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Authors: Rachael Herron
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it. A marriage should be . . . something strong. If Nora hadn’t been able to keep hers together—well, Mariana would probably blow up a marriage before the end of the honeymoon.
And she knew it was true: Luke loved her. She loved him back.
It wasn’t enough, though.
If she could reach her purse to get her phone, she could call Nora, but her purse was in the kitchen, and she was stuck on the edge of the bed, frozen in fear she didn’t recognize. Nora would know what to do—she’d know why Mariana had said what she’d said, and she’d know how to fix it, how to change it, how to turn back time so she could answer differently—but, god, Mariana wouldn’t answer differently. That was the point.
Or if Mariana could reach her phone, she could open the app and hear her own voice telling her how to find calm, her sense of space. It was strange, yes, but she’d listened and relistened to the MP3s so many times in production that now the voice coming out of her phone actually sounded more like Nora’s to her, and Mariana could just absorb the words.
Find the motion of your breath, and rest in that place.
Mariana gripped the bedpost so tightly she could feel her fingernails denting the wood. Her eyes rested on the word tattooed on her inner forearm:
Now.
Normally a comfort, a reminder that the only moment to be sure of was this one. She took a deep breath, smelling the comforts of home, leftover coffee scent and the dryer sheets that Luke liked. Luke . . .
Now.
Now was all she had.
Mariana held on tighter. Hopeful, despite herself.
Chapter Ten
N ora touched the Valentine’s Day card she’d bought for Harrison. Three months since they slept together.
Three months since they were close, in any way at all.
The card was blue, anomalous for the holiday, with an ice floe on the front. Inside it read,
You melt me.
She wouldn’t give it to him, even though he always gave her a card. He might not this year, as awkward as it had been between them.
Twelve weeks ago. Before she was diagnosed, before the earth had rotated on more than just its axis. Midfall. The leaves on the sycamore in front of her house had just begun releasing their tight grip on the branches, fluttering down in twos and threes. She and Harrison had been drinking wine, like they’d done approximately a hundred billion times before. They never drank too much, just a glass or two at the end of an evening. Friendly. She and Ellie used to both walk next door when the sun started dropping. Harrison always had Ellie’s favorite brand of potato chips, Kettle Salsa. Ellie would take her book and herbowl of chips and read on the porch hammock while Nora and Harrison drank their glasses of wine, and then Nora and Ellie would walk across Harrison’s lawn, jump over the low line of dahlias back into their own yard in the dark.
For the last year, though, Nora had gone alone more often than not. Ellie cited homework, but walking back home across the conjoined lawns, looking up at her daughter’s window, Nora could make out the wide-screen on her desk. She could tell by the colors displayed that she was usually playing a video game. Fine. She figured it was better than a lot of other things her daughter could have been getting into.
That night, last fall, Ellie had been out of the house staying the night at Samantha’s house. Nora had waved at Harrison over their parked cars and raised her voice to be heard over the kids riding their whining motorized scooters that zipped up and down the street. “Come to my house tonight, okay?”
She’d wanted to show him an article she’d written before she turned it in. It felt more like her earlier work, honest and raw. It had felt good to write, and she hadn’t felt that in a while. She hadn’t doubted her motivation in asking him over. Sleeping with him, she would have sworn, hadn’t even crossed her mind. Harrison was just
Harrison
, well-worn and frayed like the right cuff of the brown sweater he wore
And she knew it was true: Luke loved her. She loved him back.
It wasn’t enough, though.
If she could reach her purse to get her phone, she could call Nora, but her purse was in the kitchen, and she was stuck on the edge of the bed, frozen in fear she didn’t recognize. Nora would know what to do—she’d know why Mariana had said what she’d said, and she’d know how to fix it, how to change it, how to turn back time so she could answer differently—but, god, Mariana wouldn’t answer differently. That was the point.
Or if Mariana could reach her phone, she could open the app and hear her own voice telling her how to find calm, her sense of space. It was strange, yes, but she’d listened and relistened to the MP3s so many times in production that now the voice coming out of her phone actually sounded more like Nora’s to her, and Mariana could just absorb the words.
Find the motion of your breath, and rest in that place.
Mariana gripped the bedpost so tightly she could feel her fingernails denting the wood. Her eyes rested on the word tattooed on her inner forearm:
Now.
Normally a comfort, a reminder that the only moment to be sure of was this one. She took a deep breath, smelling the comforts of home, leftover coffee scent and the dryer sheets that Luke liked. Luke . . .
Now.
Now was all she had.
Mariana held on tighter. Hopeful, despite herself.
Chapter Ten
N ora touched the Valentine’s Day card she’d bought for Harrison. Three months since they slept together.
Three months since they were close, in any way at all.
The card was blue, anomalous for the holiday, with an ice floe on the front. Inside it read,
You melt me.
She wouldn’t give it to him, even though he always gave her a card. He might not this year, as awkward as it had been between them.
Twelve weeks ago. Before she was diagnosed, before the earth had rotated on more than just its axis. Midfall. The leaves on the sycamore in front of her house had just begun releasing their tight grip on the branches, fluttering down in twos and threes. She and Harrison had been drinking wine, like they’d done approximately a hundred billion times before. They never drank too much, just a glass or two at the end of an evening. Friendly. She and Ellie used to both walk next door when the sun started dropping. Harrison always had Ellie’s favorite brand of potato chips, Kettle Salsa. Ellie would take her book and herbowl of chips and read on the porch hammock while Nora and Harrison drank their glasses of wine, and then Nora and Ellie would walk across Harrison’s lawn, jump over the low line of dahlias back into their own yard in the dark.
For the last year, though, Nora had gone alone more often than not. Ellie cited homework, but walking back home across the conjoined lawns, looking up at her daughter’s window, Nora could make out the wide-screen on her desk. She could tell by the colors displayed that she was usually playing a video game. Fine. She figured it was better than a lot of other things her daughter could have been getting into.
That night, last fall, Ellie had been out of the house staying the night at Samantha’s house. Nora had waved at Harrison over their parked cars and raised her voice to be heard over the kids riding their whining motorized scooters that zipped up and down the street. “Come to my house tonight, okay?”
She’d wanted to show him an article she’d written before she turned it in. It felt more like her earlier work, honest and raw. It had felt good to write, and she hadn’t felt that in a while. She hadn’t doubted her motivation in asking him over. Sleeping with him, she would have sworn, hadn’t even crossed her mind. Harrison was just
Harrison
, well-worn and frayed like the right cuff of the brown sweater he wore
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