“Where are you?”

More electronic noise. “… Indianapolis … I told you …”

“Ken,” I say, but before I can confront him about being in Wisconsin, the call boop-boop-boops into disconnecting.

I don’t call him back.

The life insurance rep told me it would take three or four days to process the application. I have no idea when he’ll be back. I text Lisa.

GM. What’s up with you today? Anything fun?

I clean the kitchen while I wait for her reply. I throw in a load of laundry. I vacuum the living room. I unsubscribe from the estate sale email list without even looking at the current sales. I avoid looking at any bank or credit card balances, but I do take a peek at Eli’s forum site to see what’s been keeping him up late. He’s following a couple of different threads, all about the same topics, but I don’t read any of them. That stuff doesn’t interest me and, in fact, gives me nightmares.

But maybe I should read up on the women who take out big life insurance policies on their husbands right before they happen to die by accident.

The buzz of the dryer sends me to the basement. A faint hint of sewage drifts from the bathroom down there. It tickles my nose, but it might be my imagination. When I check it, everything is bone dry. The toilet flushes slowly, but it doesn’t overflow.

Ken’s office door is locked, and nothing I try will get it open. The door won’t budge. I want to know what he’s hiding in there, in fact I am now desperate to know, so I take the door off the hinges.

There’s nothing to find.

The space is tidy and mostly bare. My dad’s old workbench is clear of all but the most basic tools and supplies. The big wooden desk toward the back of the space has nothing on it. Nothing in the drawers other than a few notepads, a few pens, some paper clips. Ken has his laptop with him, of course, and I’m not sure what, exactly, I was looking to find. A framed photo of this other family I keep imagining? Love notes? Stacks of cash?

The absurdity of it all hits me, a punch to the gut that has me doubling over with harsh, whistling laughter that sounds a lot like gasping sobs. I punch at my thighs. Grip my belly. I dash the tears from my eyes with fierce flicks of my fingertips.

I’ve been unhappy for a long time, but now it feels as though I am becoming a little … unhinged.

By the time I get back upstairs, Lisa has replied.

Nothing much. Thinking of getting my nails done. HBU?

Not getting my nails done, that’s for sure.

I type, Ken’s still out of town, and Eli has plans tonight. Do you want to get together?

Her answer is exactly what I was hoping for. Sure. My place, this time? Eightish?