D iana

I need to open that door .

It’s been almost a year: the daddy-longlegs will have built Rome in the rafters by now .

I don’t have to deal with everything at once. Just dust. Vacuum. Run a cloth around. Strip the bed; sweep the fireplace; get rid of the ....

Nope. Can’t. Not today .

I’m not making excuses. Not letting myself off the hook. I’ve been cleaning since dawn. Basement, garage, kitchen, both crawlspaces—I’ve picked three cobwebs out of my hair, defeated the mother of all moths, and I’m still not convinced there’s not a spider on me, somewhere. I’m not backing out: I’m tired. Anyone would do the same. It’s just a room, just another room. A room I can deal with tomorrow .

I need a fresh can of Pledge, anyway .

I’ve been needing a fresh can of Pledge for a long, long time .

I turn around. Got to face this .

The first step’s always the hardest: one twist on that handle, and I’ll be wondering what’s been holding me back all this time. After that, it’ll be easy: scrub this, air that, think about nothing .

Only a room. Not Pandora’s box. It’s not like the last five years are going to pour out like toxic smoke, choke me to death in the hall .

I close my eyes and go for it. The handle sticks at first—forgot it did that—then the door swings inward, silent on its hinges. I’d expected a creak, something to suggest the passage of time, but when I open my eyes, nothing’s changed at all. There aren’t even any cobwebs, or none that I can see. Just the hospital bed, coverlet turned back, sheets still wrinkled round the void of a human shape. Just the window, curtains half-open: bright enough to read without a glare. Just the water glass with its bendy straw, empty now, casting a scatter of light over the book face-down on the nightstand .

I slam the door. Something rattles, down the hall .

I’d forgotten those sheets, how they held their shape when I lifted Dad up for the last time .

And that book—I was waiting to read it .

It’s all I can do not to slide down the door and sob into my Swiffer pads. But I can’t. Not till I’ve dealt with this. If I start falling apart at the mere thought, I’ll never get around to doing anything about it .

I could be renting that room, pulling three hundred easy, maybe four. I could be packing up that bed, the CPAP machine, the wheelchair, the rest of it—that’s got to be worth something. Instead, I’m standing in the hall, thinking about a solution that’s —

My mind shies away, exhausted .

Last night, lying in bed, I thought it might be fun. Like an adventure. A wedding, a honeymoon, the fantasy of being swept off my feet by some rich, brilliant doctor.... Google-stalking him only made him seem more enticing: kind of wild, kind of promiscuous, but certainly good-hearted. Passionate about his work. Plus, no one was accusing him of anything worse than liking a good time .

I drifted off picturing myself shyly unbuttoning his shirt, for a closer look at those spectacular abs. Can’t remember what I dreamed of, but I woke up feeling pretty optimistic .

Then came the mail: two past-due bills and a foreclosure notice. The idea of James as my only choice made him seem less of an adventure, more of a prison sentence. I mean, whitewater rafting’s a great vacation, but nobody wants to be shipwrecked, bouncing around in a dinghy with no way home .

Then again, how’s his idea any worse than, say, going on one of those reality dating shows? They get cash prizes; they get engaged at the end. And they’re doing it for an audience, just as we would be .

I stare at the forbidden door. The handle’s so dusty I can see shiny fingermarks where I grabbed it. Dad wouldn’t approve. Or maybe he would. Can’t picture him wanting me to lose the house. He never wanted me to take that second mortgage in the first place. Begged me to put him in a home, finish college, live my life .

Wish I could ask him. Wish I could ask someone .

Maybe I could ....

I wiggle my phone out of my pocket. Been so long I’ve forgotten the number, but it’s still in my contacts—Kate from Claire’s. Can’t believe this is who I’m asking, a long-ago co-worker who taught me how to pierce ears. Gave me my first taste of wine from her mom’s stash, too. Not exactly a good influence, but I always —

“Diana! Hey! That’s amazing, you’re calling me—I was literally just thinking about you! What’s up ?”

And that’s why I’m asking her. If there’s one person I can count on not to judge, to be thrilled to hear my voice, that’d be Kate. “Hey, yeah—sorry it’s been so long! I’ve been... You know how it is. Crazy busy .”

“Mmm....” Don’t think Kate’s been what you’d call “crazy busy” in her life, but at least she’s making the right noises. Sympathetic ones. “Oh, did you hear about Lisa ?”

I barely remember Lisa. “No... What about Lisa ?”

“She married some guy in his sixties! And he’s not even rich!” Her consonants go all fuzzy, like she’s talking through a yawn, or—no. Putting on mascara. Probably getting ready for a night out. I remember those.... “Oh! And he’s a magician ! ”

I blink. “What, like a stage magician ?”

“Yep.” I can hear the mascara wand now, busily squidging in the tube. “He, like...made an elephant disappear. Or a rhino. It was on CNN. Or ESPN .”

That...doesn’t sound right. “So, uh... If he was rich, would that’ve been better or worse ?”

“Hm.” Kate blots her lips—I can hear the pah! pah! “That depends. I mean... How rich is he? Does she need the money? Is he a normal rich guy, or does he think of marriage as, like, just another transaction ?”

“I don’t know—really rich, yes, and normal-ish ?”

“Can’t see anything wrong with it.” A compact snaps shut. “If they treat each other nice, and they’re both getting what they need, what’s the problem ?”

What, indeed? “I don’t know... Maybe it’d get... Maybe she’d get bored, and he’d get lonely, and they’d end up one of those couples where you’re like... What’d they ever see in one another ?”

“Then they’d say ‘I don’t’. Marriage is like a mattress: gotta change it every eight years. Or when the springs start poking you in the back.” She’s walking, now, heels clicking on tile. “You know me—do something till it stops making sense...then stop doing it !”

I have the feeling I’m getting horrible advice. But Kate always makes me laugh. “You can be my maid of honor,” I tell her .

“Aww. And you can be mine.” A door opens in the background. “Hey, I’m just grabbing a cab, but you wanna go out soon? Catch up properly ?”

“Sure.” I smile into the phone, hoping she can hear it in my voice. “I’ll call you next week .”

We say our goodbyes and hang up. Not sure that exactly helped, but it felt good to laugh .

I’m probably agonizing over nothing. Haven’t even heard from James since I dropped him off in Fonthill. He was probably drunk, or stoned, or joking—maybe all three. Doubt he even remembers me. And of course, here I am, acting like I could call him right now and accept his proposal, and we’d actually get married. More likely, he’d get that “my, this is awkward!” voice people do when you’ve shown up to a party you thought you were invited to, or brought birthday balloons to a wake .

The sun’s going down, and I’m getting stiff from sitting on the floor. I hoist myself up, grab my cleaning supplies, and head for the kitchen. I’m not going to solve anything in the next twenty minutes. Might as well make some dinner .

I’m stirring rice into a pot of chicken broth when my phone rings. I almost ignore it—The bill collectors love to call around mealtimes. It’s like they can sense when you’re about to take a load off, let go of your worries. But when I pick up, it’s not a collector .

“So...did you think about it ?”

It’s James. And apparently, he does remember .

“From every conceivable angle.” Might as well be honest .

“You gonna keep me on tenterhooks ?”

“What is a tenterhook, anyway ?”

He exhales through his nose. “A hook for stretching cloth. And you’re stalling .”

He’s not wrong. “Do you... What would we do together? I mean, what would a typical night look like, at home, after work ?”

“Mm, well, we’d cook dinner, watch movies, walk the dog. Talk about our days. Y’know, friendly stuff. Like couples do .”

“You ever actually been in a couple ?”

He chuckles, low and rich. “Not as such, I suppose, but I know how it goes. Or, I know how I’d want it to go. Down, Percy.” There’s a deep woof, and James laughs again. “Go on, git. This is a private conversation .”

“What about, uh... You know....” I clear my throat. “Other couple stuff. Of a more intimate nature .”

“What, you mean sex ?”

“Wasn’t that clear ?”

“Sorry. Had to tease you a little.” Is he even capable of talking about sex like an adult? I swear, if the next words out of his mouth are squish mitten, hot pot, or—horror of horrors—bacon rose —I’m cutting him off. “Naw, I mean...not right away. Not if you don’t want to. Figured we’d get to know each other, and when the time felt right ....”

“Sounds reasonable....” I feel like I should press for details—I don’t know, ask him what he likes, if he’s been tested lately, if he’s into anything weird—but maybe all that comes later, during the getting to know each other part .

“So, we doing this ?”

I survey my surroundings, taking in the sad pot of broth, the red-stamped foreclosure notice, the bucket in the corner, catching drips. The hall’s full of shadows, but I know what they’re sheltering: that door, that sheet, that abandoned book .

What am I holding on to that’s so great ?

“We’re doing this .”

I half expect him to burst into laughter—hooo-boy; can’t believe you fell for that!— but the sound that drifts down the line is a sigh of relief. “Thank you—thank you, thank you . ”

You’re welcome doesn’t seem like the right thing to say. Nothing exactly does. When the silence gets uncomfortable, I blurt out “It’s okay .”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ll be fine. You’ll see.” My soup starts to simmer. I stir it, making a whirlpool of rice. “This time next year, you’ll be the poster boy for everything good and wholesome .”

“I hope so.” He clears his throat. “So, uh... I got my lawyer—thought you’d come by tomorrow, check out the contracts, and if you’ve got someone you want to look over them ....”

I don’t. It occurs to me I’m at a real disadvantage here .

“I’ll bring someone in, if you don’t. You shouldn’t be going in blind. Doesn’t seem fair .”

“Thanks—yeah, I don’t.” Feels like I should say something more. “I appreciate that. You didn’t have to look out for me that way .”

Maybe this won’t be so bad—more adventure than prison sentence .

“Hey, I want you to be comfortable.” There’s a warmth to his voice, an earnest note. “We’ll go somewhere after. Have a real date. Something a little romantic, take the edge off all that ink .”

“Sounds good .”

My soup starts to boil over. I dial the heat down, balancing the phone on my shoulder. It’s all moving faster than I’d expected. “Hey, I’ve got something on the stove—I should go. What time tomorrow ?”

“Make it noon .”

“Okay—see you then!” I hang up quick, breathing deep to fend off the panic. This is... Wow .

This is seriously happening .