Page 92 of Hold the Pickle

She laughs. “The others are asleep on my bed.”

“Did you ever find room for yourself?”

“We’re figuring out bed boundaries.”

I remember lying on the bed, the two of us both halves of a circle, the cats in the center. “I miss you.”

Her voice catches. “I miss you, too. I’m a wreck. I don’t think I’ve changed clothes in two days.”

“That’s all right. You’re a single mom.”

“I will pull myself together. I’m giving myself some grace.”

I lie back on the sofa. “It’s so quiet without you.”

“I bet. I had a dream about you last night.”

That gets my attention. “Did you?”

“It was very sexy.”

“I’ve had those dreams, too.”

“This is hard, isn’t it?” Her voice has a note of despair in it.

“It’s not forever.”

She goes quiet. I wonder if she’s giving up hope already.

“I love you, remember,” I tell her. “I can wait however long it takes.”

“I know. I do.”

We’re both quiet then, but the silence is all right. We’re still connected, still in the same moment.

After a while, she says, “I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Okay, Nadia.”

I set the phone on my belly. She’s there, and I’m here. The distance feels impossible.

The apartment no longer smells of her. It didn’t take long.

I force myself to get up and head to the kitchen. There’s a leftover casserole she made in the fridge. I’ve been reluctant to eat it, not wanting the last piece of her to be gone.

But I take it out. It’ll go bad otherwise.

She left all the dishes and pans for me, so this room feels like it always did. I lean against the counter, waiting on the microwave to ding.

I never realized that I was actuallylivinguntil I stopped. Now it’s all a grind again. Work, eat, sleep, try to keep my mother housed and fed.

I want my life back. I want Nadia back.

I need a home, not four walls.

Dinners, not reheated food.

Conversations, not mindless chatter.

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