Donna manages to grab a chair for me just before my legs collapse under me. She instructs me to put my head between my legs, and then she goes all nurse on me, grabbing one of the automatic blood pressure cuffs.

“Did you eat lunch?” she asks me.

“Uh-huh,” I manage.

“You look queasy. Let me take your blood pressure.”

Donna insists on wrapping the blood pressure cuff around my arm, even though I’m sure my blood pressure is fine. It’s not a blood pressure issue. I’m just scared she knows that I’m a convicted killer. That’s all, sheesh.

I sit there while Donna watches over me. The blood pressure cuff tightens around my left biceps, then the pressure eases up, then it tightens again, then the cycle repeats another two times. Donna swears under her breath, but finally, we manage to get a blood pressure reading.

“Whoa,” she says.

That is not the response you want to hear from somebody after any kind of medical test. “What?”

“Your blood pressure is high,” she says. “Really high.”

“It is?”

“Yes. What was it at your last doctor’s appointment?”

Truthfully, I don’t go to the doctor very often. I used to go to my ob-gyn more frequently prior to getting my tubes tied, but given that my childbearing years are over, it doesn’t seem like there’s much point to it. The last time I went to any kind of doctor was about three years ago, which is ironic since I work in a hospital and I’m around doctors all the time.

“Well, I’m feeling anxious,” I say, and it’s not any better now that I know my blood pressure is high. “That’s probably why.”

“It’s pretty high, Millie. You should call your doctor.”

Great. One more thing to put on my plate. “Is it that big a deal?”

“No,” she says. And before I have a chance to relax, she adds, “I mean, not if you don’t care if you have a heart attack or a stroke.”

That’s ridiculous. She is completely overreacting. I’m not old enough to have a heart attack or a stroke. And I’m in pretty good shape. I don’t need to deal with this blood pressure issue right now. Obviously, I’m just stressed out from the move. And last night, I got woken up again by that scraping sound coming from somewhere within the house, although thankfully it stopped before I had a chance to consider investigating.

I’m sure once everything settles down, my blood pressure will get better too.

SIXTEEN

After dinner tonight, Enzo helps me clear the table. He’s pretty good about doing stuff like that, or at least he’s gotten good about it after several snarky comments over the years. But now, he’s great. He brings all the plates and glasses into the kitchen without even being told.

“Another delicious dinner,” he declares as he drops a couple of plates into the dishwasher.

I look down at the plate in my hand. It’s Nico’s plate, and it’s hardly been touched. I didn’t feel like fielding any complaints tonight, so I went with the tried and true macaroni and cheese. It’s got his three favorite things: noodles, butter, and lots of cheese. And usually, he eats like a horse. Between him and Enzo, I’m lucky one of them doesn’t take a bite out of me.

“Is Nico okay?” I ask. “He didn’t eat his mac and cheese.”

“Maybe he had big lunch?”

“Maybe…”

“Maybe he is sick of macaroni and cheese?”

“Never.”

He grins at me. “Maybe he’s been eating Little Kiwi’s flies.”

That horrible praying mantis has molted again. I have discovered every time it molts, it gets a little bit bigger. And it’s already way too big, in my opinion. But Nico loves that insect. He asked to bring it to the dinner table last night after he came back from doing chores for the Lowells. That was a hard no.

I look down at the plate, resisting the urge to eat the leftover macaroni myself. I don’t need the calories though, especially since I’m now having health issues. Although I still don’t believe that I need to see a doctor. I looked it up, and automatic blood pressure cuffs are notoriously inaccurate.

“By the way,” I say. “When I was at work today, this nurse checked my blood pressure while I was all keyed up over something, and it was apparently really high. She was making such a big deal out of it.”

Enzo is usually sympathetic when I tell him stories about my day at work. But this time, he frowns at me. “Why is your blood pressure high?”

“I don’t know.” I scrape the mac and cheese into the garbage disposal and stick the plate in the dishwasher. “Hey, let’s get the dishes going.”

“But the dishwasher is not full.”

“Yes, but Martha is coming tomorrow, so I want to get these dishes washed and put away before she comes.”

He scratches his chin. “I do not understand. Why do we have to clean the dishes to get ready for the cleaning person? And before dinner, you were vacuuming.”

“I just want to make sure everything is clean for her.”

“But she is coming to clean!” He shakes his head. “Maybe this is why your blood pressure is high, yes?”

“Whatever,” I mumble. “It wasn’t that high.”

“You said ‘really high.’”

“No, I said pretty high.” I try to push past him to get to the dishwasher. “Can we please get these dishes clean for tomorrow?”

Enzo reaches into the cabinet that contains the dishwasher detergent. He fills up the cup, then slams it closed and presses the button to start the cleaning cycle. When he’s done, he turns to look at me, his muscular arms folded across his chest. “Okay, now we do not have dishwasher excuse. We can talk about your blood pressure.”

“Oh God.” I roll my eyes. “Look, I wouldn’t have said anything if I thought you were going to make such a big thing about it.”

“Why wouldn’t I make a big thing about it?” he retorts. “You are my wife, and I want you to be healthy and live forever.”

“That’s… sweet, I guess,” I admit. “But you’re making too big of a deal out of this. I was just stressed out, and that’s why my blood pressure was high.”

“Fine. Then you go to a doctor and get it checked out.”

“But—”

“You never go to the doctor, Millie,” he points out.

“Neither do you. And you’re even older than I am.”

He looks like he’s going to protest, but then his shoulders sag. “Fine. We both go see doctors. Okay?”