The Cabin

by Wilder Jasinda

  “I meant that shit, Nads. Ride or die.”

  “I meant it too. I just…I guess I feel like I’ve really tested it, these last few weeks.”

  “You haven’t tested anything, Nadia. There’s no such thing as testing it. You need me, so I’m here. No matter what.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “You’ll never find out.”

  A while of silence.

  “You’ve been in here a week,” Tess says, eventually. “I could barely get you to eat or drink. I had to force-feed you electrolytes. I was really worried about you getting dehydrated.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’ve lost a shitload of weight, Nads. Like, a lot. You’re skin and bones.”

  “I’m not okay. This feels like the eye of the storm. I don’t think I’m going to have another breakdown, but it’s going to come in waves. Just…so you’re aware. I’ll have more bad days.”

  “I know.”

  “You can take a break from me, you know.”

  “I don’t want one.”

  “Crazyhead.” She ruffles my hair like I’m a child.

  “Try to rest.”

  “’Kay.”

  “Nadia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do I have to worry about you? For real.”

  “Not like that.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Good enough. Now rest.”

  But rest doesn’t come, though. Now that I’ve begun the process of grieving, I’m inundated with memories of Adrian.

  30 days

  “I, Adrian Bell, being of sound mind and, obviously, failing body—”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, interrupting. “But can you just give me a copy to read on my own time, and give me the details as succinctly as possible?”

  We’re in the law offices of Levine, Levine, and Anton, in a glittery high-rise in the heart of Atlanta. It was the first time I had left the house after the funeral, but I barely remember the trip in—Tess drove. The lawyer Adrian chose to execute his estate, whose name is Tomas Anton, resembles the evil food critic from Ratatouille: extraordinarily tall, but stooped, hunched at the shoulders, with a dour face, silvering dark hair cropped short and balding. He wears an expensive dark charcoal suit with light pinstripes, a somber maroon tie, and slick, polished Italian leather loafers. His voice is sonorous, stentorian.

  “That is not how these things are ordinarily done,” he protests.

  “I can’t—I just can’t handle this.” I close my eyes. Hearing Adrian’s words, read by someone else, is just too hard.

  “Very well.” He clears his throat, and then spends a moment thinking. “The details are thus: his automobile, a 2017 BMW M4 convertible, has been sold for a cash value of forty-five thousand dollars, which funds are currently available in the joint checking account. There were many investments made over the years, upon the advice and urging of his financial advisor, one Lewis McCleary, and those have been largely cashed out, all appropriate taxes paid upon cash-out. The sum total of these comes to…let’s see…one million, seven hundred thousand, and forty-five dollars. And sixty-six cents, by way of precision.”

  I gulp. “Wait, what? We had a million dollars in investments?”

  “It seems so.”

  I blink. “He told me he’d made some investments, but he made it sound like it was just…little stuff. Small amounts.”

  “You would have to speak to Mr. McCleary for details. The only information I’m privy to is what is contained here.” He gestures with the will from which he is reading. “Shall I continue?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Of course.” He scans the document rapidly. “Ah, here we are. Further to the topic of investments, he retained several of the, and I quote, ‘most stable, long-term investments,’ for the purposes of securing your future interests, but these can be managed at your convenience, as you see fit. The value of these investments currently totals just over one million dollars. Again, Mr. McCleary can provide you with all the information you require.”

  “A million dollars in investments,” I repeat. “Adrian, you absolute shitshow. Why didn’t you tell me?” I clear my throat. “Is that all?”

  “No, ma’am. Furthermore, he has a life insurance policy, purchased when you were first married, which he seems to have been aggressively funding. I’ve contacted them, and they are in the process of distributing the payout. Which totals, let’s see….” He consults a yellow legal pad on his desk in front of him, peering down his nose through his readers. “Five million dollars.”

  I cough in shock. “What?”

  “He specified payout terms. A lump sum of fifty percent, with the remainder paid as monthly installments. I can provide you with the breakdown, if you wish?”

  “No, that’s fine,” I murmur. “Five million dollars in life insurance? You’re sure you have that number correct?”

  One corner of his mouth turns up in something like a near-smirk. “Yes, Mrs. Bell. I’m certain.”

  “Just making sure.” I have to lean forward, elbows on my knees, face in my hands. “I had no idea.”

  “The only other pertinent item at this time is that he wanted you, upon the reading of this will, to be made aware that all outstanding debts have been paid. This part, I believe, I should read in his words.”

  I close my eyes, nod. “Okay.”

  “Ahem. ‘Upon confirmation that my illness was terminal…’ ummm…ah, here we are. 'The total cash value of our investments was actually considerably higher, but I paid the taxes on it and then used the proceeds to zero out our debts. My student loans and yours, low interest though they were, are gone. All credit cards are at zero as well, and mine have been canceled and cut up, as well as your car loan; and as specified above, I sold my car. Our mortgage as well is now paid—you own the home free and clear, my love.’ His words, clearly. ‘You owe nothing to anyone. I arranged everything for the funeral, and all costs there have been paid. I also created a separate account, in your name, which I funded and then created an auto-payment system for all utilities. You won’t have to worry about paying utilities or the funding of that account for at least a year. Transfer a few grand into it at the start of each year and you’ll never have to worry about it. I have instructed Lewis to take care of this for you, however. He has access to everything, and I trust him absolutely. Focus on yourself, Nadia. One day at a time.’”

  Tomas Anton removes his reading glasses, sets the will down and his glasses upon it. “That is all.”

  “It’s a lot to process,” I whisper. “I had no idea he was doing all that. That we had…all that.”

  Tess rubs my shoulder. “He’s taking care of you, even now.”

  I hiccup, attempting to hold back sobs. “I have to go now.” I stand up, abruptly. “Is there anything I need to sign, or to do?”

  “I do need a few signatures.” He twists a stack of papers, marked with arrow-shaped sticky notes. “Here…and here…and here…one more…and last one. Thank you. As I’ve said, specific financial details are available through Mr. McCleary. His card is included in the folder, here. Some of this will take time to work out, payments and such. The life insurance in particular might take up to another thirty days before you see it. They are not swift to pay out, I’m afraid.” He stands up, handing me a black folder containing the will and pertinent documents, with a business card attached to the inside flap via paper clip. “Your husband spent much of his last months preparing all of this. He has seen to your every need, as well as can possibly be done. You should be very proud, Mrs. Bell. It was an honor to have worked for him.”

  “Th-thank you, Mr. Anton.”

  “If there is anything else you need, please do not hesitate to contact me. My specialty is estate law, but if you should need legal representation or advice, I am but a phone call away.”

  “Thanks.” I just need to get out of this building, away from people. I need to be alone.

  T
ess guides me out of the office, down to the parking garage under the high-rise. The inside of her car is silent for the first fifteen minutes of the drive home.

  “Six million dollars, Nadia.”

  I shudder. “I’m having a hard time fathoming what that means.”

  “It means you don’t need to do a damn thing for the rest of your life.”

  “So I’m supposed to do…what? Just sit around in our empty house and watch TV for the rest of my life?”

  “Take the time you need, that’s all.”

  “What I need to do is to get back to work.”

  “You don’t need to, Nads. For real.”

  I shake my head. “Tess, I have to do something. If I just sit around that house, I’ll go crazy. I have to go back to work.”

  “If that’s what you need, then I support you. Just…you don’t need the money.”

  “It’s not about money. It’s about my mental and emotional health. Even before…before, um. Yeah, even before all this, I had to work, to stay busy. You know this about me.” I laugh. “Six million dollars.” I laugh again, because it’s better than crying. “What the hell am I going to do with it?”

  “Live off it? Splurge?”

  I can’t stop the tears, now. “On what? What matters, anymore? Purses? Shoes? A new car? What the fuck am I supposed to want, or care about, Tess? My husband is dead. Everything else just seems…meaningless.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A Birkin bag might make you feel better for a while.”

  I cackle. “If you think I’ve ever been psychologically capable of spending that kind of money on a purse, you know nothing about me, woman.”

  “That’s because you’ve never tried.”

  I sniffle. “Maybe. I guess it just…doesn’t interest me.”

  A sigh. “Yeah, I guess I get that.” She glances at me. “The hot tub is supposed to come later today. That’ll be fun.”

  I barely hear her, though. I’m lost in thought. Imagining Adrian, sicker by the day, continuing to pay bills, to set me up financially for life. Thinking about me while he died.

  I can’t sob—it feels like that ability has been used up, worn out. Now, crying is a quiet, slow affair. Tears trickling down my nose, one at a time.

  Adrian, god, you selfless man. I love you so much. I miss you. Fuck, I miss you.

  33 days

  “What’s this?” Tess asks, accepting the box from me.

  It’s large, wrapped in white tissue paper held in place by a blue silk ribbon I found in my closet.

  “Just open it,” I say.

  She doesn’t. Just holds it on her lap. We’re sitting on the back porch, a fire going in the little firepit, a bottle of wine half finished. It’s white wine, a dry white. I still can’t drink red. It reminds me too much of Paris.

  “Nads, I don’t want anything from you.”

  “I know. But…I just…you’ve been here for me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You take care of me when I can’t function. You’ve literally kept me fed, kept me from getting dehydrated. You’ve cleaned my house. You’ve done more than the term ‘friendship’ can even begin to cover.” I tap the box. “This is nothing. It’s not even a thank-you, Tess. It’s just…a token, I guess. Appreciation is the only word I can come up with, but that doesn’t cover it either.” I sniffle a laugh. “Just open it, dammit.”

  She sighs in something very like frustration. She unties the ribbon, slides the layers of tissue paper off from around the box which is square and black, with a black ribbon tying it closed. The word “CHANEL” is written on the top of the box in large white letters.

  “You didn’t.”

  I just smile.

  She gingerly slowly opens the box. Within is a signature Chanel purse, small, black, quilt-stitched leather, with a chain strap of gold woven through with leather, the clasp in that iconic twin C logo.

  “Nadia, no.”

  “Nadia, yes.”

  “You wouldn’t buy one for yourself, if I’m remembering correctly.” She lifts the purse out. Sniffs it. “You said it was too extravagant for your taste.”

  “True.”

  “So, why…?”

  “Because I wanted to,” I say. “I wanted to find some way of showing you how much I appreciate you, and all you’ve done for me the last…however long it’s been. It’s for our whole friendship in general, but since all this started in particular.” I touch her wrist. “I could never repay all you’ve done, Tess. Never.”

  “You’re my best friend, Nads,” she whispers, sniffling. “It’s what we do.”

  “You’ve gone above and beyond, Tess. Way above, way beyond.”

  She sighs. “Is this your way of kicking me out?”

  I laugh. “Hell no! This is your home now, too. For as long as you want it to be home. You move out when you’re ready. Don’t worry about me.”

  The laughter hurts. It feels wrong. I have to kind of force it. Because I know it’s necessary, socially. She needs the social signifier that I mean what I’m saying. But I don’t feel like laughing. Inside, there is nothing but sorrow. All other emotions have to be faked.

  “I do worry about you,” Tess says. “I see you putting on a brave face, Nads. You’re not a good actress, I have to admit.”

  I sigh. Nod. “I’m not okay. But I have to…I have to do something. I can’t just sit around feeling sorry for myself. Missing him.” I blink hard. “I promised him I would try, so this is me trying. I’m going to call my boss tomorrow and have her put me on the schedule for as many hours as she can.”

  Tess sighs in frustration. “You can’t bury your grief in work.”

  I shake my head. “Tess, I…I don’t know if I know how to grieve any other way. Thinking about him hurts too much. I can’t stop it, and it hurts. It’s all I know how to do. The only way I can take care of myself is by taking care of my patients. It’s what I do. It’s the only part of me that I recognize anymore.”

  She handles the purse, opening it, pulling out the wad of stuffing, playing with the strap. “This is beyond amazing, Nadia. Thank you doesn’t begin to cut it.”

  I cup her cheek. “You’re not supposed to thank me for a thank-you gift, silly.”

  “You’re impossible.” She holds it up. “You seriously bought me a Chanel.”

  “I seriously did.” I grin—my cheeks hurt from the effort. “I almost bought you a Birkin instead, but I felt like you wouldn’t have accepted it.”

  “You felt correctly,” she said. “That would’ve been too much.”

  “There’s no such thing, in my mind. Not after—”

  “Enough, Nadia. I’m your friend. We made an oath, remember? Ride or die, bitch.”

  “Ride or die.”

  90 days

  Thank god for double shifts.

  My boss tried to talk me out of it, but I insist on doubles, as many as possible. I throw myself into work. More hours than I’ve ever worked in my life. Eighty, a hundred hours a week. I take shifts in the ER, in L&D, wherever I can get work. Anything to keep me away from home.

  Tess has stopped trying to tell me to slow down. She sees that I can’t.

  He was right.

  He haunts that house.

  I hear his voice reading to me in the living room.

  I see him lying beside me, in that big empty bed. Hear him laboring to breathe.

  His office is closed, always.

  I keep half expecting to hear those barn-style sliding doors open, to see him come out, grinning tiredly after a long writing session.

  I wonder what happened to that last story he was writing? Maybe it was all fake, a cover up for his illness and the preparations he made.

  120 days

  I lie in bed, at three thirty-three in the morning. Staring at the ceiling.

  He died four months ago today. Four months ago, this very second, he breathed his last breath.

  I can’t cry. It hurts too deeply to cry anymore. Something inside me is deeply, irreparably broken.
Shattered into a million, trillion pieces. Into dust.

  I’m good at faking. I have my work smile down pat. Hi, Mrs. Murphy, how are we feeling, today? Easy.

  Inside, I’m hollow.

  I can’t bear to look at photographs of him. Not yet. But…the details of his face are beginning to blur in my mind. The sound of his voice. His scent.

  I haven’t cleaned out his drawers, or his side of the closet.

  I open his shirt drawer, sometimes, just to get a whiff of his scent. Briefly, so the smell that is part of him doesn’t fade.

  I wear his silver Citizen Eco-Drive watch to work. I had a few links taken out so it wouldn’t be so loose around my wrist. It’s still massive on me, which reminds me of him.

  210 days

  Fuck, I miss him.

  I finally looked through my photos on my phone. I’d started to forget what he looked like.

  I watched a few videos of us: in the park, running together. Laughing at the old man in the grass behind us, hand shoved in a plastic grocery bag, trying to catch poop as it fell out of his dog’s butt.

  Christmas, two years ago. We gave each other fleece onesies and nothing else. Or at least, that was the agreement. We both broke it, though. I bought him the watch I now wear all the time, and he bought me a Pandora bracelet and a pair of earrings.

  I made it through maybe fifty photos and two videos, and then I was crying so hard I couldn’t see and my heart felt like it was going to crack into pieces. Or maybe I just felt the cracks more acutely.

  I’ve worked eighty hours a week minimum since I went back to work. I haven’t cooked myself food once in that time—I live on coffee, takeout, fast food, and protein bars.

  Tess moved out a few weeks ago, to her sleek top-floor condo downtown. She quit her job—she’s now doing something technical involving computers from home; she’s freelancing, doing her own thing instead of working remotely for some Silicon Valley megacorporation. She’s happy. Sowing her wild oats, she says. And still worrying about me.