Inside the O'Briens by Lisa Genova

Ironsides. Rosie’s a morning person and usually can’t last past ten, but sometimes she has insomnia. Sometimes Joe will come home at midnight to find her ironing. Rosie irons everything—­clothes, underwear, sheets, towels, doilies, and every so often the lace curtains. The ironing board is a permanent fixture in the living room, as much a part of the decor as Joe’s chair and Yaz’s dog bed. If she’s not ironing, she’s lying on the couch, snuggled under a blanket, watching QVC or Oprah. Rosie has at least ten years of The Oprah Winfrey Show recorded on VHS tapes. Sometimes she’s asleep in that same scenario, the TV light flickering on her angelic face. But the light in the living room windows isn’t flickering. The overhead light is on.
    Joe turns the cold brass knob of the front door and pushes it open. The foyer light illuminates the bottom steps of the stairwell leading to the second- and third-floor units, but aside from that, the front of the house is dark and quiet. Joe closes the door, turns the deadbolt, and tosses his keys onto the small wooden table to the left of the door. They land at the feet of the Virgin Mary.
    Above Mary, a white marble font is fixed to the wall, filled with holy water. Rosie blesses herself and anyone in arm’s length every time she leaves or enters the house. She refreshes the water every Sunday. Joe berates himself for forgetting to anoint his Pedroia shirt this morning before he left for roll call. Maybe that’s why the Sox lost. He’ll be sure to bless his Ortiz shirt for Game 3.
    He steps onto the threshold of the living room and thenstops in his tracks. Rosie is up, but she’s not ironing or lying down on the couch, watching QVC or Oprah. The TV is off. She’s sitting cross-legged, like a small child, her knitted ivory afghan draped over her shoulders and around her lap, holding an empty wineglass with both hands. An empty bottle of Chardonnay sits on the coffee table next to a full bottle of tomato-red nail polish. He notices her shiny red toenails peeking out from under the afghan.
    She’s still wearing eye makeup and her gold cross necklace. She’s not in pajamas. She smiles when she sees him, but he can tell it’s a lie, and the heavy expression in her eyes turns the bones in Joe’s legs to Jell-O.
    â€œWho?” he asks.
    Rosie takes a deep breath.
    â€œAmy called.”
    â€œWhere are the kids?”
    â€œThe kids are fine.”
    The kids are fine. Rosie’s face is still unfamiliar, wrong. Amy called. Tommy’s wife.
    Oh God.
    â€œWhat is it? Where’s Tommy?”
    â€œTommy’s home. Nothing happened to Tommy. She called about you.”
    â€œWhat about me?”
    Joe’s heart is racing but it doesn’t know where to, as if he’s searching the rooms of a house he’s never been in, frantic, not knowing what he’s looking for.
    â€œShe said Tommy’s worried about you. He’s worried something’s wrong.”
    â€œWith me? What’s he worried about?”
    Rosie pauses and lifts her empty wineglass. She stops before it reaches her lips, realizing she already drained it, and lowers it back to her lap.
    â€œHe’s worried you might have a drinking problem.”
    â€œThat’s crazy.”
    She stares at him.
    â€œJesus, Rosie, I don’t. You know I don’t. I’m not a drinker. I’m not my mother.”
    He can’t help but see the irony in the empty bottle of wine in front of her, but he resists the urge to make a crack, to deflect this unjust accusation by attacking her. Meanwhile, he’s dying for that Corona.
    â€œThen is it drugs?” she asks.
    â€œWhat?” he asks, his voice too high and too loud, making him sound guilty when what he really feels is outrage. “What would make him even think such a ridiculous thing?”
    He waits. Whatever it is, she’s thinking it, too. What the fuck