“The doctor?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry, Darling. I forgot to mention it to you. There is a doctor who came highly recommended by the hospital. He specializes in people going through memory loss and struggling with your… challenges. I got in touch with him, and he is sympathetic to your situation. He is willing to come to the house to see you for now.”

  “For now?”

  “Of course. Soon, he’ll help you get to the point where you can go to see him.”

  Mary’s eyes moved toward the wavy glass of the living room window. Her hands still gripped the popcorn and cranberries as they settled into her lap.

  “Do you really think that will happen?” she asked.

  “I do. He will help you. And I will be right here with you. Now, come on. Supper smells so good I feel like I haven’t eaten in a week.”

  Mary didn’t return his chuckle, but her emerald eyes moved to him.

  “You never mentioned a sister.”

  Charles tilted his head at her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My sister, Vivian. You’ve never mentioned her before when you talked about my family.”

  “I haven’t?”

  She shook her head.

  “No. You’ve talked about my parents and brothers, but never a sister.”

  Tension shortened the muscles that ran along his spine, and his mind went to the trunk in the attic. There were pictures in it. There had to be. He smiled so she wouldn’t see the search in his eyes.

  “Silly me. I must not have told you any stories about her. It has been several years since you’ve seen her, after all.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s married to a military man, and they moved out to California. With his injuries from the war, it’s not easy for him to travel. And, of course, such a journey has not been an option for you.”

  Mary’s always-questioning eyes slid over his mouth for a few seconds, waiting to gather any more words that might form there. When they didn’t, she stood up and walked past him into the kitchen.

  “There are glazed carrots to go with the chicken,” she said.

  The faint dusting of flour over the top of the recipe box beside the stove captured the fingerprints on the smooth surface.

  Chapter Seven

  Nick

  The container of macaroni and cheese he took out of the freezer for dinner was still cold in the middle when Nick sat down in front of the television to eat it. He didn’t know how to reheat it and didn’t care enough to get up and try again when the cold-congealed sauce hit his tongue. It’s not like he tasted it. The only reason he was eating at all was to settle the sick feeling in his stomach and stop the shaking from long stretches without bothering to swallow anything. Chewing through the yellow-coated elbows also kept his mouth occupied, so he didn’t call out for Liza.

  Whatever was playing out on the television screen and didn’t sink into his mind flashed brighter on his face because of the darkness in the rest of the room. He washed down each bite with a swig of rum. It should have found its way into the bottom of a bowl of eggnog by this point in the season, but he didn’t bother. The sugar-and-spice laced cream would just muddle the transit for each burning sip.

  Only three more days of work until the company closed down for the holidays. It wouldn’t open again until after the new year. Nick felt certain he was the only one among his coworkers who was dreading those three days going by and the time off starting. At least work gave him eight solid hours away from the house every day. Sometimes more, when there was something to distract him even more. It minimized the time he spent at the house, thinking about Liza and how they should be celebrating together.

  A stack of mail had grown on the sideboard and toppled over, so it spread across the polished wood in a spill of red, green, and gold studding the usual stream of white envelopes. They were greeting cards he didn’t intend to open, and invitations to parties he wouldn’t attend. He didn’t want to look at the addresses. The ones made out only to him were as bad as the ones that still listed Liza. One isolated him as a separate entity from her. One underscored that she wasn’t there.

  Sometimes he hazarded a glance through the mail he brought in each day. Looking only at the return addresses, he had his eye out for Liza’s handwriting. It was distinctive and so familiar to him Nick probably could have identified it by a single letter. But it hadn’t shown up. Not in six months. It wouldn’t have made much sense if it had, but he wouldn’t let himself think that. There was still a part of him that hadn’t yet withered and faded. It was doing more than going through the motions, and it was that part of him that kept him looking for a note from her.

  Even though she had been the one to walk away

  Even though she had specifically instructed him not to try to contact her.

  That hadn’t stopped him. He didn’t care who told him not to; he wasn’t going to stand by and let Liza walk out of his life without at least trying to go after her. He kept trying. Sometimes it was so he could beg her to come back home. Sometimes it was so he could sweep her into his arms and bring her home even if she argued. Sometimes it was so he could scream and shout at her for putting him through this. Sometimes it was just so he could ask why.

  No matter what the reason, it hadn’t worked. He called every number he could think to dial and left as many messages as he could, but she never picked up or called him back. He went to every place in town he thought she might go and searched for her, but she was never there. Liza had always been a determined woman, and this time she was determined to be gone.

  Nick sat on the couch and stared at the television until long after he scraped the last of the cheese sauce from his bowl. The night had hit its peak and would soon tip over into the downward slide to morning. He knew he needed to stretch out across his bed and close his eyes. Not sleep. He wasn’t sure he’d actually slept since summer. Instead, he’d lie like that and wait. On the bad nights, stories played out on the backs of his eyelids, and he rolled out of tangled, sweaty sheets in the morning to stare out of the window and let the sun burn the images away. On the good nights, his body shut down and went into unmoving, unthinking blackness until he came to, stiff, aching, and still exhausted. It wasn’t sleeping. It was surviving.

  That was one of the good nights. He didn’t have to lie there thinking there was a time when he believed Liza would never have just walked away, that she would never want to not talk. Liza talked more than any person he had ever known, even when no one seemed to be listening. One time, two years ago, before that summer, before the overtime, before Christmas, he asked her why. She walked around the house talking like there was always someone with her, and many times he lost the ends, or even the beginnings, of conversations to other rooms. She told him she liked to imagine the words were still there waiting to be heard.

  He envisioned them like encapsulated droplets, hanging around in the air throughout the house, waiting for him to walk through them. In the days after she first left, he wandered through the rooms of their tiny home, covering every inch of the pale beige carpet and speckled tile floor with his footsteps. Maybe if he could find some of those words, it would tell him what happened and why she left so suddenly.

  When his eyes opened, it was morning. Not the bright type of morning that smelled like rain and pancakes and sounded like birds. A cold, grey morning that seemed to be trying to recycle the moonlight and make it last through the entire day. Those were the kinds of mornings that were disorienting when sleep didn’t give any reprieve from exhaustion. Nick might have lain there for hours, already late to work. His eyes could have only been closed for long enough for the very darkest part of the night to end. Or it could have been only a few, fleeting seconds. He couldn’t even tell.

  The clock told him it was his usual wakeup time. Just enough morning ahead of him to take a shower, swallow down black coffee and toast, and drive to the office. Outside, the air bit into him. It was colder than it had been in the last few weeks. The dampness in the air made the cold cling and gave it time to sink deeper into his skin. The heater had just started to kick in and take away the chill by the time Nick pulled into the office parking lot. There were only a few other cars there. That’s how he liked it. Arriving early gave him the advantage of gauging everyone else as they got to work.

  He could tell which ones were in a good mood.

  Which ones had an axe to grind.

  Which were going straight for the coffee.

  Which had a flask in their inside pocket.

  Which would sit in the back corners and slide by the best they could.

  Which would stomp on the heads of anyone in their way to get where they wanted to go.

  That morning, he used the time to sit in the car with the heater pumping out stinging breath on his face and thawing his toes. He stared through the windshield without really seeing anything. The sky was layers of gray. Everything silhouetted against it looked dead and empty. He didn’t know how long he sat there until the gray at the corner of his eye blurred away to baby blue.

  The Boss had arrived. That was another reason Nick usually arrived at work early. He got there before everyone else, so he didn't have to walk across the parking lot with Boss. So he didn't have to share the elevator. So he didn't have to start his day with the sympathetic looks. He never said it. He never said anything that wasn't supportive and compassionate, but his eyes said something different. Behind them was the unspoken commentary.

  “My wife might not remember, but at least she's still here.”

  Chapter Eight

  Mary

  I should know him. Even if my mind doesn't completely remember. Even if most of my thoughts and memories are still locked away somewhere I can't yet reach, I should know him. My body should remember his touch. My skin should know his skin. I should know his taste and the smell of his sweat. He should have left an imprint on me that makes my body remember him, ache for him, feel complete with him.

  But I don't. I wake up in the morning cold, but I don't move across the mattress toward his warmth just inches from mine. The bed is so small, and I know I shouldn't, but I find myself clenching my body into the smallest space possible rather than letting my skin meet his again. He doesn't repulse me. I don't hate him. I just don't know him. Our bodies don't move together. Our hands don't reach for one another at the same time. When his weight pushes me down into the mattress, I don't feel enveloped and protected. I just can't breathe.

  This isn't how I should feel. I know that, and the guilt gets deeper every morning when there's no change. I cover it with a perfectly pressed dress and a swipe of black eyeliner. I bury it deep in pancake batter and fresh coffee. Charles won't know. He can't know. I won't stop trying to make it different one morning.

  The doctor Charles arranged to talk to me is coming this afternoon. Somehow, that makes the morning seem longer and shorter at the same time. Knowing he's coming makes me feel strangely anxious. Even if I can't see what's just below my own surface, something tells me I have to protect it. Look perfect. Keep a perfect home. Be a perfect hostess.

  But I'm not a hostess. He's not coming here to be entertained or taste the sugar cookies baking in the oven. I'm a patient, and he's coming to try to help me. But that doesn't stop the minutes from ticking past and the worry from creeping up as it feels like I don't have enough time to get ready before he arrives.

  And yet, there's still hours in front of me, and too much time to fill with only tidying. With less than two weeks until Christmas and only days until the party, the list of things I need to get done is long. Just thinking about the party makes me nervous, but I throw myself into the next task, so I don't have to think too much about it. Focusing in close to just one thing means I don't have to think about the larger picture. I can make a menu without thinking about the people coming to eat from it. I can wrap presents without thinking about the pressure of Christmas morning.

  That’s what I’m doing now as I wait for the seconds to slip into minutes to melt into hours until the doctor comes. Because then he will leave. I just want to get through the appointment. The boxes sitting beside me as I kneel in front of the coffee table help to distract me. I hope Charles doesn’t realize I chose his gifts completely at random. When the catalogs arrived, I flipped through them and filled the order card with the first things that stood out to me. Of course, Charles handled the payment. He didn’t mention the amount, so I suppose I didn’t choose too much.

  I don’t want to open all the boxes at once and risk spoiling the surprise if Charles comes home unexpectedly, so I work through one at a time. The shirt in front of me is crisp and fresh, each pleat exactly in its place. Carefully snipping away the price tag, I fold the red and black plaid and settle it into the tissue paper in a shirt box. Little elves playing in the snow printed on the lid of the box make it pretty enough to just tuck under the tree, but I arrange it in the center of a piece of wrapping paper anyway.

  When I smooth the final piece of tape onto the package and add a curling bow on top, I gather up the two other boxes I’ve wrapped so I can find a place to hide them. There isn’t space beneath the couch, and that would make vacuuming far more difficult. Charles goes into the liquor cabinet too often not to notice gifts tucked away there.

  I glance behind the television into the space I’ve never paid much attention to. The set is close to the wall, so there is very little space, and what is there is crowded with wires and cables, small strange metal boxes and a blinking light that puts me on edge. I don’t know why, but that light bothers me.

  Pretending I haven’t seen it, I carry the boxes out of the living room and through the rest of the house. First into the kitchen. Charles doesn’t go into the cabinets or pantry often, but there is little space that won’t ruin my careful organization. Besides, I wouldn’t want a bottle of oil or jar of something to break and ruin the gifts. I go into the hallway and pause beside the door to Charles’s study. It’s locked. I know it is. It always is. Our bedroom was next, but even our closet would be too obvious. I’d already seen the cheerful red paper of a small stack of gifts tucked into the back corner of the top shelf and hastily covered with a hat. Charles had claimed that as his hiding space already and it wouldn’t do any good to try to trick him by hiding his gifts there, too.

  That means there is only one room left. The closed door at the end of the hallway. Charles insists on calling it the nursery. This, he always tells me, is where our children will sleep. His eyes get misty and his voice hopeful when he talks about that. A baby is what would complete us. He wants us to be a true family. After years of marriage, we’ve had the time to enjoy just being together, and it’s time to raise our own little ones.

  The thought makes the back of my neck tingle and the muscles along my back ache.

  He calls it the nursery, but that’s not what it is. Whatever my husband envisions for the future, for now, the room is a guest bedroom scattered with a few items Charles says are supposed to go into the attic but never seem to have found their way there. I slip inside and glance around. There isn’t often cause for me to come in here. We haven’t had overnight guests, and the boxes stored in here mostly belong to Charles from when he was younger. They’re all marked with his name and stacked against the wall. Sometimes curiosity gets to me, but I haven’t let it take over yet. The only other times I need to come in here are for twice-monthly cleaning. With no one else here, the brush of the vacuum and sweep of the dust cloth only takes a few minutes.

  I’m always grateful for that. This room isn’t my favorite part of the house. There’s really no reason why. It’s neatly decorated and tastefully kept. The rippled glass of the windows looks welcoming, framed in the blue and white floral curtains that are always pulled back. But something in the air changes when I walk into this space. It feels like it’s waiting. I take a step inside and get the feeling along my spine that I’ve just walked into a moment that is long over.

  But it’s the perfect hiding spot. I rush across the room and open the closet. It’s empty except for a suit and evening gown pressed against the far end of the bar and an old hatbox sitting up on the shelf. The wrapped gifts fit into the other corner of the shelf perfectly. I’m starting to back out of the closet when the hatbox catches my eye. It must be mine, but I don’t know what’s inside.

  Rising up on the balls of my feet, I reach for the hatbox. It's pushed back against the wall of the closet, putting it just out of reach. My fingertips touch the curved side, and I walk them across the smooth surface of the paper, easing it closer to me. Just as it inches to the edge and I'm almost able to grab it, I lose my balance. Toppling forward, I reach one hand ahead of me to break my fall. It hits the wall, and I feel something give beneath my fingertips. I find my footing again and pull my hand back, startled by the unexpected texture of the wall.

  White wallpaper dotted with pale blue flowers is the perfect accompaniment to the curtains hanging at the window. It lines the walls of a closet that have been perfectly aligned to create a seamless accent to the rest of the room. Only now, it's not so perfect.

  Just in front of me, a section of the wallpaper is dented down. Where it should be flush against the wall, it buckled in under my hand. Now a tiny tear forms along something hard. My fingertips trembling, I run them down along the hard rolled edge beneath the paper. I trace them along, feeling the rectangular shape and the dip inside. Just beneath the tear, another shape now pushes out against the paper. Running my fingers around the edge, I try to envision what it is. Metal. A rod nestled between hooks, with a small round knob hanging down.

  A latch means something being held closed, locked so it won’t open.

  Wallpaper over it means someone wanting it to disappear.

  I try to think of any time I’ve been in this closet. I know I have been. At some point, I opened that door and looked inside. The hatbox is familiar enough that I know the pattern along the paper, and I know the gown hanging behind this suit shimmers with champagne-colored sequins. But I never noticed anything strange about the wallpaper. It was just there. Always perfect, exactly the way it was supposed to be. There was no reason to question it.