Good Bones
Illustration by Brittain Peck He didn’t tell me about the cemetery. Three-bedroom, two baths, Craftsman-style, yes. Quarter acre. I’d pictured a yard with a tire swing, not tombstones. I stood on the deck with my hands on my hips, bottom lip between my teeth. My morning coffee soured in my stomach. It was an old cemetery, mossy and uneven. I began to count the worn, crooked stones, trying to get a sense of how many were back there. I stopped when I realized I didn’t want to know.
I could hear the Realtor’s effervescent laugh through the sliding glass doors. Doyle was being charming. He probably didn’t realize she only laughed on commission. She knew she had him. His heart was set on this house and she knew I would do whatever he wanted. I was lucky to have him.
I inhaled the sweet, suburban air. How could there be so much of it? All clean and fresh, like velvet in my lungs. For so long I’d been set on staying in a city with air that smelled like hot garbage, air that my body rejected. I hadn’t taken a deep breath in eight years.
About six months ago, right after Doyle proposed, I was standing on the subway platform flipping through a month-old copy of Time Out New York when a man came up behind me with a knife and cut my face. I felt a sting unfurl on my cheek. My blood was warm, I had to spit it from my mouth. I brought my hand up to explore. I won’t forgive what I felt.
In the hospital, Doyle kissed my stitches and told me I was beautiful. He said it was time to leave the city. He said everything would be fine. He said, “You’ll see.”
I turned around for another look at the house. I saw potential. Liters of paint. Window treatments. Area rugs. Landscaping. An herb garden I could defend from rabbits. A porch swing. A dog, maybe. A big fluffy one, with a tongue long and pink as strawberry taffy. A home gym in the half-finished basement. I could do laundry whenever I wanted, no quarters required. Doyle offered to convert the dining room into an office. My office. I could frame my diplomas and hang them above my desk like a psychiatrist. All these things I could see. A home.
“Joanie?” Doyle said, poking his head outside.
“Coming.”
I used the move as an opportunity to purge myself of stuff. I interrogated everything I owned.
“Blue Velvet Mini Skirt, I bought you at a stoop sale in Queens, have I ever worn you? Is that a stain? Do you even fit?”
“Box of Linty Ticket Stubs, how much sentimental value do you really hold? Hmm?”
“Souvenir Shot Glasses, what do you have to say for yourselves?”
I went through my things one by one and asked myself if they brought me joy. The answer was always no. I wasn’t sure if that was
