A phantom scent, sharp and floral— lilies —cut through the drain's rot for a single, disorienting second. The woman from Paul’s office. The one with the laugh Eleanor could hear even when the phone wasn't on speaker.
She stood up, refusing to be defeated by plumbing. She fetched the heavy-duty gel drain cleaner from under the sink, the industrial stuff with skull-and-crossbones warnings. She squeezed the entire bottle down the drain, the gel clinging to the porcelain like translucent, chemical leeches. baking soda in drain
She walked down the hall, cup in hand. The bathroom sink was full. Not with water, but with foam. A pale, billowing, volcanic froth was spilling over the rim, dripping onto the toothbrush holder, puddling on the floor. And mixed within the bubbles, floating like a dire message in a bottle, were tiny, blackened shreds of something that looked like… melted plastic. Or maybe, just maybe, the charred edge of a photograph. A phantom scent, sharp and floral— lilies —cut
She set down her tea, picked up a sponge, and began to clean. The fizzing had finally stopped. The silence that followed was the real sound of something being washed away. She stood up, refusing to be defeated by plumbing
She knelt, her knees cracking on the linoleum, and peered into the sink. A single black hair, impossibly long, coiled on the surface of the stagnant water. Not hers. Hers was short and grey. This was dark, almost blue.
Eleanor felt a familiar prickle of heat climb her neck. This was the same feeling she’d had watching her husband, Paul, pack a suitcase last spring. The feeling of pouring logic and love and routine into a situation, only to have it all come bubbling back up, unchanged.