After My Husband Hit Me at Our Son’s Funeral

The ceiling tiles at Mount Sinai have water stains shaped like continents. I count them while the nurse adjusts the IV line in my wrist. There are seven. Maybe eight. The morphine makes the edges soft.

They told me an hour ago. A boy. He didn't make it.

I heard the words. I watched the doctor's mouth move. Then I looked back at the ceiling and found Australia near the light fixture.

Creed held my hand in the delivery room. I remember that. His palm was dry. Mine was slick with sweat and blood and the animal terror of a body trying to do something it couldn't finish. He whispered that I was doing great. That he loved me. That everything would be okay.

He left twenty minutes after the doctor spoke. He kissed my forehead. Said he needed to make calls. Notify family. Handle arrangements. His voice cracked in exactly the right place.

The nurse comes back with a plastic cup of water. I sip it. It tastes like nothing.

My phone buzzes on the table beside the bed.

I almost don't look. My body is a distant country. My son is gone. The room is too bright and too quiet and I want to sleep for a year.

But the phone buzzes again.

I pick it up.

One new message. Unknown sender. No text. Just a link.

I should delete it. I should put the phone down. I should close my eyes and let the drugs pull me under.

I tap the link.

The screen loads. A website. Dark background. Clean interface. A video player in the center. A chat sidebar scrolling fast on the right. A tip counter in the corner ticking upward in real time.

The video is live.

I know the room on screen before I recognize the people in it. Exposed brick. Industrial windows. The loft in Tribeca that Demi redecorated last spring. She sent me photos. I helped her pick the rug.

The camera angle is wide. Professional. Mounted.

Creed is on the sofa.

Demi is in his lap.

They are not dressed.

I watch for ten seconds. Maybe fifteen. The chat sidebar scrolls. Usernames I don't recognize type things I don't read. The tip counter climbs. Fifty dollars. A hundred. Someone sends two hundred with a request.

Creed laughs. I know that laugh. I've heard it a thousand times across dinner tables and in dark bedrooms and on lazy Sunday mornings when he thought I was still asleep.

Demi leans in. Her hand moves. The camera catches everything.

I close the app.

I turn off the phone.

I set it back on the table.

I look at the ceiling. Australia is still there. The morphine is still working. My body is still a distant country.

I do not scream.

I do not cry.

I press my thumbnail into the center of my palm until the skin goes white.

Then I close my eyes and wait for sleep.

---

They discharge me three days later. Creed arrives in the Audi with the passenger seat adjusted exactly how I like it. He takes my bag. He holds my elbow as I walk. He opens the car door and waits until I'm settled before closing it gently.

He talks on the drive home. Soft voice. Careful words. He's handled everything, he says. The service will be small. Private. Just family. He's spoken to his parents. To my mother. Everyone understands we need space.

I nod. I look out the window. The city slides past. Gray and bright and full of people who are not me.

The apartment smells like the cleaning service came. Floors gleaming. Surfaces bare. The flowers someone sent are gone.

Creed sets my bag in the bedroom. He asks if I need anything. Water. Tea. Something to eat.

I shake my head.

He kisses my forehead. The same spot. The same pressure. "I love you," he says.

"I love you too," I say.

He smiles. It's small and sad and perfect.

Then he leaves for the office. A client meeting he can't reschedule. He'll be back by dinner.

I sit on the sofa. I count to one hundred. Then I take out my phone.

I don't open the link again. I screenshot it instead. I save it to a folder I label "Recipes."

Then I call a lawyer.

Her name is Judith Kline. She's the one my mother's friend recommended years ago when I was setting up my own accounts. Discreet. Ruthless. Expensive.

She answers on the second ring.

"I need to confirm something about my prenup," I say.

She pulls the file. I hear keys clicking.

"The walk-away clause," I say. "When does it activate?"

"Five weeks from today," she says. "June fourteenth. You sure you want to go there?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay." Her voice is all business. "Don't do anything stupid in the meantime. No confrontations. No accusations. You smile. You nod. You keep the peace. Understand?"

"I understand."

"Good. Call me when you're ready to file."

I hang up.

The apartment is silent.

I walk to the bathroom. I turn on the fan. I open the cabinet under the sink and pull out the box of pads I won't need for weeks.

I bury the burner phone I bought yesterday at the bottom.

Then I go back to the living room and sit on the sofa and wait for my husband to come home.

---

Demi arrives the next afternoon with white peonies. My favorite. She knows that.

She hugs me carefully. Like I'm glass.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers.

I hug her back. "Thank you."

She sits beside me. She holds my hand. Her nails are painted blush pink. Professionally done. There's a small bruise on her wrist I pretend not to see.

"How are you holding up?" she asks.

I smile. It's small. Tired. "I'm okay. Creed's been amazing."

"He loves you so much," she says.

"I know," I say.

She squeezes my hand.

I press my thumbnail into my palm beneath the blanket.

We sit like that for twenty minutes. She talks. I nod. She offers to stay. I tell her I need to rest.

She kisses my cheek before she leaves.

I lock the door behind her.

I put the peonies in water.

Then I go to the bedroom and lie down and stare at the ceiling until Creed comes home.

Five weeks.

I can do five weeks.