Present Day
Grace
It’s an orange day from the start. Nick got up early even though it’s Saturday and he promised me a cuddle this morning—a cuddle I hoped to turn into something more.
It’s been a year since we’ve been intimate, and I’m craving his touch the way I always do.
But he left while I was still sleeping, probably for a run along the coast and—a small part of me whispers—probably avoiding exactly what I’m hoping for.
It’s been our pattern for years; I want what Nick doesn’t, and he runs from it.
I grab my journal from the bedside table, colouring an orange square into the morning chart before taking a look at the previous week’s colours.
There are a few purples and indigos, both representing days when I woke up feeling all right, but just one instance of my favourite colour, a turquoise that represents minimal pain.
I look at the second column, where I record my pain levels at the end of every day.
These range from yellow to green, and then to orange, which is the worst measure.
And my least favourite colour, of course.
Only a few days are orange both morning and night, but I suspect this might be one of them.
We had dinner at Mother’s house last night, and I’m feeling the last of the effects deep within my belly, joints, and mind.
Nick insisted we accept everything she offered us, including a few beers before dinner. So today might be all orange.
I take a long drink of water, happy that at least I don’t have to worry about Mother barging in this morning.
Saturdays are for yoga and meetings and shopping, so she’ll be busy until at least noon.
My own plans include using some of this alone time to continue a new design on my laptop, especially if Nick takes a while with that run.
He won’t want to see me working, and he’ll probably tell Mother.
I’ve told both of them that my designs are just a hobby; in reality, I’ve been working on a portfolio under my old professor’s supervision.
Soon, I’ll have enough credits to finish off my degree—ten years late.
I continue journaling, making note of everything I ate yesterday and colouring in some more squares for sleep quality, hair loss, and mood. The latter I fill in purple because, despite my disappointment in Nick’s absence, I’m excited to get to work.
The bullet journal goes back into its secret spot in my drawer, then I get up and double-check the house to make sure Mother hasn’t come in while I was having my miniature lie-in. She’s still absent, so I take a shower and get dressed for the day.
My phone buzzes as I’m towel-drying my hair: an email from Nate.
I’m even more grateful to be alone. My joints ache as I hurry to the entryway to slide the chain lock into place.
It’s overkill, but I don’t want anyone walking in while I’m answering Nate’s message.
Nick doesn’t like me talking to his brother.
I’ve avoided telling him that we communicate at all.
He and Nate have kept to their respective roles and islands, for the most part, so I keep it quiet. And quietly guilt myself every time.
This email is quick and to the point:
Grace,
Tell me more about the horseshoe design you sent a few years back; specifically, what is the rooftop angle relative to the placement of the solar panels? I want to hear more about that—and soon. I know Professor Eagan will be interested, too. Let me know.
Architecture aside, what colours have you been recording in that journal of yours?
You had a streak of red and orange last month.
Have you nailed down the food that caused it?
I know you don’t want to cut gluten completely, but I suspect that’s at the root of those bad days.
Also, let me know when you need me to order new filters for your HVAC.
Does Nick still turn it off every night before bed? Hopefully not.
As for my side of things: before you ask—no, I’m not seeing anyone. And no, I’m not lonely. I have more than enough to occupy my time without having to deal with a girlfriend. So you can stop asking sidelong questions about Jessica. That’s been over for years.
The improved version of our wallet app is dropping today, so I’ll be tangled up in whatever messes come out of that for at least a few weeks. Tell Nick not to stress about it, but don’t tell him it comes from me.
You should come to the North Island sometime, Grace. I have things to show you up here. And things to say to you, right up close.
Nate
I stare at the last three sentences; they’re the same every time Nate sends me an email, as if he just copy-pastes them.
He started asking me to go up to the big patch of land he bought north of Auckland ages ago.
It includes acres of forest, a dozen paddocks, and an entire beach cove.
When Nate first bought it, he invited us to build a house up there, too.
More than enough land, he’d said, for everyone.
But he wouldn’t hear of letting Mother come.
He said so to Nick, then to me, and finally to Mother’s face.
That was the last time I saw him.
Five years ago.
Now he reiterates the invitation weekly.
It’s probably wrong to keep secrets from my husband, but I need Nate.
He’s the only one who wants me to finish my degree.
It was Nate who got me back in touch with my university professor; he made a sizable enough donation to the University of Otago that the prof invited him to a thank-you dinner.
Nate brought my name up and, before I knew it, Professor Eagan was offering to supervise a final project that would finish out my degree.
Hopefully by the time I’m done I’ll have figured out how to tell Mother and Nick about all of it.
Maybe over Christmas or New Year’s. Or maybe I’ll invite them to the graduation as a surprise.
Maybe Nate will come down for it if I invite him.
I shake that thought away. It’s not a good idea for Nate and Mother to be in a room together. Mother claims that Nate’s attitude towards me makes her uncomfortable, and Nate never hides his contempt for anyone.
I take a sip of coffee, check the time (I should have at least another half-hour or so), then type an answer:
Dear Nate,
Horseshoe Manor! You know, I really love that one.
Can you miss a house you’ve never built, let alone been to before?
I do. I’ve always wanted to live in a place that unfolds like an accordion.
Don’t ask why; it’s as weirdly specific as your concern about solar panels.
Silly boy, there are industry standards for panels that Professor Eagan will know all about, so I didn’t need to include them in the design.
I can already picture you frowning, so I’ll attach a document specifying the angle you asked for.
Colour-wise, today’s orange all the way. Don’t ask why, okay? Suffice it to say it’s started off lonely and painful and it’ll probably end that way. I’m doing my best with Mother, and she’s doing her best, too. And the doctors say not to cut gluten because Coeliac was ruled out years ago.
I’m excited to hear about the improved wallet—tell me more! Nick never shares much about your products, so I feel like I’m always a step behind what you two are up to. I get that this will keep you busy, Nate, but make sure you take some time for other aspects of life.
Hopefully I’ll see you soon. Maybe—it’s a big maybe, mind you—for my graduation at the end of the year?
Send me some more pictures of Shep with your next email. Honestly, who forgets to include mandatory doggy pics? Do better!
Love,
Grace
I hit send before I can agonise about anything I’ve typed. Nick should be back soon, and I need to tidy my notifications so he doesn’t see the long-running email chain with his brother.
Once that’s done, I pull up Autodesk, another contribution of Nate’s.
There’s no way I could afford the programme without his help.
I dive into my latest design, which will be a multi-generational build of sustainable tiny homes that are expandable.
It’s my most challenging project to date, and I’ve been snatching seconds, minutes, and hours everywhere I can to work on it without Nick or Mother noticing.
Hours pass and my stomach has started to rumble when I realise that my phone hasn’t buzzed with a message from Nick, and that he’s been out for a very long time for a Saturday-morning run.
I send him a quick text then shut down Autodesk.
Even if Nick isn’t back, Mother must be by now, and she might know where he’s gone.
I decide to go next door instead of inviting her here. She has a tendency to overstay.
I brace myself as I always do before seeing Mother’s place. It feels like every visit sees a new patch of mould blooming on another exterior wall, another set of floorboards rotting through. I unlock the chain and—
Almost walk into Mother herself. She’s on my front step, her hand already poised to unlock the door with her key.
Two police officers flank her: a seasoned veteran with warm, dark eyes and a serious expression, and a much younger man who shifts from foot to foot.
I’m about to ask what is going on when she starts in on me.
“Why was the chain on, Graciously?”
“Is everything okay, Mother? Where’s Nick?”
Her voice turns shrill. “Why was the chain on?”
I open the door wider and suppress the urge to answer Mother’s forceful question. She needs to answer me first this time. The police officers are looking at me with something like pity. My worry turns into panic, making my stomach hurt worse than ever.
“Where’s Nick? Please, what’s going on?”
“First,” Mother snarls, “you’re going to explain why the hell you had the chain on! Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”
The officers seem to realise they have to intervene. The younger one takes her arm, gently leading her towards the street while the other addresses me.
“Can you please confirm that you are Grace Hadley, the wife of Nick Hadley?”
“Yes, I am. Please tell me where he is.”
“Let’s go inside first.”
My stomach threatens to double me over. I can hear Mother railing against the second cop, saying something about how I won’t be able to handle what’s coming without her. I close the door.
“Let’s get you sitting down, Grace, if that’s okay?”
I let him guide me to the kitchen, where my closed laptop waits like a mute friend.
“Grace, I’m very sorry to tell you this, but Nick was involved in an accident along the Esplanade this morning.”
“He went for a run.” The soreness has crept up from my stomach and into my throat, making it hard to talk. “H-he runs on Saturday mornings.”
“Yes, your mother informed us of that.”
“Is he—is he in hospital?”
“I’m so sorry, Grace, but I have to tell you that Nick was killed on impact.”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. “N-no.”
“I’m so sorry,” the officer repeats, regret creasing his brow.
He seems genuinely concerned. “It’s terrible news, but I will say this: it was over very fast. Nick didn’t suffer, and we’ve got the driver in custody already.
Now,” he takes a deep breath, “I need to ask, is there someone we can call for you? My partner is looking after your mother, but I get the impression that she might not be the best support for you right now.”
“Mother is the best support,” I say automatically.
Then I falter. “She—she…” Tears arrive before I know what’s happening, and I’m shaking my head, my body negating what I just said.
And finally, I tell the truth: “She’s going to kill me someday.
And now Nick is gone and… I don’t know where anything is—his will or his share in the company—and she’ll want to consolidate everything, and I can’t… I can’t do any of it.”
The man frowns, his phone in his hand. “Okay, Grace. I’ll need to hear more about that. For now, I want you to know you’re safe. Even if it feels like you’re not, my partner and I are here for you. I’m making a note that you’re not to be left alone with your mother for the time being.”
He types for a minute while I cover my face with my hands, folding into my pain. And I know there is only one person who can handle my oncoming implosion.
“Call Nate,” I say between gasps, “my brother-in-law. Get Nate here, please.”