Randall answered, “There are standards.”
The camera shook because Wade was laughing.
Present-day Wade stared at the floor.
Then the recordings changed.
Randall began talking to me.
Not for me, exactly.
To me.
“Meryl, I heard your white count was better.”
Click.
“Meryl, Wade says you’re refusing help with laundry. Stop being ridiculous.”
Click.
“Meryl, apparently you threw a slipper at the television because the cooking show made something with truffle oil. I support this completely.”
Click.
Each one was a tiny violation.
Wade had carried pieces of my life back to him.
My nausea.
My temper.
My appointments.
The day I walked to the mailbox without assistance.
The day I cried because my hair came out in Elise’s hands.
I turned around.
“You told him that?”
Wade’s eyes lifted.
“About my hair.”
“He asked how you were.”
“That wasn’t medical.”
“No.”
“That was mine.”
“I know.”
