“What do you want?”
***
That night at dinner, I brought it up anyway.
“Dr. Halim’s office called back about the laser program.”
Brian set his fork down. “Sweetheart, we talked about this.”
“I know. I just thought…”
“You’ll break your own heart,” he said, and there was that tightness again, the one I could never quite place. “I don’t want to watch you fall apart when it doesn’t work.”
I sighed.
“We talked about this.”
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” I said. “Marissa’s willing to help me through the recovery either way.”
“Marissa,” my husband repeated flatly. “Of course.”
He didn’t say no again.
He just changed the subject to the leftovers, and I let him, because arguing with Brian had never been something I was good at.
He didn’t say no again.
***
A few days later, my husband left for another one of his week-long business trips.
He kissed my forehead and told me he’d call every night.
The house grew quiet around me.
***
With Marissa’s help, I decided to take the chance on the laser surgery, anyway.
The following afternoon, my best friend came in with a letter from the clinic.
I had been accepted into the trial!
My husband left.
***
That night, I thought about the woman I’d been before the diagnosis, the one who’d argued with a contractor until he redid the whole back porch. The one who’d picked her own paint colors and driven herself to Asheville just to see the leaves.
Somewhere along the way, I’d handed all of that to Brian, one small piece at a time, until it became a habit, and the habit became who I was. For the first time in a long time, I was choosing on my own.
I’d handed all of that to Brian.
***
The following morning, Marissa was on my doorstep with coffee and a bag she’d packed for the clinic.
“Are you still sure about this, Gina?”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”
***
Dr. Halim was gentle, methodical, and honest about the risks. The procedure itself was quicker than I’d imagined. What came after was the strange part.
“Are you still sure about this?”
***
For the first two days, everything was a smudged watercolor.
Then, on the third morning, I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling fan. I actually saw it! The blades, the little pull chain, the dust on the edges!
I cried for an hour!
***
Marissa drove me home a few days later, once Dr. Halim was satisfied I could be trusted on my own.
I stood in my own hallway and stared at things I’d forgotten existed.
I opened my eyes.
“The curtains are blue,” I whispered. “I thought they were green. Brian always said it was green.”
“They’ve been blue the whole time,” Marissa said carefully.
I walked from room to room like a stranger touring her own life.
The photos on the mantel. The chip in the coffee table.
My own face in the bathroom mirror, older than I remembered but still mine.
“I thought they were green.”
“I don’t want to tell him yet,” I said. “I want him to walk in and see me seeing him.”
My friend smiled, but it was a careful smile.
“Whatever you want, Gina.”
She left that afternoon, promising to check on me.
In the quiet of the house, I suddenly remembered the boxes of Christmas lights Brian kept in the garage.
“Whatever you want, Gina.”
Brian had mentioned them a hundred times over the years. Boxes of them in the garage, tangled from last December, waiting. I wanted them strung across the living room. I hadn’t seen them glow in years.
I walked to the door at the back of the kitchen, the one I hadn’t opened in longer than I could count.
My palm found the knob. Cool metal, slightly loose, exactly as I’d imagined it all these years without ever touching it.
I hadn’t seen them glow in years.
I turned the knob.
The garage door creaked open, and I stepped inside, expecting the smell of motor oil and dust.
Instead, I smelled lavender.
My hand found the light switch on its own, muscle memory from a decade ago. The bulbs flickered on, and the world I’d imagined for over a decade simply dissolved.
I froze.
There were no tools or machines. No storage bins. No car supplies.
I turned the knob.
Instead, a small living area stretched across the space, with a soft gray couch, a coffee table, and a made bed tucked into the corner. A woman’s coat hung on a hook by the side door. Framed photos lined the shelves.
I walked closer, my legs unsteady.
Brian was in every picture. His arm around a woman with dark curls, both of them smiling on a beach, in a restaurant, and in front of a Christmas tree I’d never seen.
My hands began to shake.
A woman’s coat hung on a hook.
“This can’t be real!” I screamed.
Mail was stacked on a small table. I picked up the top envelope. It was addressed to someone named Penelope.
I assumed she was the woman in the pictures with my husband.
I fumbled for my phone and called Marissa.
“Gina? What’s wrong?”
“You need to come. Right now. Please!”
I fumbled for my phone.
***
My friend returned within 20 minutes.
I heard her heels on the driveway before she pushed through the open garage door and stopped cold.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “Gina, what is this?!”
“It’s what Brian’s been doing,” I said. “For Lord knows how long.”
“We need to look around for anything that makes this whole thing make sense,” she suggested.
