The basement door wouldn't move.
I hit it once, twice. My palm came back stinging. Smoke was already curling under the gap, gray and oily, smelling like burnt plastic and something sweeter underneath, like hair.
"Alexander!" I shouted. "Alexander, the door's stuck!"
I pressed my ear to the wood. Footsteps upstairs. Quick ones. He was home. I'd heard him come in twenty minutes ago, heard him cross the kitchen, heard Monroe's voice from the guest suite — the small, breathy register she used when she wanted him close.
"Alex! I'm down here!"
A door opened upstairs. Not mine. The front door.
Then I heard her. Monroe. Out on the lawn, crying like a child who'd skinned her knee. Soft, shaking little sobs that carried through the vents.
And then his voice. "Monroe. Monroe, I'm here, I've got you."
I stopped pounding.
I stood there in the dark with smoke coming up around my ankles and listened to my husband run past my door to a woman with a scratch on her wrist.
The heat started behind me. I felt it on the back of my neck first, then through the soles of my shoes. I dropped to the floor. The files I'd come down for were still on the desk, ten feet behind me, and I remember thinking — very clearly, very calmly — that I would not be picking them up.
Something cracked above the door. A man's voice, not Alexander's, shouting my name. Mr. Halberstam from 4B. The door splintered inward. Hands grabbed my shoulders. I screamed because the skin came with the cloth.
---
They put me on the lawn in a foil blanket.
The paramedic was saying something I couldn't follow. My arms were wrapped in wet gauze and I was watching, through the smoke that hung over the street, Alexander twenty feet away with his jacket around Monroe's shoulders. He had his mouth in her hair. He was rocking her, a little. The scrape on her wrist had been bandaged with what looked like a cocktail napkin.
He hadn't looked at me yet.
My left hand was swelling. The wedding ring had warped in the heat — gold did that, apparently — and it sat now like a small crooked staple in the meat of my finger. I worked it off. The skin came too, in a ribbon. I didn't make a sound.
I walked over to him. The foil blanket dragged behind me on the wet street.
"Alex."
He turned. His face did something complicated. Relief, maybe. Then irritation, very fast, because Monroe made a small noise against his collarbone.
"Lydia, sit down, the paramedics —"
"I want a divorce."
I said it once. I didn't raise my voice.
He stared at me. Genuinely stared, like I'd spoken a language he didn't have. Behind his shoulder Monroe lifted her face. Her eyes were dry. The corners of her mouth were doing something I will never forget — not a smile, exactly. The small, settled look of a woman watching a clock finish its count.
I put the warped ring in his palm. I closed his fingers around it. I walked back to the ambulance.
---
The burn unit at NYU Langone smells like antiseptic and warm laundry. They put me in a room with a window that looked out at an air shaft. Eleven days. I counted them the way I count anything — quietly, in a notebook I asked Emersyn to bring on day two.
He did not come.
Not on the night they did the first debridement, when I bit through the inside of my cheek and tasted iron for an hour. Not on day four, when the attending physician came in holding her tablet against her chest like a shield.
"Mrs. Marshall." She wouldn't sit. "Your insurance authorization has been flagged for removal by the policyholder. I'm — I'm so sorry. I wanted you to hear it from me before billing called."
I looked at her. She was about my age. She had a wedding band on a thin chain around her neck, tucked into her scrubs.
"What time was the flag entered?"
She checked. "Eleven-forty this morning."
Eleven-forty. I knew, without needing to know, where he had been at eleven-forty. Standing at Monroe's kitchen counter, probably. Cutting the stems of something expensive on a diagonal. He had a way of arranging flowers that was almost a meditation.
"Can I have the billing department's direct number, please?"
She wrote it on the corner of a tissue box.
I did not call Alexander. I called somebody else. And then somebody else after that. By the time the nurse came in with the evening dose, I had a yellow legal pad on my lap with three names on it and a question mark next to the second one. The question mark would, in time, become Catherine Hale.
---
They discharged me on a Thursday. Gray sky, low and damp.
The compression sleeves went up past my elbows. There was a plastic bag with my prescriptions and a referral and the clothes I'd come in with, which I would not be wearing again. I sat on the curb outside the south entrance with the bag on my knees.
I called Emersyn.
She picked up before the first ring finished.
"I'm already getting my keys," she said.
That was all. I heard her apartment door close on her end. I heard her run down the stairs.
I sat very still on the cold concrete. For the first time since the smoke, I was not moving toward anything or away from anything. I was simply there, breathing carefully around the bandages, watching a pigeon work at something on the asphalt.
She arrived in thirty-eight minutes.
She didn't hug me. She knew better — the arms. She opened the passenger door, took the bag from my lap, and waited while I lowered myself onto the seat.
"Belt," she said.
I couldn't quite reach. She leaned across me and clicked it in. Her hair smelled like her shampoo, the same one she'd used since college, and something in my chest finally, finally let go.
She drove us to Brooklyn.
The sheets in her second bedroom were already changed. A Post-it on the bedside lamp, in her squared, all-caps handwriting: DR. AMINI — TUE 9AM. She made coffee in the small kitchen, the way she had a hundred times before, and she set a mug down in front of me and sat across the table.
She didn't say his name.
I didn't either.
Outside, the rain started, very quiet, against the fire escape. I lifted the mug with both bandaged hands and held it close to my face for the warmth. Emersyn watched the rain. We sat like that for a long time, and neither of us moved to fill the silence, because the silence, for once, was the whole point.
