But watching his face darken, I never let the words out.
The rain came down in sheets, and he held an umbrella over me as I got into the car.
It was a short walk, yet that umbrella felt like the most honest set of scales.
By the time I climbed in, my whole shoulder was soaked through.
I hadn't eaten all day, and my stomach chose that moment to growl.
Without thinking, he shifted the takeout container on the back seat out of view.
"Seafood noodles. You can't have those."
He didn't drive straight home. He looped across half the city to drop the noodles off at Karen's place first, then turned back.
So that was it. During the stretch when he'd forgotten me, he'd been out buying Karen a late-night meal.
We got home, and right up until he went to sleep, he never once asked whether I was hungry.
I woke the next day starving. I hadn't bought groceries, so I boiled some frozen potstickers for breakfast.
After I'd finished my share, I took out the notebook I'd just bought.
I was afraid that one day I'd forget everything.
I wrote down all the important things, and only then did I realize they were all about Simon.
His likes and the foods he wouldn't touch, every little moment from our three years of marriage.
I also wrote down the do-over wedding, six days away.
The first time we held a wedding, I stood alone at the venue and waited for half an hour.
Only then did Simon call.
"I forgot we were getting married. Today's my defense for the full professorship. It's important."
"The wedding... let's just do it next time."
I'd waited five years for that wedding.
So I put it on the first line of the first page.
I was right in the middle of writing, "Simon loves the corn potstickers I fold by hand," when—
Simon, eating his breakfast, suddenly looked up.
"These are a lot better than the ones you made before."
The tip of my pen stopped. Then I crossed out what I'd just written, stroke by stroke.
My second follow-up appointment was three days later.
All I remember is the grim look on Dr. Perry's face.
This time I went home on my own. I'd written down where home was in the notebook, so I couldn't forget.
But when I got there, the key I'd used for five years didn't work for the first time.
The door wouldn't open. I'd wondered whether something was wrong with my memory.
I'd been fumbling with the key for a while when a brand-new one reached past me and slid into the lock.
It turned without the slightest resistance.
I followed the key up and found Karen.
And, behind her, Simon.
"We changed the locks. I forgot to tell you."
"The old locks were five years old. Worn out."
I listened to him, then looked at the rusted key in my hand.
And I couldn't help feeling it wasn't only the lock he'd swapped out.
He went on:
"Karen's depression has gotten worse. She'll be staying with us for a while, so it's easier for me to treat her."
He said it with total certainty. Not a discussion. A notice.
I didn't say anything.
But when I pushed the door open, I found the houseplants had been swapped out for sunflowers.
Karen smiled. "Too much green. Sunflowers make you feel a little better."
The sheets had been changed too.
"Cashmere is so much more comfortable than plain cotton."
Simon didn't like having his picture taken. The only photo of the two of us had stood by the bed.
That, too, had been replaced with a photo of me and the three of them.
Karen looped her arm through mine, tilted her head, and asked me.
"Delilah, you don't mind, do you?"
I only looked at Simon, and found he'd said nothing at all.
A sudden exhaustion settled over my heart, and I set that flimsy little bag of medicine down hard.
Karen snatched it up at once.
"Delilah, what did Dr. Perry prescribe for you? Is everything all right?"
Simon barely glanced at it.
"When Perry treats someone, you can't take too much of what he prescribes."
