Free Open House by Elizabeth Berg

resigned. I hate that he knows what a mortgage is.
    “What if she dies here or something?” he asks.
    “Pardon?”
    “What if she
dies
here?”
    “Well, Travis, I’m sure that’s not going to happen.” My God. What if it does? I see myself on the phone, abstractly weeping, saying, “I don’t know her medical history. She just moved in. But I think she’s dead.”

9
    A LITTLE OVER A WEEK LATER , ON M ONDAY MORNING , I SIT alone at the kitchen table. Lydia got up early, had tea and toast with blackberry jam, and then went out with Thomas. She was going to accompany him to a doctor’s appointment, and then they were going to an afternoon concert at Symphony Hall. Travis ate his Cheerios sullenly, then left for school without saying good-bye. Now I sit with a fourth cup of coffee, feeling my heart beat too fast and not caring. Maybe this is a good way to kill yourself: an exuberant overdose of caffeine,
I’m dying, I’m dying, I’m dying!!
could be my last thought.
Had to go!! Too painful!!
    Oh, what I want to do is hand my life over to someone else. That’s all. And they could rearrange everything into something that would make sense.
There,
they could say;
now, was that so hard?
Well, for me, yes. It is too hard for me. I am no good at my own life.
    I close my eyes, lean my head back, and begin to sob from a place deep in my stomach. I can’t be alone. I don’t want to be alone. I miss David so much, yes I do, I miss the presence of another person in my bed at night, even if he doesn’t touch me; the reliability of someone else being there in the morning, even if they only shave and stare straight ahead into the mirror while you lean against the bathroom doorjamb with your cup of coffee, chatting hopefully. And I miss my son; I miss the way that he was before, when he trusted me, when he thought I could take care of him.
    And then suddenly I stop crying, push wet strands of hair back from my face. What is the point in this?
    First, I will go on a diet. This grief has put five pounds on me so far. I have to be careful. There are some women for whom sorrow attracts fat, and I am one of them. I will go on a diet and then I will take some adult education courses. Oh, but then I’ll have to find some. And I’ll have to go and register somewhere, fill in tiresome blank after blank, put an
X
in the “Ms.” box. I’ve always put an
X
in the “Ms.” box, but now it’s pathetic. And I’ll have to get dressed. I’m not dressed now; I don’t get dressed right away anymore, Martha Stewart doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
    I stare wearily at the kitchen table, at the swatch of sunlight that lies over the basket of paper napkins. The pattern on the napkins is illuminated; white-on-white roses. I never saw those roses before. I have lived my life blind.
    I need to talk to someone. I go to the phone to call Rita, then stop. It’s too early. Who, then? Louise and I have never been close. I haven’t made any other real friends. There is no one. I have spent most of my life focusing on David, and he is gone. Nothing has rushed in to fill this void; there are no natural laws to make for an instant adjustment; humans are stupider than nature. I just have to go through this, that’s all. By myself. It is all up to me, things are too much up to me and I don’t like it. It is not exhilarating. It is not an opportunity to “grow.” It is hard work; scary, lonely stuff; and I don’t want it. I don’t want it. I want my old life back.
    I go to the phone, quickly dial David’s office number. When his secretary puts me through, I realize I have no idea what to say.
    “. . . Sam?”
    “How are you?”
I was just going to call you! Sam, I’ve made a terrible mistake
.
    “I’m fine.” His voice is wary. Wary! But we were married, we were married, for nearly twenty years!
    I lean against the wall. “David.” I squeeze the phone cord.
    He waits.
    “How come you did this?” I ask,