Chapter 11: I Made It Myself

Dorothea slipped out of my room and down the back stairs before the front door opened.

I turned off the lamp and lay down on my side, facing the wall, with my phone under my pillow.

The stairs creaked under my husband's weight.

He did not go to his room.

He came down the hall and stopped outside mine, and I heard the knob turn.

"Jo?" he said, soft. "Are you awake?"

"Mm."

The hall light fell across the bed.

He was carrying a cup on a saucer.

He had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie.

He looked tired and tender, exactly like the man I had married.

"Dorothea said you had a hard day," he said. "I thought I'd make you your tea myself."

"You never make tea."

"I'm learning."

He sat on the edge of the bed and held out the cup.

It was the same cup Dorothea used. It smelled the same, sweet and a little bitter.

I thought of the printout folded in my robe pocket.

I thought of the circle in the notebook, with the tear in the paper.

I sat up and took the cup in both hands.

"Thank you," I said.

"Drink it while it's hot."

"It's too hot."

"Blow on it."

I blew on it.

Craig watched my mouth.

He watched the way he used to watch Eli swallow medicine, kindly and without blinking.

"All of it, Jo," he said. "You haven't been sleeping."

I lifted the cup and took a mouthful.

It was warm and horrible.

I held it in my cheek and did not swallow.

Under my pillow, folded flat, I had a hand towel.

I had put it there the night before, just in case.

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