Try

The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was white. It was all white with beige furniture, and Mark Bordeaux hated it. He often walked around the place and ruminated on how much he hated the blandness. He wished for some color, but he knew this was for the best. Each morning, he took breakfast with his wife, Jill.

“There’s a man in our mulch pile,” she said dismissively one morning while pouring their coffee. “I met him… last Tuesday, I think, but I forgot to mention it.” Mark took a bit of toast and chewed slowly.

“A man in the mulch pile?” he asked, choosing his words with care.

“Well, his aura,” said Jill. “You know what I mean.”

Mark did not know what she meant. He rarely did these days. He tried to engage anyway.

“What’s he like?”

“He seems lovely,” said Jill, “but it’s always so hard to tell. He says he would like to meet you.”

“Is he… alive?” asked Mark after a long pause. Jill rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, Mark. He’s alive. Don’t get weird on me.”

“Just asking,” mumbled Mark as he buttered another piece of toast. They said nothing more. Jill excused herself, leaving him alone. He peered through the window over the kitchen sink and onto the mulch pile in the backyard. He shook his head. It was getting too much.

When Jill returned, she practically jogged through the kitchen. She and Mark grunted goodbyes, and she left for an early meeting. Mark scrubbed the kitchen clean, arranging everything just right.

“We should get help,” said Jill after dinner one evening.

“Help with?” asked Mark. He wanted to hear her admit something. Anything.

“Mark,” she sighed. She was always sighing. “We need help… with us. How long do you want to go on like this?”

“OK,” said Mark after a long pause. “OK.” Jill smiled and hugged him.

They settled on a consultant that Jill’s friends all raved about. They described him as a “life changer” and “better than prescriptions.” His office was advertised as being just outside of town, but that was a stretch.

Mark hated leaving the city. Over the years, it had swallowed up several small towns, leaving a mismatched grid of streets that didn’t line up properly. The result was a spider’s web five and six-way intersections. “It’s like no one ever considered that someone might have to drive here someday,” grumbled Mark. Jill patted his arm.

He relaxed once they cleared the city limits. They were driving toward a shining monolith in the distance. Jill stared out the window, smiling. She waved furtively from time to time when she thought he wasn’t looking. Mark frowned as he looked at the broad, empty plain stretching around them.

“Someone must know something that we don’t to build all the way out here,” said Mark.

“Just be polite,” said Jill. “Maybe he likes solitude.”

The building was round like a silo. There seemed to be an observation deck on top, but they couldn’t be sure. They found a parking spot near the door and entered. There was no help desk, but a directory sent them to the fifth floor. “Shall we?” asked Mark. Jill beamed and slipped her arm into his.

They stepped off the elevator into a long, curved hall. It was lined with offices along the outside, but the interior space was a large conference room that housed an art expo. Everyone was painting unnatural shapes on a vast canvas. The instructor spilled praise on the group. “What heart!” he cried. Mark turned to Jill to roll his eyes but found that she stood misty-eyed in the doorway. He touched her arm, and she followed him down the hall. They found the correct office number and knocked.

“Come in,” rumbled a voice behind the door. The office was empty except for two chairs facing an enormous desk that held a small calendar, a legal pad, and a pen.

“I’m Roland,” said the counselor, extending a hand. His handshake was firm, but his hands were soft and smooth.

“I’m Jill, we spoke on the phone, and this is my husband, Mark,” said Jill. Mark nodded but remained silent.

“It’s lovely to meet you both. Allow me one moment…”

Mark and Jill took a seat in the chair as Roland straightened the pen, the calendar, and the legal pad. He sat down slowly, closed his eyes, then exhaled for a long time. Jill smiled and squeezed Mark’s hand.

“OK,” said Roland at last. “Before we start I must remind you that I am not a licensed professional. Anything I say is suggestive rather than prescriptive. You should think of me as a friend, not an authority. Now, why are you here?”

Mark squeezed Jill’s hand, feeling that she should set the pace. But she didn’t speak. She and Roland both stared at Mark. I guess I’ll go first, then, he thought.

“Jill and I have differences,” he said, “She sees things that I don’t… in a way that I don’t see them.”

Jill nodded.

“People often see things differently,” said Roland softly.

“OK, what I mean is, she sees things that aren’t even there.” Jill sat stoically. Mark had expected her to tense, but she didn’t.

“Have you ever tried to see them?” asked Roland. Mark flinched. What kind of question was that? Why would he try to see things that don’t exist?

“They aren’t there,” repeated Mark. “I keep catching her whispering to things around the house. On the way here she kept waving at the emptiness around us.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but have you ever tried?” asked Roland. From the corner of his eye, Mark could see Jill shake her head. The question bothered him.

“Well, no. I guess not,” said Mark. “I look where she points, but guess what… there’s nothing there.” His tone was sharper than he meant it to be.

“I’m just trying to help,” said Roland.

“I’m not the crazy one,” snapped Mark, instantly regretting it but unable to be calm. Roland looked at him sadly, Jill stared at the floor.

“I think we’re done here,” said Mark, “thanks for your time.”

He stomped out of the office, past the art class and onto the elevator. He stood holding the door until Jill entered. She looked sad, worse than before the session.

“What a waste,” said Mark as they pulled out of the parking lot. “A lot of good it did to work on my inability to see things that aren’t even there.” Jill stared at him, her mouth opened and then closed but no words came out. The base of her throat flushed, and she turned to the window. They drove on in silence. When they slipped back into the city through the maze of intersections, Mark began to relax. He put a hand on Jill’s thigh, but she stared out the window.

They entered the house in silence. Mark had everything in its place. Jill dropped her coat on the floor beside the hook and locked herself in the guest room. Mark didn’t see her again that night. He laid awake most of the night trying to figure out how to fix what went wrong. Roland’s words haunted him. Had he ever really tried to see things her way?

What a stupid question.

Mark ate breakfast alone the next morning. He heard the shower running in the guest room. A few minutes later Jill’s car eased onto the street. Mark picked up the phone and called off work, then pulled on his gardening clothes and marched to the mulch pile. A fine mist was falling, and everything glistened in the muted light. The wet earth smelled of life and decay. The scent of the mulch, acrid and rich, pulled Mark to his knees. He began to root through the crushed wood and leaves. His fingers turned red and then brown with residue, but he didn’t stop until he had overturned every inch of the pile, looking and listening.