“Elise,” I say, and my brain detangles the image of her at the island wearing an apron, a slew of fresh ingredients in front of her. “It’s Thursday.”
“It is,” she says, and her smile is as kind as it’s always been. Her eyes catch on the packets in my hands and she gasps.
“Are you?—”
“Covid tests,” I lie. I force something of a smile. “Negative, no worries.” I stow the tests into the trash can and trust that she will believe me. If she doesn’t, I trust that she will havediscretion.
I’m sure I look a mess. It’s 10 AM and I’m still wearing just one of Maxim’s shirts and a pair of thick socks. She doesn’t usually see me this way, but she doesn’t act affronted by it. For her part, Elise looks as soft and polished as usual.
“I didn’t realize you were under the weather.” Elise sounds regretful to hear this. That fucking perfect, lovely woman.
Maxim should’ve married her, she would be a graceful pregnant woman. She’d probably record herself telling him the exciting news, both of them with happy tears in their eyes. He’d spin her around in a hug. She’d post it on Instagram and she’d probably have a million followers because she’s a private chef married to a billionaire. Content gold.
“Would you like soup for lunch? I’m about to make some.”
There’s a rotisserie chicken on the counter that she points to with the tip of her knife, but the thought of eating it sends my stomach tumbling into the pits of Hell again. I put my hand over my mouth, and swallow back the bile that threatened to make an appearance. I haven’t even eaten anything, so it would just be more heaving.
“Sorry,” I say, and focus for ten seconds on getting myself in check. “No, but um. More green juice would be great. Extra?—”
“Extra ginger, extra lemon,” Elise recites with a soft smile.
“Thank you.”
From the base of the stairs, Greta lets out a long, squeaking meow, and we both turn to look at her. She blinks slowly at us, her fluffy tail rising and falling against the step.
“I’ll be upstairs,” I tell Elise as I head toward the cat. I’m a few steps up when I pause and look over my shoulder. “Thank you, Elise. For all your work.”
When I get back upstairs, I manage a shower, but do not feel well enough to go through the usual dealings of the day and decide that today I will let myself sit out. I send off a text to Leo to go on without me today and he sends back a series of question marks.
Mary
I’m sick, leave me alone.
Leo
You pregnant or something?
Mary
fuck off
Leo
Defensive much?
Mary
goodbyeee
I pull the blackout curtains closed and shut the bedroom door until it’s sufficiently cave-like in the room. Greta doesn’t seem to mind; she sleeps constantly, except for the 2 AM cat-witching-hour where she sprints through the house like a demon is chasing her. I crawl under the covers on Maxim’s side and close my eyes, forcing my breathing to slow until, eventually, I drift to sleep.
When I wake sometime later,I’m substantially less queasy than I was before, but now I’m starving which is a different kind of stomach discomfort. My phone shows that I’ve been asleep for three hours, which is as long of a nap as I’ve taken in years. Elise should be done or just about done by now, so I venture downstairs to find something in the fridge.
When I make it to the kitchen, I step on something that squishes underfoot. I pause, slowly lifting to find a green smear on my sock. A pea, I think. I take off the sock, because wet feet is a sensory experience I never enjoy, but as I step into the kitchen, I pause. There wasn’t just one pea on the ground, but a whole cup’s worth spilled.
It’s not like Elise to make a mess, and much less like her to leave one. I look around for more signs of her and find her purple sleeve of chef’s knives still rolled up on the counter.
I still, listening, but it’s silent so far as I can tell. The fridge clicks on, humming in the kitchen, and the sink drips. I twist the handle until the dripping stops.
