The Help
The ceiling fan turned in slow circles above the bed, and I lay beneath it counting the blades as they passed. One. Two.
Three. The rhythm was steady and indifferent, the way mechanical things always are, and somewhere in the repetition of it I found the first real stillness I had felt in months. It was past midnight.
The house was quiet. Greg was asleep beside me or pretending to be, his breathing too measured, too deliberate for someone who had actually drifted off. I did not turn toward him.
I did not speak. I stared at the fan and let the blades carve the silence into something I could hold. My name is Diane Mercer.
I am fifty two years old and I live, or I lived at the time, in Carmel, Indiana, in a house I had paid half the mortgage on for just over a year. I had been married twice. The first marriage lasted twenty years and ended not with an explosion but with a long, colorless erosion that left me sitting alone one night in the kitchen of a house I no longer recognized, wondering when exactly everything had slipped away.
I told myself afterward that I would not make the same mistake again. I told myself I would not confuse silence with stability, or accommodation with love, or the absence of fighting with the presence of peace. And yet there I was.
Lying in the dark, counting fan blades, because my stepdaughter had called me the help at my own dinner table and my husband had told me I had no right to correct her. It had happened a few hours earlier, on a Sunday evening, one week before Thanksgiving. My sister Patricia had come over with her usual green bean casserole, the one she made every year with too many crispy onions piled on top.
She would never change the recipe and I would never stop teasing her about it. Her husband Ron was in the living room switching between the Colts game and some hunting show, his feet propped on the ottoman I had picked out myself from a catalog the previous spring. My son Ethan had driven up from Fishers after work, still wearing his boots, smelling faintly of motor oil and November air, and he had kissed me on the cheek when he came through the door without my asking for it.
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