Chapter 1

Michael Morton said I was faking my illness to gain his attention.

But I, Kaylee Finch, didn't need to fake Alzheimer's, and I certainly didn't need to fake brain cancer.

I checked myself into a hospice ward. Before I forgot this world entirely, I used the last of my strength to call him.

He was busy slipping a ring onto the finger of his first love, Helen Goodwin. Annoyed, he hung up on me three times.

When the call finally connected on the fourth try, I murmured, "Michael, it's getting dark. Why haven't you come to pick me up from school yet?"

Then, the flatline of the heart monitor said goodbye for me.

*****

When the doctor held up the scan, I stared at that white shadow for a long time.

"Ms. Finch, there's a large abnormal area in the front part of your brain. Considering how quickly your memory has gotten worse these past three months, we strongly suspect you have Alzheimer's and brain cancer," the doctor said.

I got the first part, but the rest was gibberish to me. "Can you say that in normal words?" I asked.

The doctor took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

I recognized that gesture. The lawyer at Michael's company always did the same thing before telling a client they were going to lose their case.

"Brain cancer. And your memory will keep deteriorating, much faster than with typical Alzheimer's. At worst, you have six to eight months left," he said.

"Six to eight months, what happens then?"

"You'll lose all your cognitive abilities."

"Okay."

It was not that I wasn't scared. It was that fear itself needed time to sink in, and my mind couldn't process it fast enough anymore.

I folded up the test results and stuffed them into my bag.

After leaving the hospital, I stood by the curb for fifteen minutes before realizing. I thought I'd driven here.

Where did I park again? B2? No, B3? Wait, that was not right. I actually took a cab this morning.

I stood there, pulled out my phone, and checked my ride history. 9:17 AM, from home to General Hospital, took an Uber.

I didn't drive. I put my phone back in my pocket and ordered another ride.

When I gave the address, I hesitated for a few seconds. Where do I live, anyway?

Bluecrest House, Building 9, Unit 2. Michael and I bought it in our third year of marriage. My parents covered the down payment, and we paid the mortgage together for four years.

Seven years now, the mortgage is finally done.

But that was not all. When I got home at two in the afternoon, Michael wasn't there. No surprise there. He had hardly been home for the past month.

Even when he was home, he locked himself in the study and wouldn't even come out for dinner.

I changed my shoes and walked into the living room, where I saw a bouquet of flowers on the coffee table.

Baby's breath and white roses, wrapped in shiny, clear plastic with a bow.

They weren't for me. I didn't like white roses, and Michael knew that.

I used to love sunflowers, but after he kept giving them to me for seven years, I told him daisies were fine too. So he wouldn't get bored with the same old thing.

He never said who the flowers were for. Helen was back in the country.

Her name kept coming up in my life over the past month.

She was Michael's college sweetheart, had been overseas for eight years, and came back last month.

Suddenly might not be the right word. Maybe she'd planned it all along, never thought to inform me, the extra in their story.

*****

Three days after Helen came back, Michael asked me to switch from the master bedroom to the guest room.

His excuse was that work had been stressful lately, he was sleeping lightly, and my supposed teeth grinding at night was keeping him awake.

I don't grind my teeth. But I moved anyway.

Ten days after Helen came back, my credit card got declined.

I was at the supermarket buying groceries, and when I tried to pay with my card, the machine beeped three times and flashed Insufficient funds.

That card was a supplementary card Michael gave me, with a limit of 70 thousand dollars.

I'd only spent 1200 dollars last month, and 800 of that was for groceries and his stomach medicine.

I paid for the groceries with my own debit card. When I got home, I didn't ask him about it.

It wasn't that I was being generous. I was too busy trying to process something else, the white shadow in my head.

*****

At eight in the evening, I was in the kitchen cooking. I'd been making this meal for seven years. I could do it with my eyes closed.

But today, I stood in front of the stove, staring at the chicken thighs in the pot for five minutes, and suddenly couldn't remember if I'd added salt.

I took a taste, no salt. I picked up the salt shaker, my hand hovering in midair.

What was that flavor again? I couldn't recall.

I tasted the soup again, then added some salt. But I couldn't remember if I'd already done it, so I tasted it once more. Too salty.

I turned off the stove, stood there, and pressed my forehead against the kitchen cupboard. It felt cold.

"Six to eight months," the doctor said.

After a moment, I pulled out a notebook from the drawer and wrote on the first page: [I already put salt in the chicken thighs.]

Then underneath, I wrote: [Kaylee, you're sick. There's something in your brain. Your memory will keep fading. Michael doesn't know. You haven't told him. Not because you don't want to, but because he won't pick up.]

The door sounded. I quickly stuffed the notebook back into the drawer and carried the dishes out.

Michael walked in, his coat draped over his arm, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He smelled like perfume, but it wasn't his.

He always wore Jo Malone's Wood Sage & Sea Salt. I'd smelled it on him for seven years, so I could tell right away.

This scent was sweet, with a gardenia note, very feminine.

"Dinner's ready. Did you want—" I started.

"I already ate," he said.

He didn't even glance at the food on the table and headed straight for the study.

I stood at the table with the plate in my hands. "Michael."

He paused, but didn't turn around.

"I went to the hospital today—" I started.

"Kaylee," Michael cut me off, his voice quiet but dripping with impatience. "If you're trying to play the sick card again, save it.

"Helen said you sent her six messages last week, telling her to stay away from me. Did you really think I wouldn't hear about it?"

I never messaged Helen on WhatsApp. I didn't even have her contact.

But as I opened my mouth, doubt crept in. I wasn't so sure anymore.

Did I? Or did I not? I pulled out my phone and scrolled through. Helen wasn't anywhere in my WhatsApp contacts.

"I don't even have her on WhatsApp," I said.

"Yeah, right. Drop the act," Michael said, pushing open the study door.

After the door slammed shut, I stared at my phone, then at the dishes on the table.

The chicken thighs were how he liked them. I sat down and ate two pieces.

Too salty. Figured, I'd added salt twice.

*****

That night, I lay in the guest room, staring at the ceiling, running through everything that had happened today in my head.

Got diagnosed. Came home. Made dinner. Added salt twice. Michael said I sent Helen a WhatsApp message. I know I didn't.

I wrote it down in my notebook: [You never messaged Helen on WhatsApp. Michael said you did, but you didn't. You don't even have her contact. If you ever forget, turn to this page. You didn't do anything wrong.]

I hesitated with the pen, then added another line: [Kaylee, there's a tumor in your brain. You're going to forget a lot of things. But you need to remember.]

Remember what? I thought for a long time. In the end, I wrote: [You didn't do anything wrong.]