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I trawl through his emails, fingers in my mouth, other hand on the mouse, scrolling, reading, scrolling, reading, until my eyes bleed. Nothing. Nothing unusual in his appointment book either, not even a squiggle or a code word that I can detect among Luis’s organized, neat, everything-spelt-out entries. I pore over his cellphone bills, looking for a repeated number, an unusual one. I call the ones I don’t recognize—Hello, is this the aquarium?—but they’re all legitimate numbers: art supplies stores, 3-D printing, packing and transport; Perry Cube Gallery, recycling plants. Although it’s not to say he didn’t meet her at one of those places, obviously.
One day I surprise him at the studio for lunch. Salt and pepper calamari with creamy horseradish, his favorite. I don’t find himinflagrante delicto,which I take as evidence that it’s all in my head. He seems pleased to see me, so that’s even better. We eat lunch on the couch in front of the giant nest. And he serves it on those pretty plates.
“Where did you get those?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Can’t remember. Probably for one of the open studio shows.”
And really, the more I try to catch him out, the more innocent he seems, the more I tell myself I’m being paranoid. It’s my imagination getting the better of me, and a thousand other clichés. I convince myself that the whole Alex thing got me rattled and that I’m not thinking straight. But then the suspicious voice inside me pipes up:You know he didn’t get takeout from the deli that night. He lied to you.
And every time I think of that lie my blood boils all over again. I spend hours awake at night thinking of all the things I do for my family, and that I do them with joy and gratitude. I clean, I cook, I send the kids to private schools plus ballet and drama and coding camp for Carla and soccer and fencing for Mateo, date nights with my husband once a month—did we go last month? I can’t remember—sex once a week at least. And yet, somehow, it’s never enough.I’mnever enough.
June has brought me coffee in a real cup and saucer, and a plate of cookies. She has done this every day this week bar one. The other day I finally asked, “What have I done to deserve this?”
“That day, when the associate dean shouted at me, you were very kind. I just wanted to say thanks.”
“Oh, really? Well, if that’s the case, I’m thrilled he snapped at you. I hope he snaps at you lots more,” I said, which made her guffaw.
“So, how’re you feeling this morning?” she asks now.
“I’m okay, June, thank you.” I bite off the edge of a cookie. “Ginger?”
She nods, gives me a small satisfied smile. “With cinnamon.”
“Wow, they’re amazing,” I mumble, mouth full, catching a stray crumb trying to escape.
She laughs. “You said that yesterday. And the day before.”
“What can I say, you outdo yourself every day, June, and every day I love you a little more for it.”
She claps happily. “Great! And it’s a new recipe I wanted to try.”
I nod, shoveling the rest of the cookie in my mouth. “It’s a keeper.”
“Fabulous! Well, I’d better get back to it.” She’s at the door when she stops, turns and says, “Alex’s parents. His father, I mean. He called. I’m sorry, but he wants us to Fedex anything of Alex’s that is still here. Would you…is it all right for you to bring me anything you might have?”
My skin prickles. “What things?” I ask.
“Any personal papers, I guess. Did he have some textbooks, maybe? In his drawer?”
She starts to walk towards it and I spring upright. “I’ll do it,” I blurt.
She stops, startled. “Only if you want to, otherwise I can.”
“Thank you, June, that’s very thoughtful. But it’s fine. I’d like to. And, anyway, there isn’t much.”
“Whatever you have. I’ll send it off this morning.”
“Of course. Give me a minute. I’ll bring them out.”
She walks out and I go to his little desk and sit down. It’s an old wooden desk that someone from resources found god knows where, in some dark basement by the looks of it, and had brought up. We’re so broke now, we can’t even afford new desks. I run my hand along the top of it and bits of dust stick to my palm.
I open the first drawer and lift out two textbooks. I shake out the pages, but nothing falls out. I riffle through an almost empty drawer and gather the tidbits, junk mostly, he left behind: a biro, an eraser, a ruler and a hole puncher, of all things. I put them in a large envelope and put that on top of the textbooks. In the other drawer I find a notebook filled with squiggles and dark drawings and daggers dripping with blood over names that make no sense to me. I shove it in the trash can. I can’t see there’s anything there to bring joy to anyone.
I’m actually relieved but I don’t know why exactly. I don’t know what I thought I might find. But whatever it was, it’s not there. Then I go to my own desk, and unlock the bottom drawer. That’s where we kept his special notebooks, the ones I was supposed to bring along the day he died, but forgot. I stare at them. Nine large black spiral notebooks. They were his favorite type, he said. He liked the paper. He wouldn’t use anything else.
I rest them on my lap, run my fingers along their edges. I open one at random. The proof. The only copy. I hesitate, glance at the door to make sure no one is watching, then slip them back in the drawer and lock them up again. I don’t know why I do that. Maybe because his parents won’t know or appreciate what they contain, and I need to think carefully about what to do with them.
I give June the pile.
