we’re talking about.”
“What are you suggesting? That I’m being reckless, insensitive—or both?”
“Neither. I just want reassurance is all.”
“Nothing is guaranteed in life, Josie. You of all people should know that.”
I don’t know what he means.
He crosses and uncrosses his arms. “You know, Dan was telling me we ought to replace the tile in the clubhouse. And I was thinking he might be right,” he says widening his stance. “Although— the more I think of it, the more I realize with the right amount of effort we could really get it shining again. Put the money saved toward recruitment efforts.” He studies my face. “Don’t you think?”
I don’t answer. I know where this is headed. What I don’t know is why he’s changing the subject.
“I’ll leave the supplies for you here in the morning.” He points to the counter. “Should give you plenty of time to think about where we stand.”
“Grant,” I plead. “I have a full day tomorrow.”
“Yes,” he says. “I’m sure you do. But we really need to get that floor in shape.”
“Maybe Dan is right,” I suggest. “Maybe we should just replace it.”
His eyes shift, but just a little before his expression becomes fixed once again. “Sometimes taking the easy way out isn’t always the best way, love.” He smiles. “Just ask June.”
Chapter Six
Izzy
The aroma hits me immediately as I place my key in the lock. I fling the door open faster than I intend to. The wave of garbage hits me. Shit. I don’t have the time or the patience for this. Not now. All I want to do is sink down onto the couch and scan through Instalook. We were so busy today that I didn’t get much of a chance, and my mind is reeling with all that I missed. Now Instalook is going to have to wait because there's no mistaking the smell that fills my tiny apartment. It only takes two tiny breaths for me to realize its origin and my mistake. I accidentally left last night’s take out in the trash.
Take out I barely touched, which explains the overwhelming stench.
I curse myself. Not only am I missing out on what’s happening on Instalook, but also, I have research to do. I can’t believe how stupid I am— I shouldn’t be so forgetful. It’s just that it was always his job, the trash, which is clearly why my apartment reeks of warm, putrid, rotting food. I begin to dry-heave. Sweat beads at my temples. I can’t afford to set the AC lower than eighty-two, which doesn’t help with the smell. I could faint at any moment. Who knows how long it would be before anyone found me?
The wretched smell wafting from my apartment should be a dead giveaway, but apparently, no one in this building cares. These days, people are willing to look the other way. Everyone has their own problems. I once saw a story on the internet where an elderly woman was dead in her house for eight months before anyone thought to look for her. That would be me. Only younger.
I massage my temples and turn the air conditioner all the way down. Fuck it, who cares about paying your electricity bill if you won’t survive to see it come? I toss my keys onto the counter, and I can almost hear his voice in my mind. Lock the door, Izzy. Lock the door. But I don't lock the door. It feels kind of nice to be brazen, now that he's not here to stop me. It feels like playing Russian roulette with my life, and before today, before I saw them, taking chances like this was the only thing that brought me even an ounce of satisfaction. Locking the door doesn't matter much anymore.
Not even on this side of town.
When it's your time to go, it's your time to go. Damn it, Izzy, I hear him say. Why can’t you ever listen? I cover my ears. I hate it. I hate his voice. I hate that he’s still bouncing around in my head, and yet at the same time, I don’t want to consider the alternative. There’s no telling how long I’ll keep hearing him speak to me. How long will I remember what he sounds like? How long will I know what he would have said? A year? Five years? Forever?
I suck a deep breath in, pinch my nose with one hand, and with the other I take the trash sack from the garbage, and set it out in the hall. On my way back in, I spot the mail I left on the counter yesterday. As I scan through the envelopes, I can see that it’s all the same: bills, bills, and more bills. It never ends. At least there were no boxes today. Three days running, and the deliveryman has stayed away. This is a record for me. Of course, it isn’t just sheer willpower—I only have one credit card that isn’t maxed, and mama taught me at least one thing: drown if you must, but know how to save yourself if you change your mind. Suddenly, I feel that familiar softness circling my ankles. I kick Whiskers away. I hate that cat. He butts his head against my lower legs, and I part them. It’s like he knows.
I scoot away. He follows.
Eventually, I give up. I pick up a bill and the lighter that sits on the counter, and I hold the edge of the envelope to the flame. Fire smells better than rotting food. And it gets rid of the evidence. Usually. I watch those shows. Investigators are smart these days. You have to be smarter. You have to be like Whiskers. Relentless. He goes around my legs and through, in and out, in and out. I know what he wants, besides playing ring around the rosy with my legs. I know I forgot to feed him this morning, and yet it seems like too much work just to open a can of food. That's something else Josh always took care of. It was his cat, after all.
“No,” I tell him, and my voice reverberates off the walls. No. That’s what I should have said. Don’t go. I don’t really need that after all. A thousand times, I should have said it. Now, my silence is the loudest sound in the room. Hell, now it’s the only sound in the room. I decide the cat can wait—at least until I’ve checked social media. At least until I’ve seen their faces. I toss the burning envelope in the sink. Smoke has filled the kitchen. I watch it burn for a moment, and then I turn on the water.
Whiskers meows. “Fuck you,” I cough. “You’re just another somebody demanding service,” I say, tugging at his ear. It's not like I was the one who wanted the cat in the first place. I said no pets. I have bad luck with pets. But when Whiskers showed up, just a tiny orange kitten, starving to death and crying on our doorstep, it was Josh who caved and brought him inside. Feed them once, my mother used to say, and they’ll never go away. I told him that too—not that he listened. He said he couldn't possibly leave him there to starve. After all, he had to live with himself. It's too bad he didn't feel the same way about l
eaving me.
I nudge Whiskers away with my foot. “Go.”
My voice filling the empty space sends chills down my spine.
I feel the blood come rushing to my ears; I feel my heart begin to race, and I know what comes next. I sink to the floor, curl into a ball, and cover my ears. I think about all of my friends on Instalook. They’re calling out to me. I flip through their profiles, in my mind, one by one, until eventually I can see straight again. I think about all the things I have to buy, all the things they want me to know about, all the ways we can be alike, until eventually, I decide three days is good.
It’s been a good streak.
But my mama was wrong about a lot of things, so she was probably wrong about that too. Nothing good comes from being conservative. Moderation is for boring people. And I refuse to be that. Josh said I was destined, that we were destined for a big life, and I can’t let him down. Not now. Not since he died for our cause.
I hop online, and I buy that scarf I saw the other day on @livingwithlulu547. It was featured on her “fifty faves under fifty dollars” post, so it’s practically a steal. Once that’s done, I picture myself wearing it, and suddenly I am not thinking about dead husbands or empty apartments or bankruptcy. I’m thinking about abundance. @livingwithlulu547 knows a thing or two about that too. She’s always posting quotes, and it’s like I could be living with her. If my feelings were as superficial as her makeup hacks, that is.
I need more than good lighting and finding the perfect angle.
I need something deep.
That’s why I’m thinking about that beautiful couple, about how much he must love her. I’m thinking about Americanos and summer dresses and what kind of perfume she was wearing. I’m thinking that if I’m extra nice, maybe Stacey will offer to buy me that kind too. Then I can save room on my credit card for the other things I’ll need to win them over. Anyway, I met @livingwithlulu547 and she wasn’t all that. Not in real life. Get this, her name isn’t even Lulu. It’s Sharon.
Don’t get me wrong, I like her style. But it could never be more than that. This is how I know that if I can just see that couple again, it'll help. I’ll feel better about the last one, who didn’t work out. I’ll feel grounded. Maybe I’ll even be able to force down a little food.
