Do Not Disturb: An addictive psychological thriller Page 14

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just can’t risk it.”

  “But…”

  “The answer is no, Nick. I won’t change my mind.”

  He looks stricken. He collapses into a chair across from me. “Okay…”

  There’s a lump in my throat. He’s right. It’s a lot to give up. And he’s always wanted to have kids so badly. It’s not right to ask this of him.

  “Listen…” I reach for his hand, and he gives it to me reluctantly. “I love you, but I understand if you want to… If this is too much for you. I would understand. We don’t have to be together if you don’t want to be anymore.”

  Nick jerks his head back. “What are you talking about? You think I want to break up?”

  “I’m just saying. I would understand.”

  He squeezes my hand firmly in his. “Look, I’m not thrilled about this. Obviously. But I love you. And there’s nothing that would make me not want to be with you anymore.”

  We sit there together in the kitchen for a long time, holding hands and contemplating what the rest of our lives will be like together. I have no idea at that moment how bad things are going to get.

  Four Years Earlier

  I hate the ceiling of our bedroom.

  We had it painted when we moved in, but it’s covered in cracks. Whoever painted it did a terrible job. The cracks are all over the place, forming spiderweb patterns in the white plaster. It needs to be redone, but let’s face it, that’s the least of our problems. It doesn’t even make the top twenty.

  “Rosie?”

  I didn’t even realize the sound of the shower had turned off. I shut my eyes, feeling that familiar wave of fatigue wash over me. I slept all night, but I’m still exhausted. When the alarm went off ten minutes ago, I woke up to shut it off, but I felt far from ready to get out of bed.

  “Rosie?”

  Nick is out of the shower. His dark blond hair looks even darker from the water, and he has a towel wrapped around his waist, revealing a pretty nice upper body. He looks really good. Every bit as handsome as the day I fell in love with him. Maybe more—he’s grown up from that sixteen-year-old boy.

  I don’t want to think about what he must see when he looks at me now.

  “Hey, Rosie,” he says. “I got the bench set up in the shower for you if you want to go in.”

  He grabs my walker and brings it to the side of the bed. I never got pregnant again, but it didn’t matter. My legs got weaker anyway, even faster than Dr. Heller predicted. I went from a cane to crutches, and now I use a walker most of the time. At my appointment last week, Dr. Heller wrote a prescription for a wheelchair.

  I’m still working at the restaurant, but it’s gotten very difficult. I’m struggling. It’s not just that I’m having difficulty walking and getting around. My brain is muddled. I mix up orders and forget what I’m doing in the middle of doing it. It’s embarrassing.

  “Rosie? Do you need help sitting up?”

  I stare at him. I have to get up and get to the restaurant. To my job that I love, that I dreamed of all my life. Except I just… don’t want to. The idea of getting out of bed, taking a shower, getting dressed… even running a comb through my hair is so exhausting. I can’t even contemplate it.

  “I’m not getting up,” I say.

  He frowns. “Are you sick?”

  He’s so damn nice about everything. So willing to help me with every little thing. I used to love that about him. I never realized until recently how annoying it could be.

  “Yes, I’m sick.”

  He sits down on the edge of the bed. He reaches for my forehead and I swat him away. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have multiple sclerosis.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Come on. Get up. There are going to be customers waiting outside.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t want to work at the restaurant anymore.”

  He tries again to reach for me, but I shrug him off. “Is this about the kitchen being accessible? Because I told you, I called a contractor and got a quote—”

  “I’m not going back to that restaurant,” I say through my teeth. “Not now. Not ever.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not going, Nick.”

  He gets up off the bed. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “There are other people who do the cooking. You can handle it.”

  He presses his lips together. “Fine. I’ll take care of it today. You can have one sick day.”

  He throws off the towel and starts getting dressed. Once again, I can’t help but think how attractive my husband is. But the scariest part is I feel nothing right now. Not even the slightest trace of desire. And I’m too tired to care.

  Chapter 28

  Three years earlier

  As the credits roll on the television screen, I grab the remote control and flick to a new station. Somehow in the last six months, I’ve become the sort of woman who sits around the house all day, watching soap operas. It’s literally the only thing that I do the entire day. Well, that’s not true. In the morning, I watch game shows. And sometimes I surf the web on my phone. I occasionally eat a little. Occasionally. I’ve become skeletal.

  Anyway, there’s not much for me to do anymore. Rosalie’s closed three months ago. It fell apart quickly after I stopped working there.

  I hear Nick’s heavy footsteps coming up to the second floor. I glance down on my watch—it’s the middle of the day. Sometimes he’ll come home for lunch, but that was two hours ago. I wonder what he’s doing home.

  The thought of it makes me uneasy.

  Nick appears at the bedroom door. There are faint purple circles under his eyes, but he manages a thin smile. He doesn’t smile for real very much these days. That’s fair though. He doesn’t have a lot to smile about.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He glances over my shoulder, at the bedroom window. “It’s stuffy in here. You should open the window. It’s a nice day outside.”

  “I’m fine.”

  But he still pushes past me and walks over to the window. I back up a few inches in my wheelchair. I use the chair all the time now. I gave up on walking several months ago, around when Rosalie’s shut down. The amount of effort it takes to take a few steps isn’t worth it.

  Nick throws the window open. I suppose it’s nice outside—the same cool spring day when Nick first took me out to see the restaurant all those years ago. But I’ve lost so much weight in the last two years that the breeze goes straight through me, and I shiver. Sometimes it feels like my skin is hanging off my bones.

  “Better, right?” he says.

  I nod, because it’s easier than arguing. I’ll close it again when he leaves.

  “Maybe we could go outside together?” he says.

  I cringe. “I don’t want to deal with the stairs.”

  He blows out a breath. “You know, I can convert the dining room into a bedroom. I told you I could—”

  “It’s fine. I don’t feel like going outside anyway.”

  Nick mumbles something under his breath that I can’t make out. It’s probably better I didn’t hear it.

  “What are you doing home?” I ask him.

  He frowns and wrings his hands together. He’s here for a reason. He didn’t just come up here to open the window. He may as well spit it out already.

  “Don’t be mad,” he says, “but I called Dr. Heller yesterday.”

  I look up at him sharply. Why would he call my neurologist without my permission? “Excuse me?”

  “Look, you just seem…” He sinks down onto the bed so he can see eye to eye with me. “I’m worried about you, Rosie.”

  “So what brilliant insight did Dr. Heller have?”

  He pushes on, ignoring my sarcasm. “She thought you should do a course of physical therapy.”

  “Physical therapy?”

  He nods eagerly. “I’ll take you to the appointments,” he says. “Will you go, Rosie?”


  “What’s the point?” I say bitterly. “How am I supposed to walk better if I can barely move my legs?”

  “Not for that,” he says. “Dr. Heller said it would help you get more independent, so I wouldn’t have to—”

  I glare at him. “Oh, I get it now. You’re sick of helping me with every damn thing.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised. Nick does a lot for me. He helps me in and out of bed—he even helps me into the shower and to get dressed in the morning. Even though I’m the chef in the family, he brings me all my meals now. He does everything for me. He never even complains. Not until now.

  “Rosie, that’s not—”

  “Just admit it, Nick. It’s not like anyone would blame you.”

  He hangs his head. “Don’t do this. I’m just trying to help.”

  I study his face. “Did Dr. Heller have any other helpful advice?”

  After an interminable pause, he digs into his pocket and pulls out a little orange bottle of pills. I inhale sharply.

  “What’s that?”

  “They’re antidepressants,” he says. “Dr. Heller thought they might help.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Rosie…”

  “I’m not taking those,” I say. “I don’t have depression. My situation is the problem. Anyone would be depressed in my situation.”

  “They still might help.” He tries to reach for my hand, but I pull away. “Please, Rosie. Just try it. For a few weeks. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to keep taking them. But maybe they’ll help.”

  I look into his eyes. He still loves me, for some reason. He’s just trying to help.

  “Fine.” I accept the bottle. “I’ll try them for a few weeks.”

  But that night, I flush all the pills down the toilet.

  _____

  Whenever I hear footsteps on the stairs, my heart leaps into my chest.

  It’s almost always Nick. Who else would it be, visiting me in the middle of the day? That butterflies sensation reminds me of when we were first dating, of how excited I used to be to see him.

  Except that’s not why I get butterflies now. I’m worried that any day now, Nick will throw up his hands. Tell me he’s done with me. He’s had enough.

  It hasn’t happened yet, but it will. A person can only take so much.

  But this time, it’s not Nick at all. It’s the silver haired, elderly woman who has permanently moved into one of the rooms at the motel. Her name is Greta, and she and Nick struck up a deal for a reasonable monthly rate to allow her to live at the motel long term.

  I like Greta—she’s my only friend right now. She’s incredibly eccentric, with her long silver hair and her propensity to wear nightgowns twenty-four hours a day. But her visits to my room are the only bright spot in my week. She entertains me with stories about her life back in the carnival, or about her childhood back in Hungary. Or about Bernie, the carnie who used to be her husband before he dropped dead of a heart attack.

  “Hello, Rosalie,” she says in her East European accent.

  “Hi, Greta.”

  She cocks her head to the side. “You need to eat more. Soon you will be so skinny, my bad eyes won’t be able to see you anymore.”

  I laugh and tug subconsciously at my T-shirt, which was snug when I bought it five years ago, and now is swimming on me. “I’m fine.”

  “I will bring you food next time,” she says. “Something I cooked myself. And you will eat every bite.”

  “Sure,” I murmur.

  She sits beside me—her on the bed and me in my wheelchair. Her eyes rake over me and I shift in my chair. “I don’t like your aura today, Rosalie.”

  “Sorry?”

  She frowns at me. “I will read your fortune today.”

  A sick sensation washes over me. I knew Greta used to tell fortunes in the carnival, but this is the first time she offered to tell my fortune. I never told her about that experience with Naomi, the woman who warned me about the terrible things that would happen if I married Nick.

  She was right about the tragedy that changed my life. On the plus side, Nick hasn’t murdered anyone. Not as far as I know, anyway.

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” I say.

  Greta clasps my hand in hers. It’s cold and bony, the same as the fortune teller at the carnival all those years ago. “Tell me. What is your hesitation?”

  “I just think… It’s all sort of silly.”

  She studies my face. “No. You don’t think it’s silly. You are afraid.”

  I swallow, my mouth suddenly bone dry. “I had my fortune told a long time ago and it didn’t go well.”

  Greta’s eyes widen. “Tell me what happened.”

  I realize I haven’t told anyone about that day at the carnival. I told Nick part of it, but not the entire story. I have carried it alone all these years.

  “She predicted my multiple sclerosis,” I say. “She told me I was going to have a life-changing event.”

  Greta waves a hand. “I am not impressed. What else did this charlatan say to you?”

  “She told me not to marry Nick.” I bite down on my thumbnail. “Because… she… she said he was going to kill somebody if I did.”

  Greta stares at me for a moment. And then she bursts out laughing. “Nick? Kill somebody? Oh, you did not believe that, did you? Nick wouldn’t hurt a fly! He is just as gentle and kind as my Bernie.”

  “Well…”

  “Listen to me, Rosalie.” Her wrinkled face becomes serious again. “Very few people have the gift. But I do. Let me tell your fortune.”

  I say yes. Just to shut her up.

  She turns down the lights first, and as the room descends into darkness, she sits down again on the bed beside me and takes my hands in her cold, wrinkled ones. She closes her eyes, and I can feel the gentle pressure on my fingers.

  “You don’t use Tarot cards?” I ask.

  She scoffs. “Only for charlatans. I do not need them.”

  I sit there, in my wheelchair, feeling her icy hands in mine. The pressure intensifies and her eyelids flutter. If Nick were here, he would laugh at this display. He doesn’t believe in any of this stuff. Neither do I. Not really.

  Except I wonder what she’s seeing.

  “Your future is bright, Rosalie,” she says.

  I stare at her. “What?”

  “I see happiness,” she says. “I see great joy coming into your life. Joy like you have never felt before. For you and for Nick.”

  “Really?” I say flatly.

  “I see a happy future for you and Nick. Together. It is your destiny.”

  I was more willing to believe Nick could be a murderer. There’s no happy future for me and Nick. Everything is different between the two of us now. I fell in love with Nick because I felt like I could tell him anything. But now it’s like we’re strangers, even though he’s constantly helping me with the most intimate things. He doesn’t look at me the way he did before. And who could blame him?

  No, Nick and I will not have a happy ending.

  “Right,” I say. “Sure.”

  She squeezes my hand in hers. For an old woman, she’s strong. “I lost my Bernie—it was the greatest tragedy of my life. Do not let Nick get away from you. Do not lose what you have with him. You must protect your marriage at all costs.”

  I shake my head. “I…”

  “Promise me, Rosalie. Promise me you will not let him go. Protect your marriage at all costs.”

  Her grip on my hand is so tight, it hurts. I try to pull away, but she’s too strong. Or I’m too weak. “I… I promise.”

  She gives me a hard look, then she releases my hand. The imprints of her fingers remain on my skin, darkening into what will become bruises. Greta made me swear not to let him go, but I don’t know what she means. If Nick wants to leave, there’s nothing I could do to stop him.

  Chapter 29

  Two Years Earlier

  Nick is whistling in the shower.

  I’ll take it
as a good sign. He only whistles in the shower when he’s in a good mood. Like when I was pregnant. Or every day of our honeymoon. He always whistled in the shower after we had sex.

  Well, that’s definitely not why he’s whistling. Before I got sick, we made love every single day, sometimes multiple times. We couldn’t get enough of each other. But in the years after my diagnosis, it’s become less frequent. Once a week. Then once a month. Lately, every time he reaches for me, I cringe and push him away. He’s stopped trying. It’s been…

  I’m not even sure how long it’s been. A very long time.

  Nick comes out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around his waist. He smiles at me. “Good morning, Rosie.”

  “Morning,” I mumble.

  He’s so sexy in just that towel. The years have been good to him. The problem is me. The thought of being with anyone—even my sweet, sexy husband—makes me sick.

  I watch as he throws on some clothing. He is still whistling to himself. I squirm under the blanket, feeling sweaty and greasy.

  “Ready to get up?” he asks.

  I nod.

  As he helps me transfer from a bed into my wheelchair, I catch a whiff of aftershave. Nick rarely wears aftershave. Why is he suddenly so concerned with smelling good?

  At first, I was pleased about the whistling. But now I feel distinctly uneasy. Why is my husband so happy all of a sudden? Why is he in such a good mood? And why does he take an extra second to check out his appearance in the bathroom mirror before he leaves for the motel?

  Fortunately, I have an excellent view of the motel from my bedroom window.

  It doesn’t take long to have the answer to my question. Later in the morning, I see Nick outside the motel, talking to a curvy blonde who is several years younger than me. I’ve seen her before out the window, maybe yesterday or the day before. The point is, she’s been staying at the motel for several days. And now she’s talking to my husband.