Left

by Tamar Ossowski

  “If we have to stay in that house then I am going back to work and your mother can take care of the baby during the day.”

  “No.” He was doing laps around a series of blocks with no traffic signals.

  The third time they passed the same street sign, she turned back to look at Matilda, who was snoring peacefully. “She’s asleep.”

  They drove up to a stop sign and he put his head back and closed his eyes. Therese reached over and stroked his knee. As he arched his back, she slid her hand beneath his shirt and drew circles on the skin above his belt buckle. She lifted herself and started to move towards him, but Matilda stirred and he pushed her hand away.

  “There’s no one here. It’s the middle of the night.”

  “No.” He straightened and flipped on the turn signal. The loud automated click made her feel like she was trapped inside a clock. She turned her head and stared out the window.

  They drove home in quiet. It was late and none of the homes they passed had lights on anymore. The whole world was asleep and she felt like an intruder. “Your mother can at least watch the baby for a few hours.”

  “We will find someone else to take care of her. Not my mother.”

  They drove past a park that during the day was filled with children but was now empty and quiet. Suddenly she wished she could run out of the car and find the swing set. She wanted Tim to push her as high as he could and she wanted to feel the cold night air wrap around her as she went up higher and higher. She opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke first.

  “I’m serious about this, Therese. I will kill you if I find out you involved my mother in any of this.”

  She didn’t respond, just closed her eyes and tilted her head back. For a minute, she thought about telling him.

  That she was suffocating.

  It was a heavy feeling that interrupted her sleep and caused her to catch her breath so that all she could think about was getting out of the little red house she had worked so hard to get inside of. Now that the secret of Barbara’s rape had been told, there was no reason to stay. She could not bear to watch Tim cook and clean and plump the pillows behind Barbara’s head. She turned away when he brought her snacks and sat with her to watch her favorite television programs, like he was paying back a debt he thought he owed.

  She left newspapers on his nightstand with apartments for rent circled in Matilda’s red crayons. She tried talking to him about it at night, but he got into the habit of sleeping so deeply underneath his pillows that when she turned to him, all she could see was a mound of bed linens. In the mornings, when he kissed her goodbye, she nuzzled his neck and whispered how wonderful it would be to have a place of their own. He punished her by ignoring her for the rest of the day and eating his dinner on a tray next to his mother. When she woke, gasping in the middle of the night, she would reach toward his side of the bed, but he was always gone. She didn’t need to look for him because she already knew that he was outside in the shed in the backyard.

  Turning her focus on Barbara, she encouraged Matilda to play in front of the television, blocking Barbara’s view but all it did was make Barbara holler louder at the screen, which made Matilda cry and run out of the room. She poured milk down the drain at night so that there was none left for Barbara’s coffee in the morning and opened magic markers and tossed them into the wash. None of it worked because Tim replaced the milk and rewashed the stained laundry.

  To try to make amends, Tim allowed her to return to work after he arranged for a neighbor they both trusted to watch Matilda. It infuriated Therese that all her hard-earned money was going to a babysitter when Barbara was perfectly capable of watching Matilda for free. Weeks passed, and, although she tried to put it out of her mind, she was consumed. Regardless of how creatively she plotted, the large lump bolted to the couch blocked their escape. There were two options—distract or eliminate. So Therese started buying her extra cartons of cigarettes.

  It started innocently enough, but before long, Barbara began expecting the offering, stretching out her hand every afternoon. Therese delightedly emptied ashtrays that were filling at a much faster rate than before. Tim began to notice, too, and asked Barbara if she was ­smoking more than usual. She barked at him to keep quiet and Therese reminded him that his mother was under a great deal of stress because she wasn’t used to having a toddler underfoot all the time. Maybe, she said again, it would be better for all of them if they moved out. He lifted the newspaper he was reading until it covered his head and she smiled, satisfied.

  Weeks passed and cartons of cigarettes came and went, but all that changed was the darkening of the stains covering the walls. Whatever needed to happen was not happening fast enough and the little money Therese had managed to save for their new home was slowly dwindling to nothing. Therese decided she needed a new plan, and it came to her early one morning when she woke, gagging. It was what everyone needed to feel complete.

  To be part of a set.

  They had not seen each other in months, so Joan seemed surprised when Therese called and suggested lunch. She was tired of standing outside of movie theaters, lingering around park benches, and sitting through poetry readings at the library in search of a companion for Barbara. Lunch with Joan at the hospital cafeteria was her last resort, and she looked around to see if there was anyone she might have missed since sitting down.

  “Things have been kind of rough for me.” Joan took a bite out of the sandwich she had cut into four triangles.

  “What’s going on?” Therese eyed an elderly woman sitting three tables away.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Who is that woman?” Therese asked, tossing her head to the right.

  “Bessie? She comes here all the time. I think she’s a widow.”

  “Really?” Therese slapped a packet of sugar against the edge of the table.

  “Why are you so interested?”

  Therese shrugged. “No reason. Just curious.”

  “Not sure you two would have much in common.”

  “Why’s that?” She ripped open the packet and poured it into her tea.

  “Because she had a stroke six months ago and can’t talk.”

  Therese muttered something under her breath.

  “What was that?” Joan asked, breaking a large chocolate chip cookie in half.

  “Nothing. Never mind. So how are you?”

  “I’m great.” She pursed her lips like she was sucking something sour. “It’s one thing living with my mother, but now that she’s invited my aunt to live with us, it’s just too much. I can’t stand it.”

  Therese felt heat creep into her face. It started in the back of her neck and quickly moved in around her ears, and she recognized the sensation immediately.

  Shame.

  For allowing herself even a lingering moment of doubt when what she should have done was trust her instincts. She folded a napkin and used it to fan herself. “What’s she like?”

  “Awful. I can’t take much more of her.”

  Therese took a deep breath and despite the plastic wrap smell of the cafeteria, felt invigorated.

  “Why don’t you tell me more about your aunt?” She reached over and took the other half of the chocolate chip cookie from Joan’s hand.

  Aunt Olive made her appearances at the little red house in the mornings when Joan dropped her off on her way to work. At first, Barbara was furious at having someone invade her home, but Therese explained that Aunt Olive had nowhere else to go and that it would only be temporary. It was a favor she could not deny a dear friend. Slowly, Barbara’s objections began to fade and Therese watched confidently as her plan fell into place.

  Aunt Olive was so tiny, she easily fit onto the couch beside Barbara. She made herself useful by offering to hold whatever snack Barbara was consuming in a bowl on her lap. She didn’t talk or eat much, but Therese quickly discovered what it was about her that Joan found so displeasing. Her laugh started up high in her nose and then continued like a sire
n wailing throughout every corner of the house. She started packing wads of cotton into her pockets so she could stuff them into her ears whenever Aunt Olive was around.

  Even more annoying than the laugh was her unmitigated talent at leaving drinking glasses wherever she went. Therese would find them on the sink top in the bathroom or displayed in an odd artistic arrangement on the windowsill. Each would have three sips left of whatever it was that struck Aunt Olive’s fancy at the moment, and they propagated around the house like rabbits. Therese started buying red plastic cups because she got tired of watching Tim wash dishes. They were everywhere and reminded her of overturned Santa’s hats. At the end of the day, she swept them into a bag that she took out to the trash. She pressed the bag down hard, listening to the crunch of the plastic, reminding herself that each filled garbage can brought her that much closer to her goal. She stuffed cotton into her ears and plastic cups into the trashcan and then she waited for the moment to present itself.

  Her patience was wearing thin and soon she wondered if the time would ever come when she could make her move. In the meantime, it was Matilda who was enjoying herself the most. She loved playing with Aunt Olive’s plastic cups. She stacked them into tall towers, which she then kicked down with her foot. Each time they toppled onto the floor, the sound would echo throughout the house. One day Therese became so angry, she could no longer contain her irritation. Her words shot out in small, perfectly timed explosions.

  “Stop it right now. Just stop. Do you hear me?”

  Matilda’s lower lip dropped and began to tremble. Her eyes got round and watery, and before Therese could say another word, she opened her mouth and let out a scream that splattered against the walls and made Tim come running out of the kitchen to see what had happened. Matilda ran to him and wrapped herself around his leg, but he stood straight and stiff, as though he didn’t know what to do with his arms.

  “What’s going on?” Tim asked looking at Therese and then at Matilda, who was howling even louder. He tried to stroke the top of her head but his hand moved like it was made of clay, and the gesture was heavy and awkward. They both looked at Therese, waiting for her to fix things. Matilda’s face was pink and swollen, and Tim’s hand was firmly clamped down on her scalp.

  They were lost with no idea how to find their way. Something within her cracked. She let out a deep throaty laugh that sounded like a howl and was so ear piercing that even Barbara got up from the couch to come see what was happening.

  “What’s going on in here?” she asked, her voice graveled from an afternoon’s worth of cigarettes.

  “Nothing, Ma, I’ll take care of it.” Tim peeled Matilda’s hands off his knee and stood in the middle of the three of them.

  “We need to get out of here, Tim. You need to tell her we are leaving.”

  “Timmy you can’t let her act this way. Tell her to shut her mouth.” Barbara pointed at Therese and then crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  But Tim didn’t move.

  She wasn’t sure how long they stood that way, trapped in some oddly perverse triangle. Most of the time she could keep it at bay, but at this moment the image of the father she had never known poked so hard at her, it became difficult to breathe. She shook her head and closed her eyes, desperately willing Tim to stand by her side, but still he did nothing.

  She wanted to scream, to yell at the top of her lungs that she needed him to choose her because the thought of not being important enough was too much for her to bear. He stood motionless, frozen in indecision. She turned away and told herself it was because she felt pity for him, but she knew it was more. She couldn’t bear to see whom he would have chosen if just one more minute of time had been permitted to pass.

  She walked toward the pile of scattered cups and got down on the floor to collect them. Soon Matilda was beside her, matching her movements, and when she looked up, Tim and Barbara were gone. They didn’t speak about it, and even if they had, she would not have known how to explain herself; she didn’t completely understand the feeling of betrayal that had tucked itself inside of her. They made dinner and ate and carried on as if nothing had happened, but when Therese woke in the early hours of the morning, Tim was gone. She knew he was in the shed, and when he came back to bed she pretended she was asleep. He tiptoed around in the dark, pretending not to wake her.

  The next morning at work, she tried to distract herself. She ended up in the storage closet, searching for pens. The dust in the room clung to her skin, making everything she touched feel dry and brittle. She sneezed and continued rummaging through boxes looking for supplies. Her search proved mindnumbing, and once again she was thinking about Tim. They didn’t say much to each other after what had happened, and she replayed the events of the day in her head, but mostly, she thought about triangles.

  A box slipped off the shelf and she kicked it hard, leaving a satisfying dent in the corner. Dusting herself off, she remembered she forgot to pack lunch, so she gave up on her pen search and went to look for something to eat in her desk drawer.

  He was standing in the office when she came in, looking like he had just pulled over for directions. She walked toward him, covering her surprise with a cough and trying to ignore the obvious amusement the situation provided for Maryann, the secretary who sat behind her.

  “You left your sandwich on the counter at home. I thought you might like this better.” The plastic grocery bag he opened made a crinkling sound like wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Tim pushed a container of food toward her. “Here.”

  She didn’t need to open it to know what was inside. Baked ziti, still warm from the oven. Her favorite—a peace offering. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” He crumpled the bag into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket and stood with his hands at his side.

  It suddenly occurred to her that other than dropping her off, he had never come inside. “This is where I work.”

  He nodded and looked around. Maryann stopped typing. Her expression sent the tiniest little sparkle down Therese’s arm. “This is Tim.”

  It took a few moments for Maryann to reset her lips, but once she did, she smiled. “Hello, Tim.”

  “Tim was just bringing me some lunch,” Therese said.

  “Isn’t that sweet.” Her pretty manicured fingers perched over the typewriter keys, calculating when next to strike.

  “I have to get to work,” Tim said, nudging the container of food closer to Therese. “Bye.” He nodded in Maryann’s direction.

  Therese went to the window, watching as he walked to his car. Before he got in, he looked up and waved. She waved back quickly, and then walked back to her desk. She eyed the container of food, trying to ignore the pangs of hunger that poked at her like an angry mosquito. There was something more pressing to which she needed to attend. She swiveled her chair so that she was facing Maryann, whose smile now stretched expansively across her face.

  “That’s your Tim then, is it?”

  “Yes,” Therese said. She tilted her head to the right, softened the arch of her eyebrows, and parted her lips just like she had practiced all her life.

  Then she waited.

  The air moved differently.

  Therese noticed it the moment she walked up the path, but all she could think about was getting inside. About seeing Leah and emptying herself of what she was carrying. She thought about ringing the doorbell, but she still had Leah’s key on her keychain, so she used it. Something big and unformed and angry vibrated inside of her and she tried to ignore the buzzing sound it made inside her ears.

  “Back already?” Leah called from the hallway. She rushed toward the door, wearing a man’s shirt splattered with paint, and as much as Therese tried to push it out of her mind, she knew.

  Something had changed.

  For a minute, Leah hesitated, and her smile disappeared. Then she wiped her hands along the shirt’s length, leaving behind a trail of green smudge. “It’s you.”

  “Sorry I didn’t call first. . . .
I know it’s been a while.”

  “It’s been two years,” Leah said, and she turned and walked back down the hallway.

  “I can explain.” Therese said. But she knew she couldn’t.

  She thought about what to say, but little bits of spit sat on her lips instead of words. She could talk about needing to be with Tim and about the nights she spent terrified that Leah’s suspicions about him would be confirmed. She could explain how many times she had reached for the telephone, especially when Matilda learned to walk and then talk. Or how she used to play a silly game called “What Would Leah Do?” when she had no idea what to do herself . . . and how she had to stop playing because sometimes Leah’s warnings would curl themselves up inside her ear and whisper to her throughout the night.

  Giving up their friendship was the only way she knew how to forget, and it became even easier to do when Leah took time away from the college to work on her art. Or at least, that’s what the gossip was, but Therese knew it was probably more because she had broken her heart. She didn’t say any of this to Leah because she knew that no matter what explanation she gave, no matter how she arranged the words, they would ultimately lead Leah to the conclusion that she had been betrayed. And as difficult as it was for Therese to admit, she was probably right.

  Two and a half years had passed, and the two women, who had been closer than best friends—than sisters, even—had altogether stopped talking.

  But then, Therese learned Barbara’s secret. And she had to tell Leah because she was the only one who would understand.

  She passed through the archway into the kitchen and saw that drop cloths lined the floor and small containers of paint covered the counter tops. She felt overwhelmed, as though her name was being called from various corners of the room. When she looked around, she realized that every surface in Leah’s kitchen was painted a different color. There was no pattern, no symmetry, just random splashes of paint launched arbitrarily throughout the room.

  They moved to the living room, where Therese noticed a pitcher of water and a few glasses on the coffee table. Leah had been expecting someone.