The Third Tuesday

You set the flowers down. Left side of the table. Same spot.

"Hey."

"Hey."

You mess with the blinds. Up. Down. Stop at three slats. Always three.

"How was your week?"

"Okay."

You pull out the notebook. Blue cover. Dog-eared corners. You write the date. Pen squeaks.

"Sleep?"

"Some."

"Dreams?"

"Don't remember."

You nod. Write something else. I watch your hand. Steady today.

"So. The window. See anything?"

"Tree's leafing out."

"Yeah? What kind?"

"Dunno. Green kind."

You almost smile. Don't.

You shift in your chair. Knee starts bouncing. You stop it with your hand.

"Sarah left."

Silence sits there between us.

"Took the kids. Found the notebooks in the garage. Read 'em." You rub your thumb over the spiral edge. "Asked who Clara was."

I look at the tulips. Yellow again. They're already drooping. Tulips do that. Pretty for a day, then they just give up.

"You know I can't come back after today," you say. Quiet. "This was never— I made you up. Your name's Arthur. You've been catatonic three years. Car wreck. Your daughter didn't make it. I built Clara so you'd have somewhere soft to go while we tried to pull you back."

You reach across the table. Put your hand on mine. Palm's warm. Damp.

"Arthur. It's time."

I don't pull away. I look at our hands. Your knuckle's got that scar. The white one.

"Those tulips," I say.

You go still.

"You bring 'em 'cause first time you walked into my office—you were the patient then, Mark—you saw yellow tulips on my desk. Said they looked like your girl's raincoat. The bright yellow one she wore that morning."

Your hand tightens. Not comfort. Fear.

"I'm Dr. Evans," you say. Voice thin.

"No," I say. "You're not."

I pull my hand back slow. Don't want to scare you.

"Your name's Mark. You came to me after Lisa left. Built this whole thing in your head where you're the doctor and I'm the broken one. I've been playing along eleven months. Waiting for you to remember."

You stand up fast. Chair scrapes.

"This is—"

"The bird last week was a robin. Red chest. You weren't here to see it. You were in the ER. Pills and vodka. They pumped your stomach."

You stare at me. Face doing that thing where it can't decide what to feel first.

"You fold the paper after unwrapping the flowers," I say. "Neat square. Take it home. 'Cause your daughter—Emily—she taught you origami. Made you that crane. You kept it on your dashboard until the crash."

You sit down hard. Like your legs quit.

"The blinds," you say. "Three slats."

"Three years," I say.

Outside, a bird calls. Once.

You look at the tulips. One's completely bent over now. Head on the table.

"Lisa took the kids."

"Yeah."

"She read the notebooks."

"Saw you writing to a ghost. Thought it was me you were talking to."

You pick up the limp tulip. Stem snaps in your fingers. You don't seem to notice.

"I just wanted—" You stop. Shake your head. "I just wanted someone to sit with me for an hour. Didn't know how to ask."

I nod.

You look at me. Really look. Not through me like I'm a character. At me.

"Your name's not Clara."

"No."

"What is it?"

I could tell you. But some things stay folded.

You stand up. Leave the brown paper on the chair. Walk to the door. Hand on the knob.

"Next third Tuesday," you say. Still not looking back. "I'll bring different flowers."

"Okay."

You leave.

I sit there. Count to sixty. Stand up. Straighten your chair. Pick up the dead tulip. Toss it.

Then I take the folded paper from your chair. Smooth it out. Fold it again—my way, not yours. Slip it in my pocket.

Just in case.