They were gone. Of course, they would come back. They were safe, and it was just till Sunday. It wasn’t death—it only felt like that. Her friends said, Now you can rest! You can think! You can work out! Theoretically, she could have done these things. She could have been thinking and going to the gym and resting, but when the girls left with their father Debra sat on the couch and cried. Which was fine. Crying was good. Divorce was hard! All she had to do was call, and her sister Becca would come right over, but Debra didn’t want sympathy, so no one saw her tears except the dog.
Max was a Samoyed, and pure of heart. If anyone was injured, he came running. When Lily fell head first from her bike, Max had rushed to lick her better. But where was Debra hurt? She couldn’t explain, so she buried her face in his white fur.
Eventually, Debra got up and preheated the oven to four-twenty-five. She poured a bag of frozen shoestring fries onto a cookie sheet. A sprinkle of salt, a dollop of ketchup, and that was dinner, which she ate right on the couch. It wasn’t good for her, but she was listening to her body, and her body said, Who cares?
She called her parents down in Florida, and her mom said, “Hi, honey. How are you doing?”
“I’m O.K.,” Debra said, balancing her plate on the arm of the couch.
“Ed?” her mom said. “Debra’s on the phone.”
Debra’s dad picked up and said, “What’s new?”
“Our paperwork is finished.”
“It’s finalized?” Her mom was disbelieving. It had been so long.
“Done.”
This story is from the February 27, 2023 edition of The New Yorker.
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This story is from the February 27, 2023 edition of The New Yorker.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
NO WAY BACK
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