Synopsis:
There’s only one thing standing in the way of Laurel Applebaum’s happiness. Doug Applebaum.
Lauren’s rope is so frayed that it finally snaps. Because they are drowning in debt, she’s working at Trader Joe’s while continuing to dote on her needy, unemployed husband of nearly thirty years. When she learns Doug has been in a car accident, Laurel imagines the worst and is overcome with grief.
But on her way to the hospital, another emotion seizes her. Relief. Doug’s death will solve everything! At last, no more catering to his constant demands. No more struggles to find time for and hope that Doug will acknowledge her own needs.
And Doug has a substantial life insurance policy.
Laurel’s dreams are suddenly close enough to touch.
There’s just one problem. Doug’s accident was minor. He is still very much alive.
Laurel has to decide if she’s going to do something about that.
In her uniquely subversive, irreverent, and surprisingly poignant style, author Ellen Meister probes the darkest corners of a suburban marriage in an all-too-relatable story. After all, anyone who has spent just a little too much time with their significant other has thought, “One of us has to go.”
Review:
Author Ellen Meister says she was working on another book when inspiration for Take My Husband struck. Suddenly – just, coincidentally, as her husband, Mike, interrupted her writing session too announce that he’d heard a rumor that a local store had a supply of toilet paper! — she knew she wanted to write a book about “a happily married woman who wants to kill her husband.” At first, she wasn’t sure there would be a market for such a story, but she was assured by her agent that it would be “relatable to nearly anyone who lived through the pandemic in close quarters with a significant other.” Indeed, it is. For decades to come, sociologists will be studying the various ways in which COVID-19 lockdowns impacted individuals and families. Some couples, accustomed to spending most of their waking hours apart, found, when forced to remain at home together for days and days, that they were fundamentally incompatible. Others discovered they no longer had shared goals or dreams. Meister has her own home office to which she retreats to write, but her husband and their three twenty-something children were suddenly home all the time, depriving Mesiter of stretches of time when she would normally have had the house to herself. “I wrote a book about a woman who wanted to kill her husband,” she says. “So I worked out some demons!”
There is no mention of the pandemic in Take My Husband. Rather, fifty-two-year-old Laurel Applebaum is working at the local Trader’s Joe because two years ago the toy and novelty store that her husband, Doug, took over from his father, failed. Since then, Doug has been unemployed, insisting that he can only accept a management position, in part because his bad back precludes him from working, as Laurel does, as a cashier or salesperson. He took out a second mortgage on their home in an effort to save the failing business and, since Laurel’s income is insufficient to pay all of their bills, they are gradually draining their savings each month in order to make ends meet. Even so, Doug is not motivated to engage in a focused job search. And, understandably, Laurel resents it.
Doug does have health problems, including hypertension, diabetes, high cholesterol, and obesity. He also suffers from learned helplessness and complete dependence upon Laurel who, throughout their nearly thirty-year marriage, has babied and doted on him. Every morning, she retrieves the daily newspaper from the front porch and prepares Doug’s breakfast before leaving for work. Doug lends no assistance with housekeeping or meal preparation, often calling or texting Laurel during the day requesting that she bring home his favorite junk foods. Laurel indulges him. She ensures that he remembers his medical appointments and even sorts all of his medications and supplements into the daily compartments of a weekly pill dispenser so that Doug can plop them into his mouth without even looking at them, much less taking any responsibility for his own well-being. Although they share a bed, they have not had an intimate relationship for several years. Laurel is an attractive woman, carrying just a few extra pounds, but she has ceased taking care of herself, deeming trips to the salon to camouflage the grey that now streaks her hair too expensive.
Their adult son, Evan, and his wife, Samara, are expecting their first child and there is nothing in the world Laurel wants more than to be present for the birth of her first grandchild. Meister describes her as “obsessed with that baby.” Samara is having a difficult pregnancy and may require a Caesarian section, so Laurel wants to spend time with them in their Los Angeles home, helping the new parents and getting to know her grandchild. Doug steadfastly insists they cannot afford to charge the cost of the flight on their credit card.
Laurel also cares for her mother, Joan, who suffers from anxiety and agoraphobia. Since Joan’s marriage to Laurel’s father dissolved in the 1980’s, she has been obsessed with collecting dolls. Her home is filled with them and she continues acquiring more. She only feels safe at home where she is surrounded by those midcentury, molded plastic figures, and depends on Laurel to deliver her groceries each week. Laurel longs to coax her mother out of the house for a nice lunch.
Laurel is frustrated, depressed, and inwardly seething about her circumstances, but she does not share her feelings with Doug or voice her own needs. Instead, she capitulates to his demands. Her best friend, Monica, has repeatedly encouraged her to “speak up,” unable to appreciate why Laurel finds it so hard to do so. She once harshly called Laurel a cipher — “one having no influence or value; a nonentity.” But Laurel knows Monica is right.
And then with one phone call, something inside Laurel snaps. She is informed that Doug has been in a motor vehicle accident, but is provided no details about his condition. Her imagination immediately kicks into overdrive — Laurel assumes the worst has happened and instantly blames herself for not realizing sooner how much she really loves her husband. En route to the hospital, she convinces herself that Doug is most certainly dead. And remembers that his life insurance policy has a value of $850,000 — more than enough to solve all of their financial problems and permit her to buy a home of her own and decorate it in colors she loves. Without having to worry about Doug’s allergy, she can finally adopt the dog she has always wanted, quit her job at Trader Joe’s, spend more time with her mother, go to Los Angeles for the birth of her grandchild and, most importantly, be free from all of the duties, obligations, and resentments that have weighed her down for too long. Laurel convinces herself that Doug’s tragic death is the perfect solution to all of her problems.
But Laurel is disappointed when she arrives at the hospital to find Doug has a bruised forehead and minor concussion from which he will quickly recover. Still, the dream of transforming her life does not dissipate, especially when she is spurred on by her friend and coworker, Charlie Webb, a widower in his seventies who regales her with ridiculous knock-knock jokes. He correctly guesses that Laurel was dismayed to find Charlie did not perish in the accident, and assures her that she is definitely not a terrible person. She is, rather, “an unhappy person” who does not “have to take such good care of” Doug. He insists it is time for her to “stop martyring yourself. Doug is a grown man. If he values his life, let him take some responsibility for it. And if not, well . . . you’ll get the freedom you’ve earned.”
Laurel and Charlie begin conspiring to bring about Doug’s death, considering various modalities including withholding his high blood pressure medication, plying him with all of the unhealthy foods he craves, and even releasing mice in the basement of their home so that Doug with contract the incurable hantavirus if she can convince him to clean out the space. Laurel even lets Doug believe she is in love with another man to spur his irrational jealousy and feelings of rejection and drive him to take his own life. They scuttle that plan when Charlie convinces Laurel that life insurance policies contain an exclusion for suicide which will prevent her from collecting the proceeds.
Laurel is a sympathetic character. She assumed a defined role within her marriage nearly three decades ago. In Laurel’s mind, Doug put her on a pedestal at the beginning of their relationship but things gradually changed. “They fell into traditional roles, and at first it was like playing house. That filled her, as she yearned to be like the wives on old TV shows — her model for perfection. Instead, she wound up with a marriage that was a lot like her parents’, with a husband who was largely checked it It was everything she had striven to avoidk and here she was settling for it, ass if it were her lot in life.” She was content when Doug was a successful business owner and she worked part-time at the family store while raising Evan. But, as so often happens, when the couple’s life style changed as a result of financial and other stressors, Laurel’s increasing discontent with her marriage grew exponentially. Now it has reached the breaking point that launched her into fantasizing about extricating herself . . . by eliminating Doug from her life. Laurel is absolutely convinced that Doug is devoted to her and would never be unfaithful, much less leave her. And that is a big part of the problem. Lacking the power to voice her concerns, and advocate for her own happiness and desires, she has established a pattern of swallowing her feelings. Now they are manifesting in the form of perverse, dangerous, but hilariously outlandish schemes.
Could she actually bring about Doug’s death? Although she is fifty-two years old, Laurel is, in some respects, naive and trusting, except when it comes to Doug’s overbearing, meddling, and overly protective sister, Abby. She tells herself repeatedly that she lacks the capacity to be a murderer, yet she goes along with Charlie’s suggestions, confiding in him, and leaning on him for unconditional support and assistance. He plays an instrumental role in Laurel’s decision-making. Both Monica and her mother warn her that Charlie’s feelings for her go beyond friendship and camaraderie. But Laurel sees him only as a lonely older widower with a big heart. Who is right?
Meister wisely recognized that story would not work unless her readers failed to “relate to Laurel and understand exactly why she snapped.” And to understand the depth of and reasons for Laurel’s distress, readers must get to know Doug. He is spoiled, self-centered, and unfocused. “I had to make him irritating enough” for readers to appreciate Laurel’s feelings, Meister notes. But he is very much the “monster” that Laurel, and his sister, Abby, created. Meister cleverly portrays him as a man who has arrived at a juncture in his life he never anticipated and for which he is unprepared. In his defense, Laurel has never communicated the ways in which she has felt increasingly unfulfilled by the traditional roles they assumed early in the marriage — “he had no way of knowing she changed the rules.” And Doug is not savvy enough to intuit her discontent. But as the story progresses, it becomes clear that he is also unhappy and depressed, for reasons that mostly differ from Laurel’s. And he lacks the skills requisite to managing his own life, in part because he has never had to do so. He has been cajoled and placated so long he does not know how to fight for what he really wants any more than Laurel does, and is not above using emotional blackmail to manipulate Laurel into supplying his needs. But he plainly loves Laurel – in his own way – and his fear of losing her is actually one of the things that both attracts and repels her, trapping them in a dance of codependence that many readers will recognize.
Ironically, the various means Laurel employs to resolve her problems have unintended results. And that’s the real strength of Meister’s surprising and surprisingly moving tale. For all of their faults, readers will find themselves cheering for both Laurel and Doug, hoping they can find happiness – together or apart – and extricate themselves from the emotional tug-of-war in which they are enmeshed. Neither of them is a villain. Rather, they are simply flawed human beings and Laurel’s outrageous scheming is an attempt to escape from pain – much of which is self-inflicted due to a lack of confidence and self-worth – that has become utterly unbearable.
Take My Husband succeeds because it is engrossing and entertaining. The story is punctuated by extremely dark, gallows humor and crisp, witty dialogue, as well as a cast of eccentric supporting characters that includes Joan, Monica, the passive-aggressive Abby (who “has an answer for everything and usually it is wrong,” according to Meister), and Eleanor and Bob, about whom the less revealed the better. Charlie injects a dash of mystery and intrigue as Meister deftly brings his motives into question, and Luke is the sweet customer with whom Laurel shares a flirtation that helps bring her back to a much-improved version of her real self.
Take My Husband is also a slyly thought-provoking meditation on marriage, expectations, loneliness and isolation within a relationship, and complacency. And the importance of communication in any relationship, but especially an intimate partnership. Meister hopes that readers appreciate, by getting to know Laurel and Doug, and examining their relationship, how important it is to, as Monica urges Laurel, “speak up.” “Your needs and desires are just as important as your partner’s,” Meister observes. “A good relationship cannot be based on the subjugation of one person’s needs for another’s.” If Laurel and Doug can figure that out, will they live happily ever after? Reading Take My Husband to find out is a delightful and emotionally satisfying experience.
Excerpt from Take My Husband
CHAPTER ONE
Laurel Applebaum heard a familiar ringtone as she shuffled toward the lockers at Trader Joe’s, tired and spent after a full day on her feet. Was that her phone? Her first instinct was to rush, but she stopped herself. It was probably her husband, Doug, with one of his inane emergencies, like running out of chocolate-covered almonds. God forbid he should go ten minutes without a snack.
The phone rang again, but still Laurel didn’t pick up her pace. She could have—there was always a little reserve left in the tank—but she decided to indulge in her end-of-the-day crankiness, even though she might pay for it later, when Doug started whining about his deprivations. For now, for this one moment she had to herself, it felt like a miniature vacation.
Sometimes, Laurel told herself she should get a job where she could sit all day, like her sister-in-law, who answered phones in a doctor’s office. Then Laurel would look at her co-worker Charlie Webb, who was more than twenty years her senior and the fastest cashier they had. Always smiling, he was beloved by staff and customers, and Laurel thought of him as a cross between Kris Kringle and the philosophical deathbed guy from Tuesdays With Morrie. He made her laugh. And want to be better.
By the time Laurel opened her locker, the ringing had stopped and started up again. She pulled her purse from its hook and fished out her phone. Sure enough, DOUG was on the caller ID.
“Hi,” she said wearily, hoping she conveyed enough pathos with the single syllable to elicit some sympathy.
“Laurel Applebaum?” said a woman’s voice.
A chill swept through her. Something was wrong.
“Yes?”
“I’m so glad I finally reached you. I’m calling from Plainview Hospital. Are you Douglas Applebaum’s next of kin?”
“That’s my husband,” she said, her scalp prickling, her whole body suddenly alert. An instinctive chill had her in its grip. “Is he okay? What’s wrong?”
“He was brought in by ambulance after a motor vehicle accident. We’re still assessing his condition, but he’s unconscious. Right now the doctors — ”
“I’m not far,” Laurel said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Less.” She dropped her phone into her purse and grabbed her jacket. Dear god, was this really happening? And why did it take a near tragedy for her to remember how much she loved him?
I have to do better, she thought, a lump taking shape in her throat. I have to.
“Is everything okay?” asked Charlie Webb. He had been standing close by, which wasn’t unusual. Sweet as he was, the old guy was just this side of stalkerish when it came to Laurel.
She chalked it up to a harmless crush. To Charlie, Laurel was still in the blush of youth. But she understood that his age filtered her through a softening gauze. To most men, she was all but invisible—a fifty-two-year-old woman who maintained only the last vestiges of attractiveness. It had been at least ten years and as many pounds since anyone told her she resembled Diane Lane. Granted, she didn’t make the effort she used to, but she simply couldn’t see the point.
She looked into Charlie’s kind face. “I don’t think so,” she said, her eyes watering. “Doug’s been in an accident. They wouldn’t have called me unless . . .” She searched his expression, hoping she didn’t have to finish the sentence.
He nodded and took her by the shoulders. “You’re going to be okay,” he said slowly, “no matter what. You are here and you’re fine. You only have one job right now, and that’s to drive carefully. You understand?”
The cadence of his speech slowed her rocketing heart, but she was suddenly so overcome by his concern she couldn’t speak. So she gave him a quick hug, and dashed out.
Laurel slammed the door of her twelve-year-old Altima, considering Charlie’s advice as she pulled her seat belt across her torso. Drive Carefully, she thought, turning the words into initials. It was something she often did to settle herself, playing a game where she tried to think of famous people to match the letters. DC=Don Cheadle, Dana Carvey, Diahann Carroll.
Calmer, she realized Charlie was right — she didn’t need to tear out of the lot. Reaching the hospital two minutes faster was not going to make a difference. Because realistically, she thought as the bulge in her throat swelled and tightened, Doug was probably already dead. She could almost feel it in her bones. He was gone, the life snuffed from his body. That was why she had been summoned. The hospital probably had a policy against giving next of kin the news over the phone.
Once she got there, she would be pulled into a private room by a doctor and a social worker. They would tell her they did everything they could, and ask if there was anyone they could call for her. She thought about her mother, elderly and detached, who would be no help at all. Then, of course, there was Doug’s sister, Abby, who was just the opposite. She would want to push in and take over.
Laurel bristled at the thought as her salty tears began to dry on her face, contracting the skin on her cheeks. Abby. God, she was annoying. The woman had an answer for everything. And usually, it was wrong. Maybe Laurel wouldn’t call her right away.
But no, Abby could be helpful if she stayed in her damned lane. Laurel would just have to be strong, assertive. She would give Abby a list of people to call. That would make her feel useful and important. Keep her out of Laurel’s hair.
And then, well, Laurel would have to make the most difficult call of all — to her son, Evan, who lived on the West Coast and was expecting his first child. He’d want to fly to Long Island for the funeral, but what about his wife, Samara? She was having a difficult pregnancy and might not be allowed to fly. Maybe Evan wouldn’t even feel comfortable leaving her.
It was painful to consider, and Laurel shook her head. She was making this too complicated. Of course they would both come to the funeral.
The thought of seeing them lightened her heart. She’d been depressed about not being able to fly out there for the birth of their child. Money was just so tight, with Doug still out of work. And he had insisted it was foolish for them to get any further in the hole on their credit cards. But now…now she’d be free to buy a ticket without getting into a fight about it. At least there was that. She would finally get her wish of being there for the birth of her first grandchild, to hell with credit card debt.
And then Laurel had a thought that made her gasp. She hadn’t remembered it until this moment. Doug had a huge life insurance policy — $850,000. So much money! It would solve everything. She’d be able to pay off all the credit cards. She could sell the house, and move to a cute little apartment, all by herself, and live off the savings. My place, she would call it. The decor would be soft and cool, in shades of aquamarine and sand. She imagined getting up in the morning without thinking about making Doug breakfast, setting out his vitamins and medication, picking up his damp towels from the bathroom floor, washing the dishes he left in the sink, swiping his crumbs off the counter. There were always so many damned crumbs. But now, she might even get a little dog. Doug was allergic so she had never been able to, and the thought of it filled her.
Laurel stretched in the seat, thinking how lovely it would be to quit the long shifts at Trader Joe’s and give her aching back a rest. And with no job, she would be able to stay home with a new puppy to train it.
And then there was her mother, who desperately wanted Laurel to spend more time with her. This could be just what their relationship needed. Laurel imagined her mother being so grateful for the extra attention she might even summon the courage to take a break from her vintage doll collection and leave the house. Laurel warmed at the thought, the tension in her throat easing.
And of course, that would be nothing compared to holding her first grandchild. How she loved newborns! Their impossibly tiny noses, their kernel-sized toes, the smell of heat rising off their velvety little heads. She imagined a baby girl with Evan’s silky dark hair.
By the time she parked at the hospital, Laurel was trying to work out whether it made sense to get a dog right away, or if she should wait until after the birth of the baby, so she wouldn’t need to worry about finding someone to care for it while she was in California.
She stopped the thought in its tracks. This wasn’t about her, it was about Doug, and she needed to be sadder. He was her husband. They had been married for nearly thirty years. Laurel tried to picture the early days of their courtship, recalling when they first met. She had just landed her first real job, working in the marketing department of a trade magazine publisher, when one of the women in her office offered to fix her up with a friend of her husband’s. “A solid citizen,” the woman had said, and Laurel took it to mean he was someone she could trust.
The phrase stuck with her all these years because it had defined Doug from their very first meeting. He was an honest and decent man who had gone into his father’s business. Eight years older than Laurel, he had a boyish face, unruly hair that charmed her, and an irresistibly corny sense of humor. Even on that first date, she didn’t mind that he was overweight. It made her feel safe to be with someone who wasn’t all that attractive to other women. Here was a man who would always be faithful. And also, he thought he was the luckiest guy in the world to be dating someone so very pretty. She was even flattered by his jealousy. It made her feel like a princess.
When he proposed six months later, Laurel was dizzy with joy. She was young—barely twenty-two—but she had always dreamed of being a wife. And she was being offered a sparkling emerald cut diamond solitaire ring by a man who wanted her so desperately he couldn’t wait to make it official. She’d been so overcome she could barely choke out the word yes.
Laurel parked and pulled a tissue from her purse, well aware of what she was doing — digging into memories to feel appropriately sad. It worked. Her heart felt leaden as she slammed her car door and hurried to the emergency room entrance.
“I got a call about my husband, Douglas Applebaum,” she said to the woman at the desk. “He was…in an accident.” She arranged her face into a stoic expression so the receptionist would understand she was prepared for whatever bad news was about to unfold.
But the woman remained impassive as she tapped at her computer, asked for ID, and then printed out an adhesive name badge. “Observation unit 4B,” she said, handing it to Laurel.
“What?” Laurel asked, confused. She had expected someone to come out and greet her.
The woman pointed a long nail embedded with a diamond chip. “Straight down that hall, all the way to the end. Make a right, show your badge to the security guard.”
For a lingering moment, Laurel stood transfixed by the glamorous manicure, a covetous urge growing tight in her gut. She hid her raw, unmanicured hands behind her back as she recalled better days, when she would indulge in mani-pedis with her friend Monica, as they laughed and gossiped.
And then, just like that, the nostalgia was replaced with furious reproach. How could she possibly be so shallow? Especially now, when there was so much at stake.
Guilt brought her back to the present, where she tried to focus on the instructions she had just been given. Dazed, Laurel did as she was asked, going through door after door until she found herself in a room full of patients in reclining chairs, separated by curtains. Some were alone, others had a loved one sitting close by in a plastic seat, crowded into the tiny space. Medical professionals buzzed around the middle of the room, going from patient to patient. The air was too hot, and smelled like disinfectant.
Laurel followed the signs. 1B, 2B, 3B, and then she stood before 4B, where two nurses in lavender scrubs hovered over a patient, blocking her view. One was leaning across him, pulling off a Velcro blood pressure cuff, and the other adjusted a bag of clear liquid hanging on an IV pole. The patient said something to make both nurses laugh, and then they took a step back, as if sensing Laurel’s presence.
And there he was, lounging in the reclining chair, a purple bruise across his forehead.
Laurel stopped and blinked, taking it in. The IV bag was connected to his arm by a thin tube. He wore the faded plaid shirt she’d been trying to get him to throw out, his belly hanging over his belt.
“Doug?” she asked, trying to make sense of the tableau before her. There was, she knew a term for what she was experiencing. Cognitive dissonance. Still, she couldn’t understand what she was looking at. That is, until he spoke.
“Did you bring me a snack?”
CHAPTER TWO
Doug had been stupid. And lucky. He could have killed himself. He could have killed someone else. As it happened, he’d simply passed out at the wheel from low blood sugar as he was pulling away from the house, taking out a neighbor’s garbage can and plowing right into their new fence. And it was all because he skipped lunch and was in the mood for a burrito from Chipotle.
And now, of course, Laurel and Doug would be on the hook for the two-thousand-dollar insurance deductible. At this rate, she would never get to California to see her grandbaby.
“The most expensive burrito I never ate,” Doug said.
Laurel didn’t laugh. There was nothing funny about all this. She knew she should have been relieved Doug was okay, but she couldn’t shake her anger. And yes, disappointment. Everything would have been so much easier if he had just died. She hoped she would feel different in the morning, but as they drove home from the hospital, Laurel seethed with resentment.
Doug, she could tell, was annoyed she hadn’t laughed at his joke. And he had nothing else to say for himself except to complain that he was hungry as all they had given him was orange juice and an unappealing sandwich.
“One gray slice of turkey,” he said, holding up a finger, “and it was dry as dust. No mayo, nothing.”
“Doug,” she began, her voice thick with annoyance as she tried to formulate a way to express her indignation.
“What,” he snapped. “You can’t muster a little sympathy? I was in an accident. I could have had a concussion. I could have died.”
If only, she thought. But when she glanced at his face, pulled into a wounded pout, Laurel felt it all the way to her center. He was hurt, profoundly disappointed in the one person who was supposed to be there for him. And once again, Laurel swallowed her feelings. It was what she did. Her friend Monica had chided her for it countless times. Speak up, she always said. What is so damned hard about that?
But it was hard. Laurel could easily voice her displeasure when she was removed from a situation, but in face-to-face confrontations, the other person’s feelings always took precedence. She couldn’t help it. She felt others’ pain more deeply than she felt her own.
You know what you are, girl? Monica had said. You’re a cipher.
Laurel had to look it up in the dictionary. It meant one having no influence or value; a nonentity. She hated that, but she knew it was exactly how she behaved. And exactly why the thought of Doug’s death had been so liberating.
She glanced at her husband and then back at the road, thinking about her friend Monica and, oddly, her co-worker Charlie Webb—people who cared about her, people who would encourage her to speak up for herself.
“I want to go to California,” she blurted, before she could lose her nerve. She held tight to the steering wheel as she sat up straighter. A tear escaped as she thought about it. She wanted so desperately to hold that newborn close to her heart.
He looked at her, wretched and surprised. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Laurel rounded the corner toward their home and saw Doug’s silver Camry half up on the curb in front of their neighbor’s house, a section of fence under the front tires.
“And a dog,” she said, sniffing. “I want a dog.”
“A dog?” He sounded stricken. When she didn’t respond he added, “I’m allergic.” He pointed to his throat, as if it were proof.
“You’re not that allergic.” She pulled into the driveway and cut the engine.
“I really expected more from you,” he said, angrily gathering the discharge papers they had given him at the hospital and rustling them into an uncooperative stack.
He seemed so surprised and dismayed by her outburst she felt like apologizing, but stopped herself. Doug stared down at the pages for a moment, unfocused, and then turned to her.
“Did you do a food shopping?” he asked. “That sandwich was so…”
Laurel gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles losing blood. Food Shopping, she thought. FS=Frank Sinatra, Fred Savage, Franz Schubert.
“Laurel?” he prodded.
She sighed, suppressing her sorrow, releasing her resentment. And just like that, her own stomach rumbled in sympathy.
“I’ll make you a steak,” she said.
* * *
The next morning, before she left for work, Laurel smoothed out the discharge papers from the hospital and read them carefully. It was important for her to stay focused and keep busy so her mind wouldn’t wander to what she would be doing right now if Doug had, in fact, been in a fatal crash. But it was no use. She had visions of herself on the phone with the funeral home while fielding calls from Evan as he searched online for quick flights home. In this other, better version of herself, she knew what she wanted and didn’t let others influence her actions. She’d be firm with her sister-in-law, Abby, saying no, they wouldn’t be using her half-senile rabbi for the services, even though he’d known Doug nearly all his life. She thought about the plain black dress in her closet that made her hips look so slim, and the smart black and gray blazer she’d bought nearly eight years ago when Doug’s toy and novelty store was still solvent.
Laurel pictured taking her mother out to lunch, just the two of them, with hours to spend together. “Such a lovely place!” her mother would gush, delighted to be experiencing the world outside her home, grateful to the doting daughter who made it happen.
Focus, Laurel told herself, as she reread the hospital papers, making sure none of the instructions were contraindicated by Doug’s normal medication routine. She laid out the weekly dispenser with his pills and vitamins, then circled the sentence that said he needed to make a follow-up appointment with his endocrinologist as soon as possible. And finally, Laurel called the insurance company about the car, making arrangements for it to be towed to a body shop.
Dressed in her blue Trader Joe’s shirt, she grabbed her purse and her jacket, and turned to Doug, who was at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and slurping at a bowl of store-brand Cheerios. Laurel fought the urge to ask him how he was feeling, because she knew he would go on and on about every ache and pain and how poorly he’d slept.
“The tow truck will be here within the hour,” she said.
He didn’t look up. “Uh-huh.”
She waited a beat, hoping for eye contact, but he wasn’t tearing himself away from whatever he was reading.
“Don’t forget to call Dr. Marciano,” she said.
“I won’t.” He slurped at his cereal again.
“And talk to the Patels. You need to apologize. Tell them we’ll pay for the fence damage.” She paused. Still nothing. “Oh, bring them that bottle of Riesling in the fridge,” she added.
That got his attention. “I need to give them wine?” he asked over his newspaper.
“As a goodwill gesture,” she said. “And take your meds. They’re on the counter.” She headed toward the door and paused. “Don’t forget.”
He went back to reading. “All right.”
She stood there for a moment, her hand on the doorknob. But he was back in his article, even though he had the whole damned day to read the newspapers. Hell, he’d probably still be in that very spot when she got home. She touched her hair—sprinkled with gray since she hadn’t colored it in so long—remembering when he used to like looking at her. Now, she could barely recall the way his eyes darkened with desire when she least expected it. She tried to tell herself she didn’t mind. After all, she had gone through menopause early and her own libido was a relic, like something encased in amber that had once fluttered with exquisite life.
“I’ll see you later,” she said, and opened the door.
He glanced up at her. “Wait a minute.”
She stopped and turned, hopeful.
“What about a loaner?” he asked.
A loaner? That’s what he was concerned about? Laurel folded her arms. “It’s not covered.”
“What am I supposed to do without a car?”
“You have someplace to be?” she asked.
“I don’t want to be stuck in the house.”
Laurel rubbed her forehead, trying to massage away her frustration. “We’re not paying for a rental car when we can’t afford to fly to California.”
“We also can’t afford a solid gold toilet seat. Doesn’t mean I can’t—”
“Besides,” she said, interrupting his lame joke, “you can’t even drive until you’re cleared by Dr. Marciano. So forget about it.”
“And how am I supposed to get to the doctor?”
There wasn’t one damned thing he could figure out on his own. Like a child. “Either work around my schedule or take an Uber.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” he said.
When it came to technology, Doug acted as if the eight years between them was an entire generation. It frustrated her. There were plenty of sixty-year-old men who knew how to order an Uber.
“Yes you do,” she said. “I put the app on your phone.”
He went back to his newspaper. “Maybe I’ll call Abby.”
Just what she needed. Her sister-in-law getting neck-deep in their business. “I’ll see you later,” she said, pausing for a response. But he was lost in his newspaper. So she slipped out the door, and went to work.
CHAPTER THREE
At the store, Charlie rushed to Laurel in the back room before she began her shift. She had already punched in and was due on the register for her first hour.
“Everything okay?” he said.
Laurel bit back her shame and sighed, trying to keep her expression even. “It was just a minor accident. He’s fine.”
The older man studied her. “You look so troubled.”
She struggled to speak, afraid if she said anything the dam might burst. So she just nodded and sniffed back tears.
Charlie took her hands in his cool papery fingers. “It’s traumatic, I know.”
Laurel nodded again, because what else could she do—tell him she was disappointed her husband didn’t die? The man was a widower. He would think she was heartless.
She took in a juddering breath. “Thank you for understanding.”
He searched her face, and she could feel his wintery blue eyes—set deep and small in his lined face—reading her. “Knock, knock,” he said, and she smiled. Charlie had a knock-knock joke for every occasion, and was trying to cheer her up.
“Who’s there?” she dutifully asked.
“Stopwatch.”
“Stopwatch who?”
“Stopwatch you’re doing and tell me what’s bothering you,” he said.
Laurel could barely muster a laugh before hanging her head to let out all the air in her lungs. “I’m awful,” she whispered.
“No, honey. No you’re not.”
“I am. If you knew—”
“Let me guess,” he said. “You were disappointed.”
She felt a chill at the laser-sharp insight, and looked back at his eyes to be sure she’d heard right.
He clarified. “Disappointed he didn’t die. Am I right?”
So he did understand. Laurel became aware that her cheeks were wet, and she wiped them with her fingertips. “I was actually looking forward to being…unburdened.” She paused. “I’m a terrible person.”
He waved away her remark. “How long have you been married?”
“It’ll be thirty years in June.”
“And in all that time, were you ever unfaithful to him?”
Laurel’s hand flew to her chest. “God, no. Never.”
“And you take care of him? Cook for him? Clean for him? Shop for him?”
“I do everything,” she said, and it was true. Their marriage was such a throwback she often felt like a cross between Alice Kramden and Lucy Ricardo. Growing up, she had thought it was all she could ever want—the perfect marriage her parents never had.
“You’re not a bad person, honey. You’re an unhappy person.”
This man. He really was so wise. And his understanding was gentle, kind, unburdening. “Thank you, Charlie.” She hoped her tone conveyed the full weight of her gratitude.
He put a hand on her arm, and spoke in that careful way he had, looking deeply into her eyes. “You know, you don’t have to take such good care of him.”
He said it with such gravitas it hit Laurel right in her core. “What?” she said, surprised. But before he could respond, their manager, Tammy, walked into the room. She was a fair boss who seemed to like them both, but if they slacked off, that could change pretty quickly. Her appearance was intended as a tacit reminder it was time to get out front.
“Just think about it,” he said, with a meaningful glance. Then he straightened his Trader Joe’s crew member shirt and got to work.
You don’t have to take such good care of him. Did he really mean what she thought he meant?
As she went on with her day—alternating between stocking the shelves, working the cash register, and helping customers find the turkey chili, the animal crackers, the barbecue sauce, the almond butter, the oat milk, the French brie, and the green tea ice cream—she kept replaying Charlie’s words, going back and forth on her interpretation of them. One minute she was sure his message was to stop attending to Doug’s health needs so he would die. And the next minute she thought, no, he couldn’t possibly have meant that. He was simply telling her she was working too hard and didn’t need to bear the whole burden.
By the end of the shift, Laurel felt dusty and worn, eager for a shower. Yet the thought of going home to see Doug still seated at the kitchen table, doing the crossword puzzle or sudoku, as if there wasn’t anything in the house that needed his attention, made her stomach clench. She went to the back room where she caught up with Charlie.
“Do you have time to sit for a minute?” she asked, nodding toward the break room. “I think there’s still coffee.”
“Of course,” he said. “But not here. Let’s go to Starbucks.”
She agreed, because it was only three storefronts away in the same strip mall. And this conversation would be better in private—away from their co-workers.
A blustery fall rain had started and Laurel didn’t have an umbrella. But Charlie did, and he was gentleman enough to hold it over her as they scurried to Starbucks.
Once they settled into a table near the window with their steaming lattes, she said, “There’s something I need to tell you.” It was a confession, and she was ready to hear whatever he had to offer.
Charlie felt his hot cup with his fingertips and pushed it aside, clearly waiting for it to cool before taking a sip. “I’m listening,” he said.
She cleared her throat. “Doug has a huge life insurance policy. It’s one of the reasons I…” Laurel paused, searching for the right language.
“You don’t have to explain that to me,” he said.
“I do,” she insisted. “It was one of the reasons I was so disappointed he didn’t…you know. When I realized he wasn’t…” She couldn’t find the words, but pressed on. “Our finances are a mess, and I can’t get him off his butt to look for work. For a few minutes yesterday, I thought all my problems were solved.” Laurel paused, swallowed. “It felt good, Charlie.”
There. She said it. Now, he would either offer comfort or a lesson on being a better, more compassionate person. Maybe he’d even compare Doug to his late wife, Marie, whom he had loved so dearly. Either way, she was ready to accept his judgment.
He nodded thoughtfully for several moments before responding. “Laurel, you’ve been a devoted wife for thirty years…”
Okay, she thought, here it comes, the lecture. He would tell her she needed to be more dedicated to her marriage and less concerned about money.
“And now, it’s time to stop martyring yourself,” he continued. “Doug is a grown man. If he values his life, let him take some responsibility for it. And if not, well…you’ll get the freedom you’ve earned.”
Earned? Laurel sat up straighter. He had been telling her to let Doug perish. “So all the things I do for him—” she said, “laying out his medicines, reminding him to go to the doctor…”
“Just don’t do it anymore,” he advised. “It’s that simple.”
“But he has serious health issues,” she said, to be absolutely clear. “Diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, obesity. And if I don’t remind him to take his medications…”
“Knock, knock,” he said, his face serious.
“Who’s there?”
“Everybody.”
“Everybody who?” Laurel asked.
Charlie leaned in and said something so simple it shouldn’t have registered as profound. And yet, at that moment, sitting in the corner of Starbucks as the heady scent of dark roast coffee swirled around her, and the wind pelted the window, sending a few yellow leaves sliding down the glass, she felt her world crack wide-open.
“Everybody dies, Laurel.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, Laurel asked Doug if he would consider laying out his own pills from now on, since she had so much to do every day and he so little. It was a rehearsed speech, clear and logical. She had gone through it in her mind several times so she wouldn’t lose her resolve, imagining he would cheerfully agree. Of course, babe, he would say. Of course I can take this one thing off your very full plate. And then, well, he would either follow through or he wouldn’t. And if he didn’t, her fate could be entirely changed. It would be like a rebirth, and the thought of it sent pings of light down her vertebrae. It wasn’t that she wanted him to die, but if it was meant to be, she would embrace it. Again, she imagined how it would feel to hold a soft warm bundle of newborn against her chest, the sweet-hot scent of love rising straight from the downy scalp.
But Doug just blinked at her, and his expression went from surprised to wounded. Betrayed, even.
“You know I’m job hunting,” he said, his eyes tragic. “I check the listings every day.”
Laurel sucked air as she searched for a route to get the conversation back on track, the way she had imagined it. But she had made a tactical error, mentioning his free time. Now, they were speeding headlong in another direction, with Doug’s defensiveness at the wheel.
Focus, she told herself, and tried to regain her resolve, but it was no use. She felt his hurt in the deepest part of her heart, and just like that, her exquisite longing was gone, replaced by Doug’s pitiful pain. She studied his face, pulled into a desperate pout verging on tears, and it undid her. This was her fault.
“Of course,” she muttered.
“I thought you liked doing it for me.” He paused, retreating into his pain, and she could tell it would be hard to pull him out of it. “I didn’t know it was such a bother.”
“It’s not,” she assured him, trying to salve his wound while searching for the joyful anticipation she’d felt just moments ago. But it eluded her, like vapor in a breeze. “I just thought… I thought you might want to get more involved with your health.”
“It doesn’t take you that long, does it?” His expression was soft and pleading. He needed more.
“No,” she admitted, “it doesn’t.”
“You’re so much better at that kind of thing than I am,” he added. “So organized. I’d probably mess it up. And then what would happen?”
“I can only imagine,” she said, intending to sound sympathetic, but it came out dreamy, even wishful. He cocked his head, confused, and she gave his arm an affectionate squeeze to end the conversation.
Later, Laurel watched as he opened the Friday compartment of his weekly pill organizer, which she dutifully filled every weekend, depositing his medications and vitamins into each tiny chamber. She noticed he paid no attention to what he was swallowing. He merely dumped the contents into his chubby palm, and tossed them into his mouth before swigging back an enormous gulp of water. His eyes were back on the newspaper before the slurry finished traveling down his gullet.
Laurel thought about his blood pressure medication, remembering the doctor’s warning that it had to be taken every day. A few missed doses could be deadly. For a terrible moment, she thought about what would happen if she somehow forgot to include them. He wouldn’t notice they were missing, wouldn’t even notice any change in his health—at least, not until it was too late. High blood pressure, the doctor had said, was the silent killer. No warnings, no sickness. Just a sudden stroke. He won’t even suffer, she mused, and the tingle in her spine returned. But she pushed it away. Such a terrible thought. Urging Doug to take responsibility for his own health was one thing—sabotaging him was something else entirely. It was… Laurel shook her head before the word materialized. She didn’t want to think about it.
Picking up her phone, she gazed again at the ultrasound picture her daughter-in-law had sent—a hazy gray Rorschach of shadows she stared at until she was certain she saw the image of her first grandbaby. Her face felt wet, and Laurel realized she was crying. She glanced over at Doug to see if he noticed, but he had his head down, concentrating on the newspaper.
“What’s on your agenda today?” she asked, hoping she could prompt him out of his self-pity and into thinking about job hunting. If he started pulling in some money—even at a lower level salary in retail like she had—it could mean the difference between affording the trip to California and missing that precious, once-in-a-lifetime chance to be there for the birth of her first grandchild. But Doug always insisted he couldn’t take a job like hers, as his back was too weak to be on his feet all day. He wanted a job in retail management. It was, he had insisted, what he was qualified for. But almost every brick-and-mortar store was struggling, and there weren’t many positions like that.
“I’m making a few calls,” he said, without looking up.
“Did you ever hear back from Steve Schneider?” she pressed. He was an old friend of theirs who was a marketing VP at Home Fair, and had promised to keep his eyes open for Doug.
“Not yet.” His voice was flat, as if he couldn’t be torn away from what he was reading.
“Maybe you should nudge him today,” she suggested.
“Maybe,” he echoed, and gave a sharp shake at a crease in the newspaper, indicating the end of the conversation.
When Sunday morning arrived, Laurel pulled the tray of medications from the cabinet and opened all the little doors on the weekly dispenser. She lined up the prescription bottles and supplements, and began her weekend ritual. Plink, plink, plink. An assembly line of dropping the pills into their daily compartments. As she twisted open the cap on the Lopressor—his blood pressure medication—Doug shuffled into the kitchen, dragging his slippers across the floor, a sound that made the muscles in the back of her neck go taut. He said nothing, just grabbed the carafe from the coffee maker and poured himself a cup, using the mug she had set out on the counter for him. He turned and looked at the kitchen table, where she had placed a box of Joe’s O’s and a bowl for him.
“Where are the newspapers?” he asked.
“In the driveway,” she said, annoyed. She was trying to be at peace with this marriage. Why did he always have to make it so hard?
“You didn’t get them?” he asked.
She put the bottle of Lopressor on the counter so hard the pills jumped and landed right back inside. “Does it look like I got them?”
“You don’t have to get snippy,” he said, and hovered by the kitchen table. It seemed like he was deciding whether to take the few steps toward the front door, and Laurel held her breath, her hand on the bottle of pills. Finally, he lowered himself into a seat at the table, and took a long sip of his coffee, too hurt by her sharp words to make eye contact. But after a moment, he looked back at her, concerned. “Sweetie, are you okay?”
And there it was. That decency. Her agitation evaporated. “Sorry I snapped at you,” she said. “I just woke up.”
“It’s okay, babe,” he said. “Take your time.” He picked up the box of imitation Cheerios and poured it into his bowl. “Milk?”
Laurel put down the pill bottle, retrieved the low-fat milk from the refrigerator, and handed it to him. He gave her a grateful look. It seemed to say, My darling, I will tolerate your minor failures because I love you that much. And Laurel felt her heart go soft at his tender largesse. She was his whole world.
She went back to the counter, picked up the bottle of Lopressor, poured seven pills in her palm, and dropped them one by one into her husband’s weekly organizer. Plink, plink, plink.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Laurel arrived at her mother’s split-level house in Smithtown, a thirty-minute drive from her own split-level in Plainview. It was where Laurel had spent her childhood, and it had remained largely unchanged. Meanwhile, the middle-class neighborhood—which had been developed in the early sixties for young families who couldn’t afford the leafier, closer-to-Manhattan real estate of Nassau County, Long Island—had been expanding and maturing.
Laurel took two bags of groceries from her trunk and walked up the steps, where a package sat. It was a rectangular box, about two feet long, and she had a pretty good idea what was inside—another doll. Her mother’s collection had never stopped growing.
She used her key to unlock the door, then picked up the box and managed to carry it in along with the groceries.
“Mom?” she called, making her way up the half staircase toward the kitchen landing. “It’s me!”
“Down here!” her mother called, and Laurel understood she was in the family room on the lower level, where her doll collection now occupied most of the space. Laurel quickly unpacked the groceries, cleaned a dingy glass her mother had left in the sink, and made her way downstairs with the UPS delivery.
It was a wood-paneled room where Laurel had spent most of her childhood evenings, fighting with her older brother over the TV remote, a new gadget that had kept them at odds. Usually, their mother was in the kitchen, ignoring their screaming fights as she cooked dinner or escaped to her bedroom to rearrange the doll collection, which hadn’t yet expanded beyond a single bookcase. One day, her father was home during a particularly vicious fight between Laurel and Bruce, and instituted a half-hour rule, dictated by a sand timer he placed atop the television. When the sand ran out, the timer got turned over, and the remote passed from one sibling to another. It was an ingenious solution—at least for Laurel, who learned an important discipline. Delayed gratification.
Now, the old TV was gone, and the wood paneling was barely visible behind the oversize shelving units filled with collectible dolls—some on display, others protected inside cardboard boxes. When Laurel was a child, her mother’s collection was limited to antique dolls, with faces of bisque or porcelain. But sometime in the eighties—when Joan’s marriage began to crumble—her hobby turned into an obsession, and she started collecting vintage midcentury dolls of molded plastic. That manic preoccupation slowly morphed into agoraphobia. More and more, the only place she felt safe was at home with her dolls.
Joan didn’t look up when Laurel entered the room. She was bent over the old sofa—now moved several feet from the back wall to accommodate the broad industrial shelves that served as the warehouse section of the room. The catty-corner walls were the showcases for the collection, which never failed to make an impression. Even now, Laurel could appreciate the dense accumulation of dresses and faces and hairstyles and sizes. It was like a giant party frozen just as the celebration was about to begin.
A line of dolls was laid out on a sheet atop the sofa. Joan was bent over them with a feather duster flying in quick left-right motions. When she finished, she turned to Laurel and her expression changed from serious to delighted.
“Sweet Sue!” Joan cried with a gasp when she saw the box in Laurel’s hand. “She’s here!”
Laurel passed her the package. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
“You have no idea,” Joan said, in a voice that implied it was all simply too much. She brought the box to her workstation—an old folding table in the center of the room. Then she picked up the Swiss Army knife resting in the corner and struggled to open the blade tucked tightly inside.
“I’ll do it, Mom,” Laurel said.
“What would I do without you?” Joan gushed, as she handed over the knife.
Laurel pulled out the blade and carefully sliced through the tape on the box, then she stood back to afford her mother the joy of opening it.
Joan—dainty and small, with a head that seemed too large for her narrow body—hovered over the box for a breathless moment. She was all bones and sharp angles beneath the blush-colored Juicy Couture tracksuit she’d had for over a decade. Her blond curls—overbleached and straw-like—had thinned over the years, and Laurel could see her pink scalp peeking through.
“Have you eaten anything today, Mom?” Laurel asked.
Joan ignored her question and extracted the doll from the box, holding it up for Laurel. It was a redheaded girl, with bow lips and a starchy party dress in pale peach with a dull ecru collar. She fluffed out the bottom of the skirt.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Joan sighed, as she adjusted the puffy sleeves.
“Very special,” Laurel said, though in truth she thought the doll looked just like at least a dozen others in the collection.
Joan walked over to the shelf and made room between two other dolls. She stood back and assessed the display, then did some rearranging so that the new addition stood between a blonde in a green shift and a brunette in a chocolate polka-dot ensemble.
“Perfect!” Joan clapped.
“Why don’t I make us lunch?” Laurel asked. “I’m starving.”
Her mother dismissed the suggestion with a wave. “Oh, I’m not hungry. I had one of those Ensures.”
“Come on,” Laurel said, assuming her mother was humoring her with a white lie. “I bought bagels. And a nice tomato. I’ll open a can of tuna.”
Joan’s doctor wanted her to gain weight, and Laurel spent a lot of energy trying to make that happen. But Joan was resistant. She mostly ignored the calorie-rich nutritional shakes Laurel left in her refrigerator, and could never seem to find the time to eat. Laurel was determined to tempt her with her favorite lunch.
“Go get everything ready,” her mother said. “I’ll be up in a few.”
“Keep me company,” Laurel implored.
“I have a lot to do.” Joan swept her arm toward the sofa, where a line of dolls lay waiting for her attention.
“Let’s have lunch and then I’ll help you.”
“You will not.”
“I will,” Laurel insisted.
“You don’t care about my dolls.”
It was true—she didn’t. At least, not in the way her mother cared about them. Still, Laurel was grateful for the collection, glad her mother had something to keep her happy and fulfilled. The problem was that she still battled feelings of jealousy over these pieces of plastic and fabric. And sure, she knew that was a little pathetic. After all, her mother loved her fiercely—certainly more than she loved the dolls—but it was hard to compete with these tiny models of perfection.
“I care about you,” Laurel said.
“You always pretend you want to spend time with me.”
“I do want to spend time with you,” she insisted. It was true, but there was always so much else to do. Guilt gnawed at her.
“But only on your schedule.”
“I have work,” Laurel said. “I have Doug.”
“You know what would be lovely?” Joan said. “If we could go out to lunch together like other mothers and daughters.”
It wasn’t the first time this had come up. But for the past several years, Joan would only leave the house when it was imperative. And even that was getting harder. When she had a doctor’s appointment, Laurel had to budget an extra hour or two into the day so she could get her mother out the door.
“I’d love that,” Laurel said. “But, Mom, you never—”
“I know, I know,” Joan interrupted. “But I think I could do it, if you would just be more patient with me. Maybe if you took time off from that silly job.”
At that, Laurel felt a pang, recalling that moment in the car when she thought all her problems had been solved with a big pile of insurance money that would allow her to quit her job and have the leisure time she had always wanted.
“Mom,” she said carefully, “if I didn’t have… If I didn’t have to work so much, would you really let me take you out?”
Joan picked up one of the dolls from the sofa, held it to her chest, and looked at Laurel, her eyes wet. “Oh, my baby,” she said, squeezing the doll tighter, “it would complete me.”
Laurel bit back her own tears, feeling like a lifetime of aching for her mother’s approval was within reach. She approached and wrapped her in a hug, breathing in the familiar scent of hair spray and Chanel No. 5, registering only the minor discomfort of a Patti Playpal pressed between them.
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