Chapter 24: Sunday Morning

I woke on Sunday morning in a bare bed with the sun on my face.

The corner of my eye was empty.

I lay there and enjoyed that for a while.

Margot's side of the mattress was warm and flat.

From downstairs came a drawer, then a cupboard, then a quiet curse.

I went down in my shorts and found her at the counter in my shirt.

She had a plastic pill organizer in front of her, and next to it, propped against the coffee maker, was a yellow legal pad.

THINGS TO LEAVE MARGOT, it said across the top, in my handwriting.

"You kept it," I said.

"I'm using it." She did not turn around. "Don't help."

"I wasn't going to."

"You were going to say the red lid is for mornings."

"I was thinking it."

"It's the red lid for mornings," Margot said, to herself, and snapped the first one shut.

I sat down at the kitchen table.

I had never sat there while somebody else did the Sunday job.

My hands did not know what to do.

I put them flat on the wood and watched her count out tablets, frowning, one lid at a time.

She put Wednesday's evening pills in Thursday.

She noticed, tipped them out, and put them back right without a word.

I said nothing at all.

It was the hardest thing I had done all week.

"Show-off," she said, and I laughed.

The front door opened without a knock.

"Hello, newlyweds," Millie called. "I brought what's left of the pie, and I'm not leaving till somebody tells me they ate it."

She came in with a foil plate in one hand and an envelope in the other.

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