Night, Forgotten

CHAPTER 2

THEN

December 22, 2018—Saturday

I crossed our frozen backyard in the dark, moving as quickly as I could in my clumsy winter boots. The first holiday party to which Owen and I were invited, hosted by our neighbors, the Dolans, had started half an hour earlier. I willed my eyes to adjust to the night as I approached the ancient footpath that carved through the half acre of old-growth forest separating the Dolans' stucco-and-glass mansion from our eighteenth-century farmhouse. The entrance to the footpath was nearly obscured by overgrown hobblebushes, but soon the path broadened onto a clearing and wound past the Dolans' storage shed.

I tucked an escaped curl back under my knit cap, and the icy hair crunched between my fingers. Part of me wished I'd stayed at home with Owen. When I'd stepped out of the shower that evening, the sound of coughing and moaning had led me downstairs and into the powder room. My husband was curled up on the tile floor, pressing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"You feel okay, babe?" I'd asked, noticing flecks of half-
digested food spattered around the edge of the toilet bowl.

"Yeah, I just—" Owen leaned forward and massaged his lower belly. "No. I guess I don't feel—I'm not okay."

"What did you eat today?" The back of his neck was far too warm beneath my palm, and he shivered at my touch.

"It must have been the lasagna."

"Liza's goddamn practice lasagna." Liza Dolan had spent the week trying out new recipes for her party. This was a familiar routine. When it came to the performing arts, Liza was spectacularly talented; she'd been a professional ballerina in New York and now she choreographed for the prestigious Jacob's Pillow Dance Festival in nearby Becket. Unfortunately, following even the most basic recipe was beyond her skill set. She referred to the culinary process as an "experiment," and we often found ourselves the unwilling recipients of her practice attempts. That morning, she'd brought over a casserole dish of meat lasagna that had, to her credit, appeared edible.

"The meat must've been off." Owen whimpered. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I feel fine," I said, remembering the fresh salad I'd cobbled together for lunch before leaving for work that morning. I'd been on-site at the old Bidwell House when Liza stopped by with the lasagna on her way to yoga. The staff at the Bidwell House Museum were reimagining their outdoor gardens, and I was the designer in charge of making the public tour universally accessible. The project was almost complete, as I'd reassured Liza multiple times over the past couple of months, each time I'd turned down one of her invitations to go hiking or cross-country skiing. In addition to teaching dance and yoga, one of her favorite ways to fill her time was exploring the Berkshires' abundant wilderness and learning about the region's history. She knew the names of all the local wildflowers and the spookiest details of all the local ghost stories. When work was less hectic, I usually enjoyed tagging along on her adventures, even in the frigid winter months.

I'd heated up a slice of the practice lasagna when I got home, but the docent had called with a new idea for incorporating audio cues for blind patrons, and I'd forgotten the plate in the microwave. By the time I'd gotten off the phone, the slice of lasagna had hardened into a crusty pile. I'd tossed it down the garbage disposal.

"See?" Owen moaned. "You didn't eat it, and you're not throwing up."

"I hope she didn't use the same ingredients for the party tonight."

"Shit. The party." Owen never skipped social events. He was no more extroverted than I was, but when he made a commitment, he kept it. "Will you hate me if I bail?"