Chapter 51
For the first time since we moved into this house, I cook for you. Real cooking that requires perusing recipes and a special visit to the grocery store with a list of ingredients, things I wouldn’t usually buy.
I went to Whole Foods earlier in the day, checking the two recipes I selected, flipping between them on my phone screen as I moved up and down the aisles.
I loaded brimming paper bags into the back of my car; then, air-conditioning at full power, I sat in the front seat and sent you a text.
What time do you think you’ll be home tonight? I’m making you something.
I knew you knew where I was, the app on your phone informing you of my precise location. I pictured you reading my text, then checking that app, seeing that I was in the Whole Foods parking lot. I pictured you checking my phone activity, reviewing the recipes. A smile spreading as you replied.
You’re late, later than usual, my awaiting surprise notwithstanding. Apparently, your clients or your partners or the traffic don’t care about my plan.
It’s dark outside, the cool white recessed lighting of our kitchen glowing above me as I hear the garage door rumbling upward, then back down. That inner door, the one between the garage and the hallway, always squeaks when it opens. Then your footsteps, past the laundry room, into the kitchen.
“It smells amazing,” you say, stepping toward me.
Your head dips, a kiss, and then I’m smiling tentatively back at you.
“What’s the occasion?” you ask, surveying the stove, every burner full. The stir-fry of shredded chicken, peppers, and bright snap peas in one pan; the rice; the two pots of sauce.
“My cravings for—real foods are coming back. The foods I used to love. I thought it might be fun to start trying out some new recipes.”
A hobby, domestic and insular and safe. You’ll love this idea. There’s been no talk of me returning to work, despite that I’m no longer pregnant.
“And look,” I tell you, picking up my phone. “I made this Szechuan peanut sauce, so it has peanut butter and sesame oil. It sounded so good. But this one doesn’t.” I show you the alternate recipe, allergy friendly, and point to the pot on the right. “For you.”
My game has been a long one, two weeks of kindness, of rekindling. Two weeks since I did my research at the local library. So you suspect nothing.
“Thank you so much,” you say, hand on my lower back. You press a kiss to the side of my head. “Let me just change out of my suit.”
And while I can hear your footsteps moving above, I find your final EpiPen in the front pocket of your work backpack and your phone on the edge of the island, and I fly outside, into your car. I hide them there, in the center console. You’d never leave them there. But they won’t know that.
I prepare my plate but let you make your own.
“The pot on the right,” I call out anxiously from my seat at the table.
“So you said,” you say, laughing, amused by my caution.
Then you join me at the table, and I try not to stare as you fork up your first bite of food.
Immediately, your nose wrinkles, and my heart stills.
“You’re sure?” you ask. “This smells like peanuts.”
“I thought the same thing. But not compared to the other sauce,” I say, then freeze. “You got it from the pot on the right?”
You’re relaxed again, laughing at the concern on my face. “Yes, Klara. The pot on the right.”
And then you’re eating, and you’re smiling at me, and I know what’s behind that smile.
Considering your next move, your next grab for control.
Switching out my birth control pills, or secretly pumping me with some drug that will render the hormones ineffective.
That worked before, why not try it again?
“How was your day?” I ask.
You touch your throat, shifting, uncomfortable.
I lift a finger. “Hold that thought. Bathroom,” I say quickly, standing, grimacing as though I’m feeling unwell.
I take my time, washing my hands slowly. My phone is in my pocket, out of your reach. Your other EpiPens are hidden through the house, places you’d never leave them, but not implausible that you might have misplaced them, forgotten they were there.
As I open the bathroom door, I hear the rasp of your cry. I count to one hundred before I go to you.
You’re on the floor, pawing at your backpack, searching for your EpiPen.
You see me, your face an explosion of red, the fear in your eyes. You’re mouthing at me, Pen, help, call.
I don’t move.
It’s so tragic. I lose my baby and my husband in the span of a few weeks.
I told him which sauce to eat, but he had the wrong one while I was upstairs, finishing up a shower.
That’s what I’ll say. They’ll believe me.
It’s brutal to watch, more brutal than I’d expected, the gradual purpling of your face, the sounds you make. But I watch anyway.
I watch you take your final breath. I watch you die.
And I’m free.