After My Husband Hit Me at Our Son’s Funeral

Five days later, Judith calls.

"Eleven days," she says. "June fourteenth. Mark it."

I'm standing at the kitchen counter. There's a coffee cup in my hand. Half full. Cold.

"Eleven days," I repeat.

"You good?"

"I'm good."

"Stay good," she says, and hangs up.

I set the phone down. I pour the coffee into the sink. I watch it spiral down the drain.

Eleven days.

I say it again in the bathroom mirror that night after Creed falls asleep. I say it the next morning while I brush my teeth. I say it in the elevator at the bank on Lexington where I rent a lockbox Creed doesn't know exists.

I put my passport inside. My birth certificate. The deed to the cottage in Vermont my grandmother left me. The one in my name alone.

The lockbox clicks shut.

Eleven days becomes ten. Then nine. Then eight.

I am so close.

---

The cemetery is on Long Island. Quiet. Old trees. Stone paths worn smooth.

The service is small. A minister Creed found. My mother standing twenty feet back with her hands folded. Two men from Creed's firm in dark suits.

And Demi.

She wasn't invited. She came anyway. Structured black dress. Heels. Mochi on a leash.

I don't look at her.

The minister speaks. I hold the urn. It's small. Ceramic. White. The weight of it is wrong. Too light. A whole life shouldn't be this light.

Creed stands to my left. His hand rests on my lower back. Steady. Supportive. The perfect grieving father.

The minister asks us to respond. I open my mouth.

"We commit this soul to—"

Movement behind me.

Demi steps forward. Too close. Her elbow swings out.

It connects with the urn.

The ceramic hits the stone edge of the step. It splits. The top half tumbles. The ashes pour.

Gray powder across the granite. Across my shoes. Into the leaves below.

I don't breathe.

I turn.

Demi's mouth is open. Her hand is at her throat. "Oh my God," she says. "I'm so sorry. I didn't—"

Something in me snaps.

I lunge.

My hands are on her shoulders. I'm screaming. Words I don't recognize. Sounds that don't have language.

Then pain.

Sharp. Bright. Across my cheekbone.

I stumble back.

Creed is in front of me. His hand is still raised. His face is red.

"Stop it," he says. "You're making a scene. You're embarrassing everyone."

I open my mouth.

He shoves me.

Hard.

I go backward. My heel catches the edge of the step. I'm falling. Four steps. Stone edges. My ribs hit the corner of the lowest step. My lip splits on granite.

I land in the leaves.

The world tilts. I can't breathe. There's copper in my mouth.

I stare up at the sky. Gray. Flat. The color of old paper.

Voices above me. Creed. The minister. My mother.

I don't move.

There are ashes on my hands. In my hair. Ground into the fabric of my dress.

I press my palm into the dirt.

I feel the thread break.

The last one.

The one that connected me to the woman who loved him. Who believed him. Who stayed.

She's gone now.

I close my eyes.

Someone is crying. I think it's my mother.

Creed's voice. Closer now. "Ada. Get up. People are watching."

I don't get up.

I lie in the leaves among the ashes of my son and I count.

Seven days.

Seven days and I'm free.

---

They take me to the ER. Creed drives. He holds my hand in the waiting room. He speaks to the nurse in a low, concerned voice.

Two cracked ribs. Split lip. Bruised cheekbone.

They wrap me. They give me pills. They ask if I'm safe at home.

I say yes.

Creed takes me home. He helps me into bed. He brings water. He kisses my forehead.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I shouldn't have pushed you. I just—you were out of control. I didn't know what else to do."

I stare at the ceiling.

"It's okay," I say.

He exhales. Relief. "I love you."

"I love you too."

He leaves the room.

I wait until I hear the TV. Then I reach under the mattress.

The burner phone is still there.

I open the folder labeled Recipes.

I look at the screenshots. The link. The video. The chat sidebar. The tip counter.

I look at the security app notification from the night I was kidnapped.

I look at the date.

Seven days.

I put the phone back.

I close my eyes.

I press my thumbnail into my palm until I can't feel the ribs anymore.

Seven days.

Then I disappear.