Run Delia Run

by Cindy Bokma

  When we returned home Sunday night to what I secretly dubbed the Ice Palace, he dropped a bomb.

  “I’ve been thinking. I don’t want my wife working. I’ll have my assistant get in touch with human resources and give your notice first thing tomorrow morning.” His tone was velvet, edged with steel. He stood in the doorway, feet apart and arms crossed over his chest. Gone was the gentleman from the weekend and now the monster had taken his place. It’s almost as if he planned to show me a wonderful weekend and then take it all away with one comment. He stared, challenging me.

  I walked across the room and began to unpack my suitcase, avoiding the heaviness of his gaze. His eyes followed me as I moved.

  “Please don’t do that. I like my job,” I responded, nervous of what his reaction would be since I dared to disagree. My hands shook as I removed my makeup bag. Usually when I opposed an idea, he simmered into a boiling rage until I clearly lost the battle and had to retreat with tears in my eyes and an acidic lump in my throat.

  He cleared his throat and crossed the room so that he stood in front of my dresser. He clenched his hands into fists then slowly unclenched and repeated the process. “What I mean is this: I don’t want you working.”

  “But why? What else will I do all day?”

  “There’s no discussion, this is final. You won’t be working.”

  “I don’t want to quit.” It didn’t make sense that he’d want me to quit the job he got for me. I scrambled to understand.

  He walked away without answering and moved down the hallway, down the stairs with me at his heels like a puppy.

  “Why can’t I work?” A voice in my head told me to be quiet but I couldn’t help myself.

  When we entered the kitchen, he flicked on the lights and pulled a bottle from the wine rack. He sighed deeply and shook his head. I felt like I did something wrong but had no idea what.

  “Without working, how can I keep busy?” I asked again.

  “I don’t know. What do other wives do?” Leo poured himself a glass of wine, punctuating the air with the cork in his hand. “I don’t want my wife working. Plain and simple.”

  I gritted my teeth. “I need to work for my sanity.” I liked having my own little income but I didn’t say that.

  “Are you seriously disagreeing with me? Your husband?” He poured himself a glass of wine, swished it in the glass, and then took a long sip. “Come on. I know what’s best for you.”

  The energy rose off of him like steam. I took a step backwards.

  “I like to go to the office.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. I always listened like a sheep, following his lead, allowing him to steamroll me. Not this time. “I refuse to quit.”

  “I’m your husband. You’ll listen to me. I know what’s best for you.” Leo glared at me with his narrowed eyes, unfriendly and mean. When he got mad, his eyes changed from pale blue to a hardened, stone color.

  I softened my tone and changed tactics. “I’d be doing you a disservice by leaving, seeing how you got me the job.” I tried to keep my voice even, but I was still unaccustomed to having someone dictate what I could and couldn’t do. I didn’t like it. I wondered why we couldn’t talk like a normal couple? Why did I always assume the role of a child and him, the parent? Randall’s face floated into my brain and I wondered what it would be like to be with someone more passive, a little less intense. A little less...like Leo.

  As I thought about Randall, my husband got close enough for me to smell the wine on his breath, and in a scathing tone he said, “Listen to me, Delia. I don’t want you working. You won’t work anymore. Before we were married, you having a job was a little hobby for a single girl. Now, it’s pathetic.”

  He was so near to my face that I could see the tiny details on his irises, the hairs in his nose, the unruly eyebrows that I knew he’d get waxed next week.

  Leo backed away and left the room clutching the stem of his wineglass. I heard the slam of his office door, the sound shook the house like an earthquake and the sensation caused me to gasp. I anticipated the sound of breaking glass but it never came. At least he didn't throw the glass against the wall as he did once before.

  Ripping off a paper towel, I dabbed at the tears in my eyes. What did I do wrong? Was I not allowed to have a thought, an opinion that differed from Leo? What was happening? Why was he so angry? I wiped my face with the rough edge of the towel. Maybe I deserved this, it was a punishment. Only I didn’t know what I did wrong.

  Mindlessly, I wiped down the already clean countertops, cleaned the inside of the refrigerator, and vacuumed the floor. I think he liked seeing me on my hands and knees, cleaning the corners of the kitchen, places Leo liked to point out, that were always dirty. I scrubbed and cleaned until my tears ran dry and my hands were red.

  A short while later, I brought him some ice water how he preferred it, in a tall crystal glass with three ice cubes and an inch thick wedge of lemon, pits removed.

  “Leo?” After knocking at the closed office door and hearing his grunt of a response, I walked in gingerly, holding the glass out to him. He didn’t budge, didn’t look at me. I noticed the empty wine glass on his desk. “I brought you a drink.” I set it down next to his arm and he still didn’t respond. It would be one full day before he would talk to me again. And I never did go back to work.

  Chapter 15

  Past

  Dr. Jillian Hiller’s office was located outside of Los Angeles, several miles from Beverly Hills, in a place I hoped Leo would never find. After living with him for two years on an emotional carnival ride, it was time to talk to someone. Pits and peaks, ultimatums, and chilling threats terrorized me no matter what I said or did. Or was it all in my head, as he suggested?

  “Your parent’s death has given you a very strange way of dealing with reality,” he said. He twisted anything to suit his point of view which left me confused. When we argued, he turned my words around so that the cause of the argument was my fault. I ended up apologizing, and then I grew angry at myself. I didn’t do anything wrong and shouldn’t have had to say, “I’m sorry.” There were times he looked down at me as if I were nothing but a beggar and he was king, nodding his acceptance of my meager apology then waved his hand for me to leave his presence. I was weak and I hated myself for it.

  I tried to deal with him on my own, agreeing to whatever he told me to do. I nearly became agoraphobic, not wanting to leave the house for fear I’d do or say something to someone and it would get back to him. Before I went anywhere, I had to lock all the doors and check them twice then run upstairs and make sure our bedroom door was closed. I don’t know why I did this. At night, when I tried to sleep, random words and thoughts zipped around my brain not making any sense. I read about “intrusive thoughts” being a sign of anxiety.

  Occasionally, when Leo got revved up, he’d slap me. It wasn’t hard, but it was enough for me to get ice and hold it on my cheek to dull the pain. The first time he did it, I was in shock. The second time, I saw it coming and ducked. The third time I called Dr. Hiller for an appointment.

  I couldn’t talk to my “friends”—the women in the neighborhood who I took yoga classes with once a week. All of the women I knew had husbands in the entertainment business—an actor, a game show host, a writer, and a costume designer. They wouldn’t understand, and I didn’t dare to ever confide in any of them because it would get back to Leo.

  “Stop making him mad,” Claire said when I admitted the red splotch on my cheek was from Leo. She chose a bottle of rosé from the wine menu at our latest meeting place, a new wine bar in West Hollywood. Her eyes lingered on my face a moment too long and I read the concern in her expression. “He’s probably on edge with work,” she added, putting her hand over mine briefly. She brightened. “Let’s split an order of goat cheese balls. And I have to tell you about my latest possible love interest.”

  I nodded as she spoke but my thoughts about Leo rotated through my mind. Was his anger my fault? Did I trigger something? He wa
s always so apologetic afterwards, begging my forgiveness, promising he’d never hurt me again. He cried real tears and held my hands in his, staring into my eyes. I believed him, until the next time. His angry words became a light slap across my face, a clutch on my upper arm, yanking a piece of my hair. Were things getting worse or as Leo said, did I simply misinterpret his actions?

  I arrived at Dr. Hiller’s office, a simple two story building that housed a colon hydrotherapy office, a freelance website designer and a health coach.

  Sitting in the waiting room, I paged through current issues of Food & Wine and Gourmet and Biography. I nervously jiggled my foot up and down and stared at my shoes, a pair of suede pumps Leo purchased for me at Saks. I was dressed conservatively as usual. He always preferred me in neat lines and unadorned designs. With the exception of the elaborate wedding gown, he wanted me in refined attire, high heels, and a light spritz of vanilla perfume. Only vanilla. Anything else and he’d start complaining about allergies and an intolerance to artificial scents.

  Dr. Hiller poked her head out of the door and welcomed me into her office. It was soothing and simple, exactly what I imagined. Wood framed watercolor prints hung eye level on the walls. A cluster of fresh flowers on her mahogany desk gave the office a sense of calmness. A tabletop fountain gurgled over river rocks providing a soft natural sound. She spoke in a peaceful, bland tone.

  “It’s good to meet you Mrs. Kubias.” She reached for a yellow lined pad and a pen.

  “Please call me Delia.”

  I took notice of her traditional navy blue skirt suit, low heeled shoes, and conservative short hair. Leo would approve. I guessed her age to be around forty-five. There were lines around her brown eyes and a little bit of gray throughout her ginger hair, her face was rosy and round. Her appearance was oddly reassuring, like an older, wiser friend. I thought of my mother and wondered what advice she’d give me.

  “Tell me what brings you here?” Dr. Hiller asked, pen poised over the yellow pad. Her nails were short, and I wondered if she bit them like I did.

  I looked up, eyes focusing on a stain on the ceiling. What if Dr. Hiller knew Leo? What if this office was bugged? Maybe he was watching me. I knew he had activated a location setting on my phone which I left at home whenever I went out so he couldn’t track my whereabouts.

  My heart rattled against my chest as I imagined Leo spying on me right now. I suspected he read my emails and texts. He noted the odometer on the car and asked where I went, if my answers didn’t align with the miles on the car, the questioning got more intense. Was he here watching me?

  Stop! I was losing my mind. I blinked and took a breath, attempting to bring myself back to reality.

  “It’s my husband. Sometimes things are great and he’s happy, but then other times he’s mad at me and won’t speak to me for days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I always feel like I’ve done something wrong. Maybe I’m too sensitive or I misread him. But this has been going on for two years and I find myself almost scared of him or afraid to disagree.”

  “Can you tell me about a specific time? Give me an example.” She gazed at me evenly.

  I cleared my throat and bit my nails, concentrating on a cuticle. “One example, I guess was that he wanted to hire a housekeeper and I said I didn’t want one. I don’t need one; I’m home all day so I’m happy to cook, clean and food shop. He insisted that we needed a housekeeper and things got out of control. He wouldn’t talk to me for two days and even then, it was like he would only say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ It took a full week before he would even touch me again.”

  She nodded, her face showing no signs of surprise.

  “And what did he say to you during this argument?”

  “I told him I didn’t want a housekeeper and he said something like, ‘You think you can do everything and look at the house, it’s a mess. You can’t put things away and the floor is always filthy’.”

  I paused while she scribbled notes on her pad. I was curious to see what she was writing. Dr. Hiller looked up.

  “Tell me about your husband. Why don’t you fill me in on your relationship with him up to this point?” She smiled at me. Why was she smiling? Did she know something? Did she think this was funny? Did she know Leo? I glanced around the room again, looking for signs of a recording device. My eye fell on the Amazon Echo on her desk and my heart stopped for a second.

  I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Didn’t therapists have to keep everything confidential? That was the law, right? I glanced at the ceiling, my eyes darting to the corners for hidden cameras. What was wrong with me? I scratched at a spot that didn’t itch and swallowed hard.

  Outside the office, a dog barked. The sound made me jump.

  “Your relationship with Leo . . .” Dr. Hiller prompted.

  I took a breath; then my words flowed like a verbal downpour. I told her about my parents and Aunt Priscilla, what brought me to Los Angeles, meeting Leo.

  “Lately . . .” I paused. Admitting this next part was hard. I bit my lip. “He gets physical. Just a slap but it’s hard enough to leave a bruise.” My voice was a whisper. I thought about the shadows of his fingerprints on my upper arms.

  I told Claire bits and pieces, certainly nothing about how bad Leo’s temper was, but now I was admitting everything. When I was done speaking, I took a breath and avoided her gaze. I chewed on my lip and gazed at the floor. My heart pounded from fear, nerves.

  Dr. Hiller clicked her pen. Click. Click.

  “He wants everything to be perfect. He wants me to be perfect I guess.” I pressed my lips together.

  "No one can be perfect. Let's change tracks for a second. Tell me more about him, what is he like?”

  Surely she knew Leo, everyone did. I chose my words carefully in case she wasn't familiar with him.

  “He’s a movie director, sometimes produces or writes. Independent films mostly. He’s shooting a project in Vancouver at the moment. That’s how I was able to get here. He’d be angry if he knew I was talking about him.” I fingered the ring on my finger, twisting it around. My hands were sweaty.

  How could I talk about how his eyes turned cold and his face grew red, the veins in his neck ready to pop? I licked my lips, my breathing was shallow and my heart skipped a beat. I placed my hand over my chest, as if that would help calm me.

  “I blame myself. I think I’m too sensitive. To be honest, I’ve been depressed since we got married. Maybe I’m crazy.” I recalled the weird words and images popping into my brain. Bizarre thoughts I was too embarrassed to verbalize. “I was reading about bi-polar disorder. I think I have that. And maybe that’s why Leo gets so heated with me.”

  “Why do you say that?” She clicked her pen and started writing in her pad again.

  “I must be missing something . . . I have this amazing husband, I mean, we have great times together for the most part. I have all the money I could ever want to spend. But I don’t understand why Leo gets so mad. He doesn’t want me to work." I paused. "He told me that if he ever caught me cheating on him, he would kill me. Who threatens that?”

  Tears came to my eyes as I recalled the night he promised to kill me if he caught me with another man. I didn’t want to have sex one evening. I had a headache that lasted all day and wanted to get to bed early. He got angry with me and started yelling accusations, “You’ve been with another man. You’re a whore!” he screamed. It came out of the blue, he knew I was almost always home. I rarely even spoke to anyone. Thinking about that evening, and others like it, rattled my bones and made me feel sick to my stomach. Even now in Dr. Hiller’s office, my stomach clenched.

  I glanced at Dr. Hiller who stared at me, a reflection of the windows shone in her eyeglasses. Taking a deep breath I said, “I’ve never talked to anyone about this, before today.”

  “He sounds incredibly controlling and abusive.”

  “It’s crossed my mind.”

  “You said it’s been two years, that’s a lon
g time to suffer.”

  I nodded then shrugged. “Who would ever believe me? And who can I trust?” Again, my eyes swept over her office. “Leo has repeated that no one can be trusted. I get it, he’s famous. He doesn’t want his dirty laundry hung out.”

  “You were brave to come here. What is it you are hoping to get out of this visit with me today?”

  “I’m not sure. I just . . . I don’t know what to do.”

  “I have some information I want to give you. Read it over, it might help.” She opened a drawer in her file cabinet and handed me a stack of pages and some glossy brochures. I glanced at them. Domestic Violence Safety, Hope for Domestic Violence, Warnings of Violence.

  “I’m not a battered wife,” I said quickly, holding up a brochure. Victims of domestic violence had broken bones, bruised skin. They were married to terrible men. Leo was someone who had a few problems but I could help him. I knew I could. Work was hard, he was under constant pressure. Yes he mistreated me and was controlling, but he wasn’t all bad.

  I must have made a face because she held up a hand. “My concern is your safety. Delia, a woman has no control over her abusive partner’s behavior. No matter what you say or do, he chooses to hurt you. It is never your fault.”

  “He doesn’t mean it,” I muttered, toying with the end of the brochure.

  "You might consider the possibility of leaving him. Abuse is very serious."

  Leave Leo? I didn’t know if I had the strength to do that. I’d be on my own again. I’d have no money, no security. It would all have to be done on his terms and he wouldn’t take it well if I said I was leaving.

  “I mean, it’s not bad all the time . . .” My voice trailed off as I stared out the window. I wasn’t even looking at anything in particular, my eyes went blurry and I realized I was crying.

  Without a word Dr. Hiller held out a tissue box.

  “He would be furious if he knew I was here.” I said again, dabbing at my eyes.