The Things We Don't Do

The first thing Vivian Mercer stole was a lemon.

It was an ordinary lemon, bright yellow and slightly soft near the stem, sitting in a ceramic bowl on the kitchen counter of a woman she had known for twenty-three years.

Vivian had no use for it. There were four perfectly good lemons in her own refrigerator, along with half a lime she kept meaning to throw away. She didn't particularly like lemons unless they were accompanied by vodka, which her gastroenterologist had recently discouraged.

Nevertheless, while her friend Patricia stood with her back turned, describing the latest indignity committed by her third husband, Vivian slipped the lemon into her handbag.

She was fifty-eight years old. She had never stolen anything in her life, unless one counted a hotel bathrobe in 1997, which she did not, because the swanky New York City hotel had charged four hundred dollars a night and the robe had been exceptionally thin and scratchy.

Patricia turned around. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Of course," Vivian said, resting one hand on the handbag beside her chair. "Richard has disappointed you again."

"Exactly."

Vivian nodded sympathetically. Inside her purse, the lemon rolled against her wallet.

She had not slept properly in ninety-six hours. For the first time in days, she felt wonderfully awake.

At home, Vivian placed the lemon in the center of the dining room table, where it looked absurdly cheerful against the dark walnut. She stood admiring it until her husband appeared in the doorway.

"Where'd that come from?"

"Patricia."

"She giving away fruit now?"

"Apparently."

Daniel Mercer was six feet two inches tall, with broad shoulders that had softened only slightly over the years and a strong, square jaw that made him look more decisive than he was. His hair, once dark, had gone silver at the temples, and his blue eyes were striking enough that strangers occasionally remarked on them. Vivian had once found those eyes impossible to resist. Now she found herself studying how frequently they avoided hers.

He was handsome in a way that seemed almost unfair, especially considering how little attention he paid to it. He wore an old navy T-shirt, faded Levi jeans, and the expression of a man who had come downstairs for something and forgotten what it was.

He opened the refrigerator. "Did you eat?"

"Not yet.”

“There’s chicken."

"I know."

"Or the leftover meatballs."

"Daniel, I know what's in the refrigerator."

He looked over the door at her. "Okay."

There it was. That single syllable, so perfectly neutral that Vivian could never determine whether it meant agreement, irritation, or the termination of diplomatic relations.

He took out the chicken. "How'd you sleep last night?"

"I didn't."

"Again?"

"Unless I've forgotten an entire evening of unconsciousness."

He examined the expiration date on a container of mustard. "Maybe you should take something."

Vivian watched him return the mustard to the refrigerator. She wanted him to cross the kitchen, put his arms around her, and say he was sorry she was having such a difficult time. Instead, he asked whether she wanted chicken.

"No, thank you."

He nodded and carried his plate into the living room, where the baseball game was already on at full volume.

Vivian remained at the table, running one finger over the lemon's dimpled skin. She imagined picking it up and throwing it at the back of his head. Not hard enough to injure him. Just hard enough to interrupt the game.

She smiled at the thought, then felt a small, unpleasant flutter beneath her ribs. She had never thrown anything at Daniel. She had never even wanted to. At least, she didn't think she had.

By the fifth night, Vivian had begun to dread the bedroom. The house was quiet except for the occasional creak of the heating system and the faint sound of a television from the guest room, where her daughter Caroline and Caroline's husband had extended their weekend visit into a second week.

Vivian lay beside Daniel, watching the blue digits of the clock advance.

12:48.

1:17.

2:06.

Daniel slept on his back, one arm above his head, his mouth slightly open. His breathing was deep and effortless, which Vivian found increasingly offensive.

She turned toward him. Even in the darkness, she could make out the familiar architecture of his face: the straight nose, the firm, dimpled chin, the heavy brow that made him appear stern when he was concentrating. A lock of silver hair had fallen across his forehead. She remembered brushing it away when they first met, inventing excuses to touch him.

She reached toward him now, stopping an inch from his cheek. What would happen if she woke him? He would ask what was wrong. She would tell him she couldn't sleep. He would suggest taking something, perhaps offer her a glass of water, and within three minutes he would be unconscious again.

She withdrew her hand.

A thought arrived so quietly that she almost missed it. What if he couldn't sleep either?

She imagined shaking him awake every twenty minutes. Turning on the bedside lamp. Asking questions that required complicated answers. Leaving the television playing loudly enough to penetrate his dreams. The thought was childish, vindictive, and embarrassingly satisfying.

Vivian sat up and twisted her hair into a loose knot, securing it with the claw clip she kept on her nightstand. Beside it lay a small notebook she used for grocery lists and reminders, a pencil tucked into its spiral binding. She picked it up, turned past a page of unfinished errands, and began writing on the first blank sheet.

Things I would do if I weren't such a good person.

She considered the sentence for a moment, then underlined good twice.

Her first entry was simple. Wake Daniel every time I wake up.

The second came almost immediately.

Tell Caroline that her husband doesn't have conversations. He waits for opportunities to talk about himself.

By three in the morning, she had filled two full pages. Some entries were ridiculous. Others were so specific that she found herself checking the bedroom door, although Daniel was asleep and nobody else could possibly have seen them.

At the bottom of the second page, she wrote:

Find out what people would do if I stopped protecting their feelings.

She stared at the sentence.

Then she closed the notebook.

The following afternoon, Caroline found her mother sitting in the sunroom with a cup of coffee that had gone cold.

"Mom, can I ask you something?"

Vivian looked up from her book.

Caroline was thirty-two, with her father's blue eyes and Vivian's narrow, expressive mouth. She had inherited Daniel's tendency to mistake directness for honesty and Vivian's sensitivity to criticism, a combination that made ordinary conversations surprisingly hazardous.

"Of course."

"Do you think Marcus is happy?"

Vivian placed her bookmark carefully between the pages. "Happy with what?"

"With me. With us." Caroline sat on the edge of the microfiber loveseat, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.

Vivian knew this gesture. She had watched her daughter do it since adolescence, first with the hem of her school uniform, then with the silver bracelet she'd worn through college. Caroline twisted things when she was afraid of hearing an answer.

"Why do you ask?"

"He seems distracted lately."

Vivian could have reassured her. She knew precisely how to do it. She could have mentioned Marcus's demanding job, the strain of traveling, the ordinary adjustments of marriage.

Instead, she remembered an evening two months earlier when Marcus had spent twenty minutes laughing with a young woman at a restaurant while Caroline sat beside him, pretending to study the menu.

Vivian had dismissed it at the time. Now she leaned forward. "Have you noticed how attentive he is to other women?"

Caroline stopped twisting her ring. "What?"

"Nothing, sweetheart. I just wondered whether you'd noticed."

"Noticed what?"

Vivian tilted her head, allowing concern to settle over her features. "Perhaps I'm imagining things."

Vivian watched the color drain from Caroline's face. She could have laughed, claimed she was joking, offered one of the apologies that came so easily after a lifetime of keeping other people comfortable. Instead, she lifted her coffee to her lips and took a slow, deliberate sip.

That evening, Caroline was unusually affectionate with Marcus. Vivian watched them from the kitchen while she prepared dinner. Caroline kept touching his arm, asking whether he needed anything, laughing a little too brightly at remarks that weren't particularly funny.

Marcus looked bewildered.

Daniel came in carrying a bag of groceries. "What's wrong with Caroline?"

"Why?"

"She's acting strange."

Vivian sliced a cucumber into thin, translucent rounds. "Marriage can be complicated."

Daniel set the groceries on the counter. "They're newlyweds."

"Exactly."

He watched her for a moment. "You okay?"

Vivian looked up. There was genuine concern in his face, and for an instant she felt something loosen inside her. She wanted to tell him everything: the sleepless nights, the notebook, the strange exhilaration that followed her little acts of cruelty.

Instead, she said, "I'm fine."

Daniel reached for a cucumber. She slapped his hand lightly with the flat of the knife.

He pulled back. "Jesus, Viv."

"Sorry."

He stared at her and Vivian stared right back. Then she laughed. It was a perfectly ordinary laugh, the kind she might have produced after making an unexpectedly sharp joke.

Daniel didn't join her.

On the seventh night, Vivian found herself standing outside the guest bedroom. The door was slightly open. Inside, Caroline and Marcus were asleep, their suitcases spilling clothing across the floor.

Vivian held her notebook against her chest. She had come upstairs intending to put away towels. At least, that was what she remembered.

On the dresser beside Caroline's handbag lay Marcus's phone, its screen illuminating briefly with a notification.

Vivian looked toward the bed. Neither moved.

She tiptoed inside.

The carpet was thick beneath her bare feet. A small fan hummed on the nightstand, stirring the edge of a curtain. Marcus lay facing the wall, one hand tucked beneath his pillow.

Vivian picked up his phone. The screen asked for a passcode. She tried Caroline's birthday. Wrong. Their anniversary. Wrong. Then she remembered watching Marcus unlock it at dinner, his thumb moving in a familiar pattern.

She entered six digits. The screen opened. Vivian felt a rush of triumph so intense that she nearly laughed. There were messages from colleagues, a group chat with his brothers, a reminder about a dentist appointment.

Nothing interesting.

She opened his photographs. Caroline at the beach. Marcus holding a ridiculous fish. A blurry photograph of a dog.

Then a picture of a woman Vivian didn't recognize. Young, dark-haired, smiling at the camera from across a restaurant table.

Vivian enlarged the image. Behind her, reflected in the restaurant window, was Marcus. He was smiling too.

Vivian's thumb hovered over the screen.

She could send the photograph to Caroline. She could place the phone back on the dresser and mention it casually at breakfast. She could create a question that would live between them for years.

Her pulse quickened.

From the bed, Marcus shifted.

Vivian froze.

He rolled onto his back, scratched his cheek, and settled again.

She returned the phone to the dresser.

In the hallway, she leaned against the wall and pressed the notebook to her chest.

She had resisted. The realization should have comforted her. Instead, she felt cheated.

By morning, Vivian had slept for nearly four hours. She woke to sunlight pouring across the bed and the delicious sensation of having returned from somewhere distant.

Daniel was downstairs making coffee. She found him standing at the counter, wearing his glasses and reading something on his phone.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning."

"You slept."

"A little."

"Good." He smiled at her, and Vivian was struck by how handsome he looked in the morning light, the silver in his hair catching the sun, his blue eyes softened by an expression she hadn't seen in days.

She stepped behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Daniel placed his hand over hers. "Feeling better?"

"I think so."

He turned and kissed her forehead. For a moment, she felt almost normal. Then he said, "Caroline and Marcus left early."

Vivian stepped back. "Why?"

"They had some kind of argument."

"What about?"

Daniel hesitated. "Apparently Caroline got a photograph sent to her phone last night. Some woman Marcus knows."

Vivian felt the room shift. "What photograph?"

"I don't know. Caroline was crying. Marcus kept saying it was someone from work."

Vivian gripped the edge of the counter. "Who sent it?"

Daniel shook his head. "Unknown number, I guess."

She looked toward the dining room. The lemon was still sitting in the center of the table, its skin beginning to wrinkle.

Daniel continued speaking, but Vivian could no longer follow his words. She remembered entering the guest bedroom. She remembered opening Marcus's phone. She remembered putting it back. She remembered resisting. Didn't she?

That afternoon she realized her notebook was missing.

Vivian searched the bedroom, the sunroom, the kitchen drawers. She looked beneath the bed and inside her handbag, where the faint citrus smell of Patricia's lemon still lingered.

Nothing.

At noon, Patricia called. Vivian watched the phone vibrate across the counter. Ordinarily, she would have answered immediately. Instead, she let it ring. A message appeared: Vivian, please call me. I don't know what you said to Richard, but he's furious.

Vivian stared at the screen.

She had not spoken to Richard in months. Had she?

Another message arrived. And I really don't appreciate what you told him about me.

Vivian sat down.

Outside, Daniel was repairing a loose board on the deck. She could hear the steady tapping of his hammer, reassuring in its predictability. She tried to remember the previous evening.

The hallway.

Marcus's phone.

The photograph.

There was something else, something she could almost see when she closed her eyes.

A screen glowing in the darkness. Her own reflection in the glass. And the peculiar pleasure of pressing send.

That afternoon, Daniel found her sitting at the dining room table. The lemon had been cut in half. Vivian had arranged the two pieces neatly on a white plate, their exposed flesh glistening beneath the chandelier.

"What's that?" he asked.

"A lemon."

"I can see that."

"Then why did you ask?"

Daniel pulled out a chair. "Viv, we need to talk."

She studied his face. His jaw was tight, and he had removed his glasses, folding them carefully beside his phone. He looked older than he had that morning, the lines around his eyes deepened by something she couldn't quite identify.

"What about?"

He placed her notebook on the table. Vivian felt her stomach contract. "Where did you find that?"

"In the garage."

She reached for it, but Daniel covered it with his hand. "I read some of it."

For a moment, neither spoke. Outside, a bird struck the kitchen window with a soft, hollow thud.

Vivian flinched. Daniel didn't.

"Some of these things," he said slowly, "are pretty disturbing."

"They're thoughts, Daniel. People have thoughts."

"I know."

"Writing something doesn't mean you intend to do it."

"I know that too."

She watched his fingers resting on the spiral bound notebook. They were large, capable hands, the nails neatly trimmed, a small scar crossing his right knuckle from an accident years earlier.

Hands she had held in hospitals. Hands that had lifted furniture, repaired broken doors, stroked her hair when she cried.

For one terrible second, she imagined those hands closing around her throat. Then she imagined her own hands pushing him backward, his chair tipping, the sharp corner of the sideboard waiting behind his head.

Vivian drew an uneven breath. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Daniel's expression changed. "Like what?"

"Like you're afraid of me."

He looked down at the notebook. "Are you sleeping at all?"

She almost laughed. Of all the questions he could have asked. "Not much."

He nodded slowly. "I think we need to call your doctor."

Vivian stared at him. There was no accusation in his voice. No anger. Only concern, and something else she couldn't bear to name.

She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. "You're right."

Daniel looked relieved. "I'll make the call."

"Thank you."

He stood, taking his phone and glasses with him.

Vivian watched him disappear into the hallway. Then she opened the notebook. The last page was covered in her handwriting, though she had no memory of writing it. At the top, beneath the date, was a single sentence:

I wonder how much they would forgive if they knew I couldn't remember doing it.

Below that were three names.

Patricia.

Caroline.

Daniel.

The first two had been crossed out.

Beside Daniel's name, in smaller letters, she had written: He trusts me.

Vivian ran her fingertip across the words.

From the hallway came the muffled sound of Daniel speaking to someone on the phone. She could tell from his voice that he was worried. She closed the notebook and looked toward the window, where the bird had left a faint, feather-shaped mark on the glass.

For the first time in seven days, Vivian felt genuinely tired. She wanted to sleep. She wanted Daniel to hold her. She wanted someone to tell her that everything she had done could be explained by exhaustion, that the woman in the notebook wasn't really her.

But as she listened to her husband's anxious voice, another thought surfaced, quiet and precise.

He'll believe whatever I tell him.

Vivian looked at the notebook. Then at the doorway. She tore out the last page, folded it into quarters, and slipped it into her pocket.

When Daniel returned, she was crying. And she was very, very convincing.