Edified

by Marissa Sail Fike

  I snap the book shut, feeling a chill suddenly shake my body.

  After a moment, I gently wind the string around the book and set it down on the coffee table. I stare at it for a minute as my breathing begins to steady again, and in the spirit of cleansing both my mind and my living space, resolve to place it in the discard box.

  I don’t even read the copy I have around here somewhere. I don’t need another one.

  In its new location of discarded books, I stare at the Bible a moment longer. It looks so … out of place.

  Suddenly feeling guilty, I take the Bible from the rejects and place it back on the coffee table. This book meant something serious to Grandma Jackie. Probably more than her vinyl player or her typewriter ever did, and I always try to keep the things I know were special to her.

  I stand and stretch my arms, the hem of my silk pajama pants hanging loosely on my hips. I turn the light out in the living room and head to my bedroom, not bothering to pick up Amity along the way. She watches me walk past her with what I could only describe as a look of contempt.

  She waits until I’ve shaken out my hair, flipped on the diffuser, and I’m crawling into the covers before sauntering into the bedroom and jumping up on the bed. She curls up next to me, flicking her black tail against my shoulder.

  “Oh, so now you want me?” I say running my fingers through her soft fur.

  She purrs loudly beside me — a peace offering for being a jerk earlier.

  I smile and close my eyes to the rhythmic sounds of her purring and the soft hum of the diffuser motor … but sleep doesn’t find me.

  I get up to add a few extra drops of lavender to the diffuser, but still, I lie awake for hours after.

  Sighing, I reach over for the bottle of pills on my side table and tip one from the container into my palm. I hate doing this. I’d rather do anything than put unnatural chemicals in my body … but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  As of the last week or so, thoughts of Jayden and everything that happened between us have kept me wide awake for hours. Tonight, however, something different is lingering in my mind. Something about the words “His understanding is infinite” struck me, and won’t allow my mind to shut off for the night.

  About ten minutes later, I feel the pill begin doing its work. My muscles noticeably relax as a state of calm washes over me. As much as I hate traditional medicine, at this moment, I am only thankful.

  2

  Rae - Wednesday

  Morning light spills through the cracks of my bedroom’s window shades, casting thin lines of sunshine onto the bed. I lay on my side with my phone propped up, switching back and forth between two different text-font options for the wedding invitations I’m designing with my ‘Invidesign’ app. The room’s temperature outside of the covers is cool and crisp, just the way Adam likes it, but the level of warmth underneath the covers is just right for me.

  Two strong arms, emanating heat, wrap themselves around my waist and pull me into a firm, masculine chest. A smile draws up the corners of my lips as Adam kisses the back of my head and nuzzles me, making it clear he has no intention of leaving any time soon. My body fits perfectly against him, his warm breath steady against my neck, and for the hundredth time this morning, I wonder how I got so lucky.

  In our new position of cuddling, I tap my phone screen back on and continue editing the invitation draft. I’ve decided on a text-font. Now I just need to decide on a picture for the front of the invitation. The light of my phone screen must be disturbing him because he stirs behind me.

  “Baby girl.” He purrs, nipping at my ear.

  I smile again, loving the way his voice sounds first thing in the morning.

  “What are you doing?” He asks, his voice muffled against the pillow.

  I shift slightly on my back so that I can show him the invitation I’ve been working on, “What do you think?”

  He squints against the bright light to see the image on the screen. I admire the five o’clock shadow on his chin as he examines my work.

  “Very nice, honey. Great job.” He concludes with a smile.

  How I love those beautiful white teeth.

  “Okay, so my question is, should it be this picture?” I say, showing him one option before sliding the next one in its place, “Or this one?”

  “Mmm,” His voice rumbles in his chest, “Either one will do fine.”

  I pout my lips and turn more towards him, “Come on, I want a real opinion.”

  He sighs slightly, opening his eyes again to view the screen.

  “The first one.” He says, settling back down on the pillow.

  I turn the screen back towards me and take a good look at his choice, trying to visualize how the invitation might look in person. It’s a picture that we took on my phone’s camera when we went to the beach together last summer. I squint at the photo. It’s nice and all, but it definitely looks like it was taken selfie-style, and I’m starting to think we ought to just have professional engagement pictures taken. As much as I hate taking pictures, how many couples use a basic beach-selfie as the main picture on their wedding invitations? Also, if the picture was taken with my phone, would the quality be grainy on a paper-invite?

  “Are you sure?” I say, peeking over at him, “Because it might be better to just wait until we have some professional pictures done.”

  He groans in reply and tries to pull me closer again, but I can’t focus, because verbalizing what I’ve just said made me realize how urgently I need to book a photoshoot. Not only should I have had my invitations ordered by now, but also addressed and ready to be delivered. According to my wedding timeline planner, I’m pushing it as it is by ordering them so last-minute. And if I still need to book a session with a photographer before I can even finish designing the invitations, the situation just got dire. Photographers around here are booked out months in advance, and that doesn’t account for the time they’ll need after the shoot to edit all the pictures.

  I escape Adam’s grasp, toss the covers aside, and quickly reach for my bathrobe because the crisp room temperature is freezing against my bare skin.

  “Babbbeee.” Adam sighs, “Where are you going?”

  “I have to call a photographer and try to book a session for us this week.” I say.

  He sits up against the headboard and gazes at me, “Honey… the picture you showed me was fine.”

  “No,” I say, sliding on my slippers, “It looks like a selfie that we took ourselves and the quality might show up poorly on the actual invitations.”

  I turn on my heels, on a mission to find Adam’s Yellow Pages, but he catches my wrist and gently tugs me back. I involuntarily swivel around and fall back on the bed. He holds my face in the warmth of his palms, forcing me to meet his gaze — those alluring grey-green eyes.

  “Lacey Rae, you have got to relax.”

  His voice and the gentle touch of his fingers tucking a lock of hair behind my ear has a strong, calming effect on my body.

  The right corner of his lips raise in a half-smile, “Listen, love. You have seven whole months left to make this thing happen. Seven. Whole. Months.”

  He kisses my right cheek, then my left, then my forehead, “I promise there is enough time.”

  I nod, unable to take my eyes from him. The dim morning light accentuates the lines on his stomach and chest beautifully … His skin takes a golden tone in this light.

  “Come here, beautiful.” He says, pulling me closer to him, “I just need some time with you this morning.”

  My stress slowly melts away. Pressed against his skin, there’s no place I’d rather be.

  3

  Grace - Wednesday

  I pull my hair up into a messy bun and glance at myself in the mirror. My eyes fall to the black leggings hugging my calves. A loose, purple tank top with a pale pink lotus flower on the chest outlines my figure and flows over the curves of my hips. As I flick my eyes up and down the outfit, I consider changing into some actual yo
ga pants instead of the leggings.

  It’s unreasonable for me to second guess the perfectly flattering outfit, but ever since it happened, my cruel mind has marveled at my insecurities.

  Your thighs are too thick for leggings. You’ll look like you’re desperate for attention if you go out in that.

  I shake my head and bring my eyes back up to my face in the mirror, pushing my black-framed glasses back into place. I’d never been self-conscious of my body before, and I’d always embraced my curves. But that was before a much thinner, much more delicate looking girl caught the eyes of the man I loved.

  Rae had shaken her head in amazement when I first opened up about my problem with comparing myself to that girl.

  “Are you kidding me?” She’d said, “You’re a babe! Hadley is an unnatural level of skinny. Don’t you dare go comparing yourself to her.”

  I cringe at the memory of her name. Rae, of course, has never actually met the girl, and had been exaggerating for my benefit. The only reason Rae and I know anything of Hadley’s looks is because of the pictures I found of her on Jayden’s phone.

  Maybe it was immature of me to compare myself, and who knows, Hadley might just be unnaturally skinny, but she’d apparently been good enough for Jayden where I hadn’t been, and a part of me couldn’t help but wonder why. Where was I lacking that Hadley was not?

  I meet my own hazel eyes in the mirror, analyzing them. Maybe they are the problem. Maybe if they were just blue like Hadley’s …

  I wrinkle my nose, disgusted with my own thoughts. Why do I torture myself like this? Isn’t this the reason I joined a yoga group in the first place? To love and accept my body for what it is? To give my brain an outlet to think about something other than Jayden? To explore my interest in a new hobby that I enjoy for myself, not because it has anything to do with him?

  I kneel to lace up my boots. This outfit is comfortable and will do just fine. If I would have felt fine wearing it when I was dating him, I should feel confident wearing it without him. He is not the source of my security.

  I retrieve my keys and pull on a purple hoodie with the Nike symbol on it before heading out the door. It’s been so long since I’ve worn anything but Jayden’s hoodies that exploring my own closet’s selection of sweaters and fall apparel was almost like a gift from myself, which is perfect timing with the forecast predicting icy fall weather to invade Vermont within the next couple of days. For now, warm sun spills from the sky shining against my beautiful Volkswagen, to whom I’ve affectionately given the name Persia.

  I ignite the engine and Beyonce’s, “Irreplaceable”, filters through the speakers. I crank the volume and roll my windows down, feeling a little better already. Sunrise yoga meets twice a week and I’ve only been to one class so far. It was Rae’s suggestion to immerse myself in some activity just for myself. She’d gone with me the first time for moral support, but I know she’s too busy to ask her to come with me regularly.

  When I first walked into the studio, I had expected to find a group of hip young ladies striving for body positivity and discussing their fitness. But I was surprised to discover a room full of older ladies, none of whom could be under the age of fifty, gossiping about their husbands and competing with each other on whose body hurt the most on the daily. It isn’t what I’d been expecting, but it certainly turned out to be entertaining, and the actual stretching session had successfully cleared my head for the most part.

  “Grace!” the instructor — Nancy, I think — greets me as I walk through the door, “I’m glad to see you back.”

  I press my hands together and mirror the little bow she gives me, “I’m glad to be back.”

  I unlaced my shoes and placed them in one of the little cubbies to the left of the door. Everyone in the building walks around barefoot as some kind of respect thing that I don’t understand, but it makes for a comfortable, homey sort of atmosphere.

  The studio smells of synthetic Frankincense — a little sweeter smelling than the natural oil would be — but it is pleasant, nonetheless. I grab a mat from the shelf and enter the sanctuary.

  “Well, hey pretty girl!” one of the old ladies calls from her spot on the floor, “Where’s your friend today?”

  I smile when I realize by ‘pretty girl’, she means me. Maybe these leggings aren’t so awful after all.

  “Rae?” I say, setting my mat down next to hers, “Oh, she’s busy with wedding planning this time.”

  “Ooooh!” Another lady — Betty, who I remember from last time — scoots her mat closer to ours, “Let’s see a picture of her young man!”

  I smile, opening my phone to Rae’s contact photo. It’s one of my favorite pictures of them together at the beach last year. Ooh’s and Ahh’s ensue from the older ladies, who have now formed a circle around my phone to get a glimpse of Adam.

  “Well, he sure is a handsome fella, isn’t he?” One of them says.

  “He’s a sweetheart too,” I smile, “I really like them together.”

  “I remember I used to have a beau like him.” Betty comments, “A handsome, tall blonde with the kindest smile. He turned out to be a real skank, though. I tell you what, I carved my name right onto the front of his car.”

  I cup a hand to my mouth to keep from laughing.

  “Girl, if I were you, I’d kick up some trouble now, so you have some good stories to tell when you’re an old woman like me.”

  A middle-aged lady with brown hair nudges Betty, “Don’t tell her that. I found enough trouble when I was her age without seeking it out.”

  The ladies continue to swap stories amongst themselves before the session begins. My mind wanders to all of the possible things this man could have done to Betty. I’m sure she’d tell me if I asked her, but then again I’m not all that sure that I’d want to know.

  Maybe he’d done something similar to what Jayden did, and if that were the case, is it possible I let him off too easy? Is it possible that my reaction had been satisfying to him, rather than place-putting? Maybe he deserved to have my name carved into his shiny new car instead of being cried on and asked over and over why he did what he did.

  Or maybe I should’ve acted like I didn’t care — as if it was no sweat off my back that his shallowness would no longer be a part of my life. Instead, I had just let him know how much he hurt me, which I’m almost certain didn’t even phase him since he allowed himself to betray my trust in the first place. I couldn’t just hide my pain from the guy, though. I’d spent four whole years learning how to be vulnerable with him. I thought he valued that in me, but I guess it’s just a lesson learned to be more careful with my heart next time.

  My phone vibrates the way it does when I have a new Facebook notification. The class hasn’t started yet, so I tap the screen to life.

  A sudden wave of nausea roils in my stomach with so much force, I wonder for a moment if I’ll need to get up and leave class to throw up. I had not yet taken care to ‘unfollow’ Jayden’s Facebook posts, so my phone had sounded to alert me that he had posted a picture. That picture is of him giving the camera a thumbs up, while his other hand is occupied around the waist of a tall, skinny brunette clad in business attire. The girl isn’t Hadley, but still a knock-out to say the least. His caption announces that he’s been promoted to a higher position at his workplace, and once again, my gut twists. Why the hell are things going so right for him? What has he done to deserve that, while I’m left feeling alone and defenseless?

  I force myself to push away thoughts of him. This place is supposed to be a sanctuary for my mind.

  As class begins and we cross our legs into a meditative position, I remind myself that what I’m doing is right, and I’m handling it exactly as I should. Acting out and doing something vengeful would only tell him that I’m still thinking about him and what he did, and moreover, that I’m still letting it bother me. God knows he’s clearly moved on.

  They say that silence is sometimes the loudest response you can give someone, and I’m hol
ding on to the hope that there may be some truth to that.

  4

  Rae - Wednesday

  I sit cross legged on the yellow patterned rug in my room — the rug that is, in theory, supposed to make me feel happy. But at this moment, I feel anything but happy.

  The yellow pattern is completely concealed by thirty or so sheets of paper, all of which are flowered around me and littered with red ink. At least half of the pages have hand-drawn frowny faces glaring back at me from the upper right corners, taunting me with their implications.

  On the first day of this class, the whiteboard had three different faces drawn on it: A smiley face — or at least an attempt at one — a frowny face, and a face with a simple straight line for a mouth. Beside the corresponding faces, the words satisfactory, unsatisfactory, and average were written in boxy green letters.

  Mr. Algray had straightened the stack of lecture papers in his hands before standing and passing them out to their respective owners. I remember his speech at the beginning of the class: “Your work will not receive any number grades for homework.” He’d said, “This is not that kind of class. Instead, we’ll be using the Smiley Face system to assess your improvement and let you know where you’ll need more preparation for the tests.”

  A snort had escaped from the girl sitting next to me, “The Smiley Face system? Really?”

  She’d articulated my own thoughts. I’d honestly rather get a number grade. At least then I’d know if I’m failing by a lot or just a little, and at least then my failure wouldn't feel so personal.

  It wasn’t a big deal at first — the frowny faces I was receiving. I felt like between my job, the wedding and my other school subjects, trigonometry homework that wasn’t getting graded for real certainly wasn’t a priority. I was also certain that if I really took the time to sit down for a few hours each day to focus on the homework, I’d be getting smiley faces returned to me. So in my mind, it was okay to slack on the homework as long as I took time to understand it later on. But now, with the semester almost halfway over and my midterm coming up, I’m not so sure this was the best approach.