For Better or For Worse

I rolled my eyes as I washed the blood-soaked clothes in bleach. At least they were dark colors. The wearing of white had been abandoned months ago. I stretched my back. I wasn’t a kid anymore and still felt the two hours I’d scrubbed blood and remains off the front of our electric vehicle yesterday. I wasn’t looking forward to scrubbing it again today. But stepping into the garage, I found the car pristine.

“Hun?” I called out. “What happened last night?” The only response I heard was a groan from our bedroom. Jenny lay wrapped in the bedsheet, her head turned from the morning light.

I poked my head in. “Hun? The car’s spotless.”

Jenny groaned and pulled the sheet over her head. “I don’t feel so good.”

I winced at the smell wafting my way. “Who did you eat last night?”

She looked at me sheepishly. “You’re going to be one short at poker night.”

My eyes widened. “Ron?”

Jenny cocked her head. “Are you kidding? Ron eats pistachios all day. You know I have a tree nut allergy. “It was Herb.”

“You ate Herb? All of him?”

She put a hand on her stomach and groaned. “I know, but he was like a bag of chips. You can’t quit after just one.”

“But Herb weighed, like, 250. He never got off the couch.”

She nodded. “Which is where I found him—no stalking required. He was like tap and go for coffee.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be judgy. I’ve been eating nothing but night joggers for the past two weeks to lower my cholesterol. But waking up with that taste of granola and wheat germ is atrocious. I practically have to gargle tequila to get rid of it. There’s only so much a woman can take, Stan.” She smiled. “Last night was my cheat day. Doesn’t hurt to binge on something greasy every once in a while.”

“Sweetheart, you can’t keep eating our friends.”

“Was he that great a friend, Stan?”

“Kind of. Yeah.”

“Herb hasn’t returned our lawnmower in like three months. And still, his lawn looks like crap. You could wallpaper a room with all the HOA letters he’s gotten.”

“That’s not an edible offense.”

“Well, it is in my book.” She rubbed her belly. “I’m going to need some prune juice. Maybe I’ll go to the gym this morning. See if I can get things moving along. Know what I mean?” She smacked her lips. “Eww. I might need some tequila.” She belched. “What did that guy live on, gas station burritos?”

I kissed her and dressed for work. I held off mentioning I might have a viable cure. False hope could send her spiraling back into the gloom and doom she’d once suffered. On the other hand, if I cured her, it would most certainly return.

Six months ago, we were in a bad place. No one had ever accused Jenny of being bubbly. She complained even when things were going her way. But over the years, her moods had darkened. She’d become angry and dissatisfied with everything from our house to her job, her siblings, my parents, the cost of milk—you name it. Worst of all, she’d pivoted away from her dream of starting a family.

She also recognized the change, and together, we sought everything the medical establishment had to offer. Nothing helped, but I wasn’t giving up. I’m a pharmacologist by trade, and my research focuses on mood disorders. Maybe that’s why I was so attracted to Jenny when we first met. I’d joined a pharmaceutical company in the hopes of developing treatments, but the administration had steered me down an alternate, morally questionable pathway—recreational mood enhancers for the general public, something to compete with the THC dispensaries.

My team’s hard work produced a compound that stimulated endorphin release, but it was still two years of testing away from release. Jenny needed something now. She liked strawberry smoothies, and I brought her one home every day for two weeks, mixed with one extra ingredient. But it turned out that, in addition to releasing feel-good endorphins, the drug also camps out in the lateral hypothalamus, the brain’s location for appetite, and a very particular one.

Okay, fine. In hindsight, perhaps the compound needed a little refinement before I secretly drugged my wife. And admittedly, when I discovered her feasting on a Big Box delivery guy she’d lured into our living room, I conceded that the FDA’s stance on testing protocols might have a point. But I will say, her mood did improve. When she pulled her head out of his chest cavity to look up at me, I saw unadulterated joy in her eyes, and my heart melted. However, we did have to blow our savings to replace that couch and the carpeting—so much for that Caribbean cruise in the Fall.

I suspected that the dietary urges would fade once the drug cleared her system. They did not. But then, all drugs have a few inconvenient side effects. This one simply had nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, blurry vision, and neighbor loss, as a touch of cannibalism can occur.

I thought about the cure this morning as I drove to work, feeling confident in the formula. Then something occurred to me. Jenny hadn’t asked to be cured—not once. But people couldn’t keep disappearing around our neighborhood. That was out of the question. Sooner or later, there’d be rumors, and our home value would drop.

On the other hand, Jenny has never seemed happier. Maybe that’s why the cure was still locked in my desk three weeks after I’d finished it. Besides, how would I administer it? Another smoothie would look suspicious, and now she refuses to eat anything that doesn’t have a social security number.

I workshopped the dilemma in my head as I drove home that evening. She does miss the taste of sweet and sour chicken. She’s mentioned that more than once. It’s decided, then. Giving her the cure is the right thing. But what if she finds out? What will she do? Maybe she already suspects. My eyes widened. Crap! She’s fed me sweet and sour chicken like four times this week.

With the cure in my pocket, I quietly opened our front door and slipped over to the liquor cabinet. I swirled the bottle and screwed the cap back on with a smile. That woman does like her tequila. “Hun, I’m home.”

Jenny rushed into the living room and bear-hugged me. I felt her smell my neck as she kissed it.

“Honey, I’m pregnant!”

—Oh, shit.