My Husband Is Dead Or Is He? novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Walnut Box
On the day Hamish should have come home, his mother arrives with a box of ashes and papers to sign, and Marlo redials his number in front of everyone and a voice answers.
The morning my husband was supposed to come home, his mother walked up my porch steps carrying a walnut box.
I was in the kitchen in my good green dress.
My best friend was on a chair beside me, taping the last gold letter of WELCOME HOME to the wall.
The lasagna was in the oven, and Hamish's favorite beer was cold in the fridge.
I had been awake since four.
The night before, he had called at eleven, the way he had every night for three years.
It was always after eleven, and it was always only his voice.
He never had a signal good enough for video, he said, and I had stopped asking.
Last night he said, "Babe, something came up at the company. I can't make it home."
He had never called me babe until his second year away, and I had decided it was the distance.
I hung up on him.
It was the first time in three years, and I didn't sleep.
Now Bernadette stood on my porch in her camel coat, with her silver hair set and her eyes red.
Behind her came Dale Wiedenbeck, her lawyer, with a leather folder under his arm.
"Marlo, honey," Bernadette said. "Can we come in? Please sit down for this."
"Hamish called me last night," I said. "He's late, that's all. Is that why you're here?"
She didn't answer.
She walked past me into my kitchen, set the box on my table, and put her hand flat on the lid.
My best friend, Skye, climbed down off the chair.
"Marlo," Bernadette said. "He's gone, sweetheart. I'm so sorry."
I heard what she said, but it didn't mean anything.
"These are his ashes," she said. "I got the call on Tuesday. I flew over and I brought him home to you myself."
Dale opened the folder and laid a paper in front of me.
It was a death certificate from the Netherlands, with a stamp and a translation clipped to it.
The date on it was four days ago.
"That's wrong," I said. "He talked to me last night."
"Foreign offices make mistakes with dates," Dale said smoothly. "Mrs. Lindmark, I'm sorry for your loss."
He slid a second paper beside it, with yellow flags marking where I should sign.
"This is a widow's estate release," he said. "It moves things into order so you don't have to carry any of it. Bernadette has handled every detail."
"You don't have to think," Bernadette said. She put a tissue in my hand. "Let me take care of you. Hamish would want that."
I looked at the paper.
My name was already typed on the signature line.
The page said that I would give my thirty-five percent of Lindmark Marine Freight to the family.
My father had built that company with Hamish's father, and he had left me his share when he died.
"He called me last night," I said again. "Four days ago he was alive."
Bernadette's face didn't change. "Honey, who called you?"
"My husband. From his number."
"It can't have been Hamish," Dale said.
"Then I'll ask him," I said.
I took out my phone and pressed his name.
I put it on speaker and laid it on the table beside the box.
It rang once.
It rang twice.
Skye crossed her arms and moved to stand beside me.
On the third ring someone picked up.
"Babe?" said my husband's voice.
Bernadette's hand came off the lid.
"Hang up, Marlo," she said quietly.
"Mom's there, isn't she," the voice said, fast and low. "Marlo, listen. Don't sign anything. Don't let her take the box out of the house."
The line went dead.
The kitchen was so quiet that I could hear the oven ticking.
Skye said, "Okay. That was him."
"No," Bernadette said. Her voice was steady, and she put a second tissue on the table. "People do this to widows, sweetheart. They find a voice online and they call and they take everything you have. Dale, tell her."
"It happens constantly," Dale said.
"I'm sure it does," I said.
I took the widow's release by the corner.
I could feel Bernadette watching my hand, and I could feel Skye watching me.
So I tore it in half.
I tore the halves in half and dropped them on the death certificate.
"Marlo," Bernadette said gently. "You're in shock."
"Maybe," I said. "Then I won't make any decisions today. The box stays here until I know whose voice that was."
Bernadette looked at me for a long moment.
Then she picked up her handbag and said, "Of course, honey. Take all the time you need."
She took Dale and went out through my front door, and her heels sounded slow and even on the porch boards.
Skye locked the door behind her and turned the bolt.
"I'm going to throw up," she said.
My phone buzzed against the walnut lid.
It was a text from my husband's number.
It said: Harbor Light Motel. Room 9. Tonight, alone. Don't bring the box.
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