“I’m going to stay here with you for a while,” Seth says.

A while? What does “a while” mean? If he’d said those words to me just a month ago, I’d be so thrilled I’d probably throw myself at him, but now I just stare. Two days? Three days? His presence already feels oppressive and it’s only been a few hours. My home feels less private than the hospital I just left. Has he gone through my things? My drawers look rumpled, like someone with unpracticed hands has been shifting things about. Seth and I have always respected each other’s privacy, but now that I know something about him, I’m sure he needs to know things about me.

“What about work?”

“You’re more important than work. You’re my priority, Thursday. Listen,” he says, taking my hands. His hands feel wrong—awkward. Has it been so long that I don’t recognize the feel of them anymore?

“I know I’ve failed you. I realize that I’ve put things before you. I want to make things right between us. Work on our relationship.”

I nod like this is exactly what I want to hear. Forcing a smile, I twist my wet hair on top of my head. I’m as casual and compliant as the old Thursday. Skinnier, though! Seth’s pretty little fuck doll.

“I’ll make us something to eat. You hungry?” I need the distraction, I need to think without Seth watching me, but then he stands up, blocking my way to the kitchen. My heart leaps as adrenaline rushes through my body. If he tries anything, I’m ready, I’ll fight him. I take a full breath, filling my lungs to capacity, and then I smile. It’s the most genuine smile I’ve given anyone in weeks.

“No, let me,” he says. “You rest.”

I exhale, unclenching my fists beneath the sleeves of my robe. I extend my fingers straight out, trying to relax. Seth strolls into the kitchen, glancing around sheepishly. Even in my current situation I want to laugh at his uncertainty. Just like my father. He has no idea what he’s doing. I stand frozen to the spot and then I call out, “I’m not sick, or tired, or broken.”

He peeks his head around the doorway. “Maybe I should ask your mother to come...”

He says it in such a normal, cheerful way, except I don’t want my mother here. And since when did my husband call my mother for backup? She’d fuss and cluck and look at me with disappointed eyes, judging my marriage. I walk into the kitchen, taking him in. He’s standing in front of the open fridge, a package of chicken breasts in his hand. He has no idea what to do with it. I take it from him.

“Scoot,” I say. I bob my head toward the kitchen doorway, indicating that he needs to leave.

He opens his mouth and I cut him off. “I don’t mind. I want to keep busy.”

That seems to appease him. He turns toward the living room, a weak shrug moving his shoulders. This is the essence of him; he makes a big show of effort. It’s always given me the illusion that he’s trying, working hard to please me; but in the end it’s just an act and I’m the one who does the heavy lifting. I pull a pan from the cabinet, cut up an onion and fresh garlic and set them in the hot olive oil. I hate him. When the chicken is sizzling in the pan, I lean back against the counter, folding my arms across my chest. I can hear the television playing from the living room, the news. And then I realize what’s happening: things are returning to normal. Seth is trying to make everything feel like it used to in hopes that I will slip into the role as seamlessly as I always do.

I sink onto the floor, not sure what to do with myself. I have to get out of here.

   TWENTY-FOUR

I’m not allowed to drink, not on my medication. It makes the next four days unbearable, as Seth and I sit on the couch and watch hour after hour of sitcoms, him on one side of the couch, me on the other. The space between us is widening every day. I fantasize about the sharp tang of vodka sliding down my throat, burning so good. The way it would first heat my belly and then roll slowly into my veins, settling somewhere in my head and making me feel light and flimsy. When did I start drinking so much? When Seth and I first met I didn’t touch alcohol. Maybe it was seeing my sister consistently drunk and high that turned me off the stuff, but at some point I picked up the bottle and never put it down.

Seth doesn’t drink—mercy sobriety. He gave up drinking when I was pregnant, too. It makes me wonder if he ever liked drinking or if he just reserved it for our time together. Sexy, dangerous Seth. He was playing a role with me, living out a fantasy.

The orange bottles that dictate my life sit next to my electric kettle in the kitchen, a line of sentries. It was Seth’s idea to place them there.

“Why not in the bathroom?” I complained when I’d first seen them.

“So you won’t forget,” he’d replied.

But really, he put them there to remind me and anyone else who comes over that I’m sick. Every time I walk into the kitchen to get water or a snack, they catch my eye, their little white labels glaring.

My mother stops by with her minestrone soup. Soup—like I have a head cold. I could laugh, but I smile and take my “sick” soup. When she catches sight of the bottles, her face visibly pales and she turns away and pretends she hasn’t seen them. People treat being sick in the body as fine, normal, empathy-worthy; they’ll bring you soup and medicine, and press the back of their hand to your forehead. But if they think you’re sick in the mind, it’s different. It’s mostly your fault—I say “mostly” because people have been told again and again that mental illness isn’t a choice—it’s chemical.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got out of the hospital,” she says. “Did Daddy tell you that I was visiting Aunt Kel in Florida?”

“Daddy? He doesn’t talk to me. He’s ashamed.”

She stares at me oddly. “He’s trying. Honestly, Thursday, sometimes you can be so selfish.” I’m the selfish one? Where was my father? If he cared, where was he?

The medication makes me feel thick-limbed and sloppy. Seth disappears for a few days, presumably to go back to Portland to see the others. My mother stays with me, doling out pills each morning and each night. I get a sleeping pill at night—the only pill I’m grateful for. Sleep is the only time I rest from the reel of worrisome thoughts that run in a continuous stream through my mind. Planning, planning, planning...

The next time my mother comes, my father comes with her. I’m surprised to see him. In the years I’ve lived in the condo, my father has only been to visit a handful of times. He’s not the type to do the visiting, my mother once said. He’s the type to be visited. I chalked that up to my father’s sense of self-importance; a king in his own mind, his subjects came to him. I stand aside as they shuffle in, wondering if Seth orchestrated their visit. He left not ten minutes ago, saying he needed to spend a few hours in the Seattle office. I’d barely gotten dressed when the doorbell rang.