“I can do that, if you promise not to get upset if I ask for more.”

“Deal.” He took a sip of his coffee. “So, what’s number three?”

“I, uh, was thinking . . . I . . .”

“Come on, Pen. Whatever it is couldn’t be worse than telling me I’m a slouch around the house.”

“I was hoping we could talk more, like we used to. I was hoping you could maybe, you know . . . stop acting like you’d rather be on your phone.”

Now he looked irritated. “What does that mean?”

“It means I want you to be more engaged. I want you to be present when you’re present.”

“The way you were present when I was telling you about the story I’m thinking of writing last night?” he said.

I could all but hear the crickets chirping. “Which one?”

“About how Bob Dylan’s ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ inspired Sam Cooke to write ‘A Change Is Gonna Come.’”

My face burned. “Sorry. Obviously, I need to do some work on that, too. I still think we could be doing better in terms of conversation.”

“Is that it for your list?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Okay,” he said, looking relieved. “Can you email them to me?”

“You won’t remember three things?”

“I just want to have a concrete reminder in front of me.”

“Fine,” I said. “Your turn. You expect me to turn into a sex kitten. What else?”

“Uh-uh, Pen. You don’t get to pull that on me. You said we were supposed to be honest, and I agreed.”

“Because you want to make me feel better after Jenny’s death,” I said.

“Yes and no.” He rubbed his forehead, looking tired for the first time that morning. “I can’t argue with the idea of trying to make our marriage better. We’ve been bickering too much.”

My eyebrows shot up. Because I couldn’t remember the last time Sanjay had complained about our relationship, I had assumed I was alone in my frustration.

He continued, “And like I said the other night, what happened to Jenny made me realize how it could all be over in a second. We should be enjoying life more. The past few years were harder than they should have been. Maybe it’s stupid or overprivileged of me to think this, but even if we can’t enjoy life more than we already are, there’s got to be a way to make it less difficult.”

I sighed. “I suppose that’s true. And yeah, it wouldn’t hurt for us to have sex more often.”

He frowned. “Only if you’re into it, though. I want us to have sex, but not if you don’t want to.”

Great, so going through the motions wasn’t enough—I needed to resurrect my libido, too. How did one do that, exactly? Develop a porn habit? Stock up on the packs of horny goat weed they sold at the gas station? “I want to,” I said. “What else do you want me to change?”

“That’s it for now.”

“Pardon me? One thing?”

“No, not one thing. One thing at a time . You’ve already got a lot on your plate.”

“But we agreed to do this.”

Sanjay tilted his head, almost like he was confused. “Penny. Your best friend just died. Your workload is crushing. You’ve got two kids, neither of whom is particularly easy. Your dad barely calls, and your brother isn’t much better. And your bum of a husband isn’t bringing in any cash.”

I could feel the familiar swell of tears behind my eyes. While it was a relief to know he understood my life’s load, it was overwhelming to have it recited to me. “You’re not a bum,” I said, sniffing.

“If you were me,” he said, not acknowledging my rebuttal, “would you suggest a handful of changes at once, or just one?”

My many marital failings were suddenly lit up like a series of neon signs in my head. I was a nag. I always played good cop with the kids. I failed to protect us from Lorrie’s home invasions. I broadcast my sexual disinterest with granny panties and gray bras that hadn’t been white in years. “Wait a second. How many requests do you have?”

He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “Three.”

“Are you saying that just because I had three?”

“Does it matter? Three sounds fair. Since we’re talking terms, how long are we giving this?”

I made a face. “I don’t know. It was your idea.”

“Our idea,” he said.

“I was hoping the changes we make are permanent,” I said. But as soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t. Because if all went well, we both had decades left to live. And if I had sex with Sanjay even twice a week, the lifetime sum of that was probably the equivalent of more than a year of extra sleep. Learning Mandarin suddenly seemed less daunting than being cheerfully intimate with my husband on a regular basis.

Whether I liked Sanjay’s request or not, I had to give him credit for being honest. Wasn’t that exactly what I had asked for?

He was about to say something when Miles, grumpy faced, appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. “Hi, Mommy.”

“Hi, Daddy,” said Sanjay pointedly.

“Hi,” Miles mumbled in his direction. He walked over to me and buried his face in my shirt. Ah, he was still such a peanut that I wanted to cry. If Stevie’s behavior was any indication, he would soon have little need for me.

“Sweetheart, it’s early. Why don’t you go back to bed?” I said.

“Can I watch a show?” he asked, ignoring my suggestion. “And can I have pancakes for breakfast? Please? ”

I looked up at Sanjay. “We’ll talk about this more later?”

“Sure. But I have to ask—at what point do we take a step back and assess whether this plan is damaging our marriage or actually working?”

“Damaging? This could only be good for us.”

Sanjay was about to take another sip of coffee, but stopped short and looked at me over the rim of his mug.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing.” Still staring at me, he took a drink, then said, “I just hope that’s true.”

FOURTEEN

When Stevie and Miles were very young, I remember thinking that the segmented, highly scheduled days coupled with sleepless nights turned time to molasses. The period following Jenny’s death recalled that glacial pace; the week after her memorial service might as well have been six as I waited to hear from Matt. It was a fine line, respecting his privacy without letting Cecily drift too far. But my patience finally ran out, and I called to ask whether I could see her. Matt agreed and asked me to come by after work on Monday, two days after Sanjay and I had discussed our lists.

For all my anticipation, I stood there like Cecily was a spotlight beaming at me in the dark when she opened her front door. What did one say to a child who no longer had a mother? I had once been that child. Somehow this did not help me find the right words.

“Hi, Cess,” I finally said. “How are you doing?”

Her face was a mask, static and unreadable. “Hi, Aunt Penny. I’m okay.” She was wearing a pair of too-small cat-print leggings and a faded pink dress with a kitten wearing large sunglasses printed on the front. The outfit had been her instant favorite when Jenny had bought it for her two years earlier. That she was wearing it now said everything her expression had not.

Suddenly I did remember something. After my mother left, everyone treated me like a china doll that would shatter from the slightest jostle. All I wanted was for people to act like they used to—back before I had been left behind. This, at least, I could do for Cecily.

“It’s great to see you,” I said. “Can I come in?”

She nodded and led me to the kitchen, where Matt was pulling groceries out of a bag. He looked even more exhausted than the last time I’d seen him. When he saw me, he stopped and walked across the kitchen. He paused just before he reached me, almost like there was a force field between us. I leaned forward so he could air-kiss my cheek like he usually did.

He hesitated before taking my cue. “Hi, Penelope. Good to see you.”

I couldn’t tell if he meant it, but I couldn’t fault him for that. I was still alive, which was probably another reminder that Jenny was not. “You, too,” I said.

He turned back to the groceries and retrieved a bottle of maple syrup from a bag. “Where does this go?” he muttered, looking around with bewilderment.

Was he really so clueless, or had Jenny never let him help in the kitchen? “The fridge,” I said. “Though the cupboard is fine, too, if you plan to use the whole thing in the next couple of months.”

“Thank you. I guess I have a lot of things to learn now that . . .” He turned his attention to the groceries without finishing his sentence.

“Well, I’ve spent way too much time in your kitchen, so let me know if you want a hand,” I said.

He was holding a box of instant oatmeal. Jenny used to put organic oats in a pot to soak in coconut milk overnight. In the morning, the Sweets would wake to a delicious, decidedly uninstant breakfast. Not that I was about to tell Matt this. At least he had gone grocery shopping rather than sent his daughter to the corner quick mart for bread and bologna. Of course, times had changed. Men were now lauded for cooking. I still somehow doubted modernity would have made my father more hands-on at home. He loved me, but he had loved my mother more, and for a long time the man couldn’t see further than his own sorrow.

“I think I’m good,” said Matt, stashing the box in a cupboard full of pots and pans.

I sat beside Cecily at the kitchen island as Matt finished emptying his bags. The counters were dusty, as were the knives in the knife block and the espresso maker. A stack of mail was strewn across the end of the marble island. Cecily’s lunchbox was lying open beside the fridge; the glass containers in it had not been emptied of their food remnants. If it were my house, this all would have been normal. Clean, even, by our standards. Jenny, however, would have already had her sponge and disinfecting spray out and all traces of dirt and disorder would soon be erased.