He took the toothbrush out of his mouth. He spat in the sink. He wiped his face with a towel. He
took his time.
“She’s just being Rachel,” he said. “You know how she is.”
That’s just Rachel. My mother’s spell. Coming out of my husband’s mouth.
“I know exactly how she is,” I said. “That’s why it scares me. I’m asking about you. Why do you let her? Why didn’t you say anything?”
He came over and sat down next to me on the bed. He took my hand. He looked me right in the
eyes.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he said. “You know that. You’re my wife. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
“Then say something to her.”
“I will,” he said. “I’ll talk to her. Tomorrow. I promise.”
I looked at him. At his face, which I knew better than my own. At his eyes, brown with little flecks
of gold. At the tiny scar on his chin from when he fell off a skateboard at twelve.
I wanted to believe him. I wanted it so badly.
“Okay,” I said.
He kissed my forehead. He turned off the light. He got into bed and turned his back to me, and in about five minutes he was asleep.
