Two Years Earlier

Nick is whistling in the shower.

I’ll take it as a good sign. He only whistles in the shower when he’s in a good mood. Like when I was pregnant. Or every day of our honeymoon. He always whistled in the shower after we had sex.

Well, that’s definitely not why he’s whistling. Before I got sick, we made love every single day, sometimes multiple times. We couldn’t get enough of each other. But in the years after my diagnosis, it’s become less frequent. Once a week. Then once a month. Lately, every time he reaches for me, I cringe and push him away. He’s stopped trying. It’s been…

I’m not even sure how long it’s been. A very long time.

Nick comes out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around his waist. He smiles at me. “Good morning, Rosie.”

“Morning,” I mumble.

He’s so sexy in just that towel. The years have been good to him. The problem is me. The thought of being with anyone—even my sweet, sexy husband—makes me sick.

I watch as he throws on some clothing. He is still whistling to himself. I squirm under the blanket, feeling sweaty and greasy.

“Ready to get up?” he asks. I nod.

As he helps me transfer from a bed into my wheelchair, I catch a whiff of aftershave. Nick rarely wears aftershave. Why is he suddenly so concerned with smelling good?

At first, I was pleased about the whistling. But now I feel distinctly uneasy. Why is my husband so happy all of a

sudden? Why is he in such a good mood? And why does he take an extra second to check out his appearance in the bathroom mirror before he leaves for the motel?

Fortunately, I have an excellent view of the motel from my bedroom window.

It doesn’t take long to have the answer to my question. Later in the morning, I see Nick outside the motel, talking to a curvy blonde who is several years younger than me. I’ve seen her before out the window, maybe yesterday or the day before. The point is, she’s been staying at the motel for several days. And now she’s talking to my husband.

I wrench the window open, trying to hear their conversation. But they’re too far away, and I only catch a few snippets. I hear him call her Christina. She calls him Nicky, and then she reaches out and adjusts the crooked collar of his shirt. He grins at her.

I know that look.

Then they go into the motel together. My heart is pounding as they disappear from my sight. Despite what I saw, it’s hard for me to believe Nick is cheating on me. He’s not like that. He’s a good person. He wouldn’t cheat. He wouldn’t.

I fumble for my phone and pick his number out from the favorites. After a couple of rings, he picks up. “Rosie? Is everything okay?”

I never call him. It’s not surprising he thinks something terrible has happened. “Yes, I just…” I wrack my brain, trying to think of a plausible reason for having called him randomly. “I was wondering if, um, you were going to come back for lunch today.”

“I don’t know, Rosie.” He sounds distracted. “But don’t worry. I put that sandwich on the dresser for you. Do you see it?”

I look across the room and see the turkey sandwich he made for me. He even sliced it in half. “Yes. Thank you. I just thought…”

There are voices in the background. Nick is talking to somebody else, but his voice is muffled like he’s got his hand over the phone. When he comes back, he still sounds distracted. “Listen, Rosie. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.”

Before I can say another word, he’s hung up on me.

“Rosalie, you are a million miles away.”

I blink my eyes, focusing on Greta, who is sitting on our bed, a plate on her lap. She brought me a plate of food as well. Greta is a spectacular cook, maybe even better than I am. And certainly better than Nick, whose repertoire includes mostly sandwiches and pasta and overcooked eggs. But no matter what they bring to me, I can’t eat more than about a quarter of it—if that. I have no appetite anymore.

“Sorry.” I push the goulash around my plate. I’ve eaten about three bites. “I… I guess I’m not very hungry today.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” I take a gulp from my water glass, thinking of Nick and that gorgeous blonde. “But, um, is there a guest staying at the motel now?”

Greta nods. “Yes. I believe so. She came a few days ago.”

I want to blurt out the question that’s been running through my head. Do you think Nick is cheating on me with this woman? But I can’t get myself to say the words.

“Has Nick been in her room much?” I finally ask.

Greta seems surprised by my question. She adores Nick and believes the best of him. She is convinced he is my Prince Charming, and that he and I will live happily ever after. She thinks every man is like her Bernie.

“Not really,” she finally says. “Oh.”

Her answer doesn’t make me feel much better though. What does she know, anyway? If only I could see better into

the room. Then I could reassure myself that nothing is happening.

“Greta,” I say. “Do you have a pair of binoculars?” She blinks at me. “Binoculars?”

“Like, in your room?”

She tilts her head. “I believe so. I have a pair in my trunk. They’re old, but binoculars do not expire.”

“Do you think I could borrow them?” “Borrow them?”

“Yes, I…” I force a smile onto my lips, which feel very stiff, like rubber. “I thought I might do some birdwatching. It would help pass the time.”

Greta may be a romantic and she may be old, but she’s not stupid. She looks beyond my shoulder, out the window. Her face falls. “Oh, Rosalie…”

“Please, Greta.” I drop my nearly full plate on top of the dresser. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not like that. It would make me feel better about everything.”

“You must trust your husband, Rosalie.” “But—”

“Trust Nick. He is a good man.”

“Look, I just…” I take a breath. “I’m stuck here all day, staring out the window. I’d feel better if I could see what was going on in the hotel. You know?”

“It’s a mistake.”

I squeeze my right hand into a fist. “I don’t care.”

We are both quiet for a moment. Greta pushes her goulash around with her fork. Seems like she’s lost her appetite too. Between me, Nick, and Greta, all three of us have lost weight in the last couple of years. I seem to have that effect on people.

“Can I have them or not?” I finally say.

Greta lets out a long sigh. “I will look in my trunk. See if I can find them.”

Later in the afternoon, Greta brings me a dusty old pair of binoculars. I stash them at the bottom of a drawer, where

Nick is unlikely to come across them. I feel a rush of relief when I get them in my hands. I didn’t think Greta would really come through for me.

But it turns out she was absolutely right. The binoculars are a huge mistake.