He Counted My Lies Until I Died, Then Begged Me to Wake novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Ninety-Ninth
Rhona falls down the stairs, calls 911 and then her husband, and he answers "Ninety-nine." She dies, and her ghost watches him reheat oatmeal all night. At dawn he opens his safe, and every entry has a pencil tick.
In the fifth year of our marriage, my husband started a book about me.
Winslow called it the Lie Book.
He said my worst fault was that I lied.
The first time, I told him his mother had switched my pills.
He wrote it down.
The second time, I told him his brother was spending money from my card.
He wrote that down too.
The third time, I told him the cook had put nuts in my dinner, and I had the hives to prove it.
He wrote that down as well.
"Rhona," he said, "when the book reaches one hundred, we get divorced."
"And when that day comes, don't cry. Don't beg me to stay."
After that, I stopped explaining.
On the ninety-ninth day, I fell down the stairs.
I lay at the bottom with my hand on my stomach and blood running between my fingers.
I called 911 first.
Then I called my husband.
"Winslow," I said. "I fell down the stairs. I think I'm dying."
He laughed once, low and cold.
"Ninety-nine."
"One left."
"Think hard about what you want your last lie to be."
I looked at the blood on my palm, and I laughed too.
"Fine," I said. "Then I won't say anything."
I died in the hospital that night.
Winslow never came.
At that moment he was in his study, locking the Lie Book in his safe.
He was waiting for me to tell him my hundredth lie to his face.
He never got to hear it.
...
On the first night after my death, Winslow heated a pot of oatmeal three times.
The first time was at eleven-thirty.
The second was at twelve-forty.
By one, he was tired of walking back and forth, so he turned the burner to its lowest setting.
"If it burns, she won't eat it," he said to the empty kitchen.
He still lifted the lid a little, so the steam could get out.
I floated in the kitchen doorway and watched him.
He had always been like this.
He knew I had a weak stomach.
He knew I was always cold.
He knew I wanted extra vinegar on my crab pasta, and that my feet went icy in bed.
He just never knew that the things I said could be true.
His phone lit up three times.
It's getting cold outside.
The driver is waiting at the gate.
Ten minutes later: Come home. We can fight when you're back.
For five years, that kind of message had worked on me.
In our first year, after a fight, I took my pillow to the guest room.
I woke in the night and found myself back in our bed, his arms around me.
I pushed at him. "You told me to get out."
He held on tighter. "I told you to get out. I didn't tell you to leave."
That one line kept me soft for years.
After that, he never needed to apologize.
He warmed a bowl of oatmeal, left a light on, and said, "That's enough. Stop making a scene."
And I climbed down from the fight by myself.
At two in the morning, his mother came downstairs.
Sybil saw him still sitting at the dining table and set a cup of tea beside his hand.
"Still no word from her?"
"No."
"You should sleep, dear. Yesterday she said she was dying. If you chase her now, she may do it every time she loses an argument."
Winslow's jaw tightened.
"Mom. When she comes home, don't bring that up."
Sybil looked at him. "You're still defending her?"
"She was in pain and she was talking nonsense. I'll handle it."
With one sentence he protected me from his mother.
With the same sentence he called me a liar.
He called my number a fourth time.
It went to voicemail, and his patience ran out.
"Rhona, I'll pretend I didn't hear what you said yesterday. I won't count it as ninety-nine."
His voice dropped.
"Come home. Your stomach pills are on the nightstand. I saved you oatmeal."
Out of habit, I almost answered, Okay.
I reached for his shoulder, and my hand went through it.
I was dead.
Winslow turned his head fast.
My whole chest tightened.
But he was only looking at the entryway, where my slippers sat crooked by the door.
He walked over and nudged them straight with his shoe.
He took my beige coat, the one I had forgotten to wear, and hung it at the front of the rack.
"Doesn't she know when she's cold?" Sybil said.
"She never does," Winslow said. "She knows when she's sick, but she doesn't dress for it."
He said it gently.
I wanted to laugh.
Winslow, you noticed I left without my coat.
How did you not notice that I meant it when I said I was dying?
Near dawn, he sent one more text.
Don't gamble with your health because you're angry.
I stood behind him and read it over his shoulder.
Yesterday, at the bottom of the stairs, I had wanted to tell him something too.
Winslow, don't bet my life on me lying again.
But he had won that bet ninety-eight times.
So on the ninety-ninth, he didn't even come to look.
When the sky went gray, he went into his study and opened the safe.
He took out the Lie Book and turned to the last page.
In the margin beside every entry, in pencil, was a small tick.
He had checked off every lie.
He did not write a hundredth.
He closed the book, put it back, and turned the dial.
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