Dinner With the Mourners

I applied the lipstick like war paint.

*Rouge d'Armani Matte 400*. A crimson so deep it looked like a fresh arterial spray. Graham hated it. He preferred me in "soft neutrals," shades of beige and dusty rose that made me look like I was already fading into the drywall.

Tonight, I wanted to pop. I wanted to vibrate.

I leaned into the lighted vanity mirror, checking my work. The woman staring back didn't look like a "tragic decline." She looked sharp. Dangerous. Her eyes were bright, fueled by the three shots of espresso I’d downed in the pantry while Graham was basting the roast.

"Merritt?"

Graham’s voice drifted from the hallway, soft and solicitous. The tone you use for a toddler holding a pair of scissors.

"Almost ready," I called back. My voice sounded normal. Steady.

"Okay, sweetie. No rush. Just... Lorna and the Davises are here. Whenever you feel up to it."

*Whenever you feel up to it.*

As if walking down the stairs to eat dinner in my own house was a summit attempt on Everest.

I smoothed the silk of my dress. Emerald green. Vintage. It clung to my hips and whispered when I moved. I put on my heels—four inches of defiance—and unlocked the bathroom door.

Graham was waiting in the hall. He was wearing a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my first car. He looked approachable. Safe. The kind of man who carried spiders outside instead of squashing them.

When he saw me, his smile faltered. Just for a micro-second. A glitch in the matrix.

"Wow," he said. "You look... vivid."

"Is that bad?"

"No," he said quickly. Too quickly. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were warm. "It’s just... a lot. Are you sure you’re comfortable? The mood tonight is a bit... low key."

"I'm fine, Graham. I'm great."

"Okay," he soothed. "Okay. Just remember our signal. If you get overwhelmed. If the noise gets to be too much."

He tapped his earlobe.

I stared at him. We didn't have a signal. We had never had a signal. He was inventing history in real-time, rewriting the code of our marriage while I was still logged in.

"Right," I said. "The signal."

He offered me his arm. I didn't take it. I walked past him, my heels striking the hardwood with a satisfying, authoritative *clack-clack-clack*.

The dining room was set for five. The lighting was dimmed to a funereal gloom via the Lutron app on Graham's phone. Candles flickered in the center of the table, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. It didn't look like a dinner party. It looked like a séance.

Lorna was there, of course. She lived three houses down and subsisted on neighborhood gossip and Sauvignon Blanc. She was wearing gray.

The Davises—Mark and Jen—were huddled near the sideboard. Mark was Graham’s CFO. Jen was a Pilates instructor who always looked like she smelled something bad.

When I walked in, the conversation died.

It wasn't the natural lull of people noticing a host. It was a hard stop. A record scratch.

Three pairs of eyes landed on me. They didn't widen with admiration for the dress. They softened. They drooped.

They looked at me with a wet, heavy pity that felt like being draped in a lead blanket.

"Merritt," Lorna breathed. She stood up, her bracelets jangling. She rushed over and grabbed my hands, squeezing them tight. Her palms were clammy. "Oh, honey. Look at you. You made it down."

"I live upstairs, Lorna. I didn't hike the Appalachian Trail."

I meant it to be funny. Dry. Wry.

Lorna didn't laugh. She looked at Graham.

Graham offered a sad, tight smile. "She's having a good day. High energy."

"That's wonderful," Jen Davis said, her voice pitched an octave too high. "Really. That color is so... brave."

*Brave.*

I felt a prickle of heat on the back of my neck.

"Let's sit," Graham said, ushering us toward the table like a shepherd herding particularly stupid sheep. "Merritt, why don't you sit here? By me. So I can help."

"Help with what?" I asked, pulling out my own chair. "The fork? I think I remember how it works. Pointy end goes in the food."

Mark Davis cleared his throat. He looked at his water glass like it contained the secrets of the universe.

"So," I said, snapping the linen napkin onto my lap. The sound was loud in the quiet room. "How is the firm, Mark? Graham says you guys are crushing the Q3 projections."

Mark looked up, startled. He glanced at Graham before answering me. A permission check.

"It's... good, Merritt. Busy. You know how it is."

"I do," I said. "I've been busy too. I'm working on a new slasher flick. *Prom Night 4*. I spent six hours yesterday recording bone breaks."

I grabbed a breadstick. *Snap.*

"Celery," I explained, holding up the broken piece. "Wrapped in a damp chamois. Sounds exactly like a compound fracture if you EQ the low end right."

I smiled. It was a good detail. A cool work story. Usually, people loved the Foley stuff. It was movie magic.

Jen Davis flinched. She actually recoiled into her chair.

Lorna put a hand to her chest. "Oh, Merritt. That sounds... violent."

"It's a horror movie, Lorna. Violence is the point."

"Merritt finds the sound... cathartic," Graham interjected. His voice was smooth, like expensive bourbon. "It helps her process the... noise in her head. Right, babe?"

He reached over and covered my hand with his. His grip was firm. Pinning me to the table.

"There is no noise in my head," I said. I tried to pull my hand away. He held on. "It's my job. It's acoustic engineering."

"Of course," Jen said. "We know you're very talented, Merritt. Graham tells us all the time how... creative you are."

She said *creative* the way you might say *schizophrenic*.

Dinner was served. A beef wellington that looked like a severed limb wrapped in pastry. Graham sliced it with surgical precision. The knife scraped against the platter. *Skritch. Skritch.*

The sound grated on my nerves. I wanted to tell him to adjust his angle, to stop the metal-on-ceramic violence, but I knew how that would look. *Sensory sensitivity. Irritability. Symptom.*

I took a sip of wine. It was a heavy Cabernet.

"Merritt," Lorna said softly. "Graham told us about... the incident. With the garden."

I lowered my glass. "What incident?"

"The fern," Graham said gently. "The one on the patio."

"The one you let die?" I shot back. "I told you to water it while I was in post-production last week."

Lorna’s eyes filled with tears. "Oh, honey. You dug it up."

I froze. "What?"

"You dug it up," Graham said. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the guests, performing the burden of the saintly husband. "In the middle of the night. You said it was screaming."

"I did not," I said. My voice rose. "I have never done that. That is a lie."

"It's okay," Graham said. He squeezed my hand again. "We don't have to talk about it. I replanted it. It's fine."

"I didn't dig up a fern!" I slammed my hand on the table. The silverware jumped.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Mark stared at his plate. Jen looked at the ceiling. Lorna looked at me with terrified devastation.

"See?" Graham whispered. "It's the stress. The spikes."

"I am not spiking!" I stood up. My chair scraped backward with a shriek. "I am sitting at a dinner party, drinking wine, while my husband tells you all lies about my mental health. Why are you listening to him? Look at me! Do I look crazy?"

I spread my arms. The green silk flowed.

"I found a receipt," I said. The words tumbled out. I hadn't planned to say it, but the pressure in my chest was unbearable. "He bought a burial plot. Today. For me. Plot 4B at Eternal Rest."

I looked around the table, waiting for the shock. Waiting for Mark to ask, *Graham, what the fuck?* Waiting for Jen to gasp.

Jen didn't gasp. She nodded.

A slow, sad nod.

"We know, Merritt," she said softly.

My breath hitched. "You... know?"

"Graham told us," Lorna said, dabbing her eyes with her napkin. "He told us he had to make... arrangements. Because you were refusing treatment. Because the doctors said..."

She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"The doctors said what?" I demanded. "I haven't seen a doctor! I see Dr. Aris for fifteen minutes a month and he just refills the prescription Graham picks up!"

"He's trying to protect you," Mark said. His voice was heavy, paternal. "The state can step in if there's no plan, Merritt. If you... hurt yourself. Or someone else."

The room was spinning. The candlelight blurred into streaks of yellow fire.

They thought I was dangerous.

They thought Graham bought the grave because I was suicidal. Or homicidal.

"I'm not sick," I whispered.

"I know you believe that," Graham said. He stood up slowly. He moved toward me. "That's part of the illness, sweetheart. The anosognosia. The lack of insight."

He used the clinical term. He wielded it like a weapon.

"Sit down, Merritt," he said. "Please. You're scaring Jen."

I looked at Jen. She was gripping her wine glass so hard her knuckles were white. She looked terrified.

I wasn't holding a knife. I wasn't screaming. I was just standing there in a green dress.

But Graham had painted a monster over my face, and that's all they could see.

"I need to go to the bathroom," I said. My voice trembled.

"Do you need help?" Lorna asked.

"No," I snapped. Then, softer. "No. Thank you."

I turned and walked out of the dining room. I kept my back straight. *Clack. Clack. Clack.*

I didn't go to the bathroom.

I went to the kitchen.

My phone was on the counter, charging. I grabbed it.

I needed a witness. I needed someone outside the bubble.

I unlocked the screen. My fingers were shaking so bad I mistyped the passcode twice.

*Passcode Incorrect.*

I typed it slowly. 0-6-1-5.

It opened.

I went to my messages. I tapped Toby's name. Toby, my studio partner. Toby, who knew I wasn't crazy because he heard me work every day.

*Merritt: Help. He's telling everyone I'm dying. They believe him. You have to--*

Three dots appeared.

*Toby is typing...*

I waited. The air in the kitchen felt thin, like I was at high altitude.

A message popped up.

*Toby: Merritt, please stop. Graham showed me the emails. I know you're angry about the buyout, but threatening to ruin his reputation isn't you. Get help. Please.*

I stared at the screen.

*The buyout.*

*The emails.*

Graham hadn't just told the neighbors. He had gotten to Toby. He had planted a paper trail.

I felt a wave of nausea so strong I almost dropped the phone.

From the dining room, I heard Graham’s voice. Low. Mournful.

"It's advancing faster than we thought. The aggression is new."

"You're a saint, Graham," Lorna said. "Truly. Most men would have put her in a home by now."

"I promised," Graham said. "In sickness and in health. I want her here. For as long as she's... still her."

"She's lucky to have you," Mark said. "To the end."

*Clink.*

The sound of glasses touching.

They were toasting him. They were toasting the man who was burying me.

I looked at the back door. The sliding glass door that led to the patio. To the garden where I allegedly dug up a fern.

I could run.

I could open that door, jump the fence, and run until I hit the main road.

But then what?

I had no car. Graham had bricked the Tesla.
I had no allies. Toby thought I was unstable.
I had no money. The accounts were flagged.

If I ran now, in the dark, in an evening gown, and the police picked me up...

Graham would show up with his file. With his sad smile. *She wanders,* he would say. *She's confused.*

And running would prove him right.

I put the phone down.

I walked over to the sliding glass door. I looked at my reflection in the dark glass.

The green dress didn't look vibrant anymore. In the dim kitchen light, it looked black.

Behind me, the door from the dining room swung open.

I didn't turn around.

"Merritt?"

It was Graham.

I watched his reflection join mine in the glass. He stood right behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders.

"They're leaving soon," he whispered. His breath was warm on my ear. "You did... okay. A little outburst, but we managed it."

"You told them I dug up a fern."

"I told them a story they could understand," he said. "The truth is too complicated for dinner conversation."

"The truth," I said to the glass, "is that you are erasing me."

He tightened his grip on my shoulders. Just a fraction.

"I am curating you, Merritt. I am making sure that when you're gone, people remember the tragedy, not the mess."

He kissed the side of my neck.

"Go upstairs," he said. "Take your pill. The orange one. It will help you sleep."

"I'm not tired."

"You will be," he said.

He turned me around. He looked into my eyes. The pity was gone. In its place was a flat, dead calm.

"Say goodnight to the guests, Merritt. It might be the last time they see you."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "What does that mean?"

He smiled.

"It means you're getting worse," he said. "Starting tomorrow, I think we need to restrict visitors. For your own dignity."

He steered me toward the hall.

As we passed the dining room, Lorna looked up. She offered me a wave. A small, fluttery, goodbye wave. The kind you give to someone pulling out of the driveway on a long, long trip.

"Goodnight, Merritt," she called out. "Rest well."

I looked at her. I wanted to scream *I am not dying!*

But my throat closed. The paralysis hit. The silence enveloped me like a shroud.

I let Graham lead me to the stairs.

I climbed them, one by one.

*Thud. Thud. Thud.*

The sound of dirt hitting a casket lid.