Chapter 2 - The Inventory
I made the first inventory in my head while Mark and Linda argued over whether the tablecloth should be cream or white. Roast beef. Potatoes. Squash. Green beans. Soup. Salad. Rolls. Gravy. Cranberry relish. Apple crisp. Ten. I could reach twenty if I separated the vegetables, made two dressings, served both rice and potatoes, and counted the two cakes Linda had ordered from a bakery under my name.
The absurdity of it steadied me. There was comfort in arithmetic. Numbers did not care who had cried, who had slammed a door, or who had said, You should be grateful anyone puts up with you.
“Nora,” Mark called. “Did you hear me?”
“You asked for the cream cloth.”
“Mom wants the white one.”
“Then use the white one.”
He stared at me. “Why are you being difficult?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Linda lifted the folded cloth from the chair. “Let her sulk. She’ll get over it.”
I turned back to the onions. The knife moved through them in clean, even strokes. My phone vibrated in the pocket of my apron. I knew without looking that it was Tessa.
Tessa Alvarez worked two desks away from me at the insurance office. She had been the first person to ask why I never joined the others for lunch. She had been the first to say, “That doesn’t sound normal,” when I told her Mark checked the mileage on my car and Linda called to ask what I had bought at the pharmacy.
I opened the message when Linda left to inspect the dining room.
Are you still coming tonight? I can meet you at the library lot at 10:30. No questions. Blue hatchback.
I typed, Yes. Then erased it. My fingers hovered over the screen.
What if Mark sees me leave? What if he follows? What if the police report made things worse instead of safer? What if six thousand dollars was not enough to buy a new life but enough to make me a target?
I wrote: Ten-thirty. I have the box.
Tessa answered almost immediately. I have the back door unlocked.
The back door meant her apartment building, not her apartment. Tessa had arranged a temporary room through her friend June, who worked at a family support center on the east side. The arrangement had changed three times in two weeks because safe plans were full of moving parts. I had learned to appreciate people who did not promise certainty.
At noon, I carried a laundry basket into the hall closet. The cash box was cold when I touched it. I opened it only long enough to check the contents. Six thousand, three hundred and forty dollars. Copies of statements. My passport. A flash drive. Two spare keys. A photograph of my father, taken before his illness made him thin and distant.
I nearly left the photograph behind. Then I remembered Linda saying, after the funeral, “Your father always made you sentimental. That’s why you can’t think clearly.” I slipped the photograph into the folder.
In the kitchen, Mark was reading one of my bank statements. He held it between two fingers as though it were dirty.
“Looking for something?” I asked.
“Why did you print this?”
“It was in the recycling.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I glanced at the page. It was a duplicate of the joint account, with a transfer to Linda’s account highlighted in yellow. “I was organizing paperwork.”
“You don’t need to organize my mother’s finances.”
“Our finances.”
His jaw worked. “You see how you do that? You make everything sound legal.”
“Money is legal.”
“Mom needed help.”
“She has a pension.”
“You don’t know what she needs.”
“I know we paid her twelve hundred dollars in August.”
“It was a loan.”
“There’s no repayment.”
Mark crumpled the statement. “Maybe if you spent less on yourself, we wouldn’t have to help anyone.”
I thought of the receipts in the box: my shoes repaired instead of replaced, groceries bought with coupons, the dental appointment I had canceled twice. I thought of the messages he had sent when I asked about the transfer. You will regret pushing me. You have no idea how difficult I can make this.
“I’m going to finish dinner,” I said.
“You’d better.”
He walked away, taking the crumpled paper with him.
That afternoon, I went to the county police station under the pretense of picking up a form for work. I spoke with an officer at the public counter and explained that I was leaving an emotionally abusive marriage during a family gathering. I showed her copies of the threats and told her where I would be going. She listened without promising an outcome. She explained that laws about recordings and domestic situations varied, and she encouraged me to speak with an attorney before releasing anything publicly.
“If you believe you’re in immediate danger,” she said, “call emergency services. Don’t rely on a plan that requires him to behave reasonably.”
I wrote that sentence on the back of a receipt.
May you like
When I returned home, twenty-three relatives were already expected, ten dishes were simmering, and Mark had changed the locks on the office door.
I put the receipt in my pocket and began the eleventh dish.
