by Carmen, Roya
Brian doesn’t particularly like corsets, stockings and stilettos… the usual stuff. He prefers me in boxer briefs and skimpy t-shirts, or soft baby doll teddies. And he also loves me in the little school girl plaid skirt and white button shirt I sometimes wear. I always pair it with pigtails and white knee socks.
I think of Ava again. I feel sick. It comes on suddenly. My pulse races and I feel faint. The rooms swirls around me. “Brian…”
He lifts his gaze to mine, his widow’s peak and large green eyes in full evidence. “What is it, sweetie?”
“I don’t feel well.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks, concerned.
“I feel faint.”
He throws me a sidelong glance. “Did you forget to take your iron supplements?”
I have anemia, and on top of 40 mg of Escitalopram Oxalate, a ginseng herbal pill, a multivitamin, a vitamin B complex, vitamin D, and a probiotic, I also take an iron supplement.
“Uh… I may have,” I lie. He should know better — I never forget anything.
He pulls away from me, clearly disappointed. “You go and take your supplement, and drink a tall glass of water.”
He leaves the room, and I wonder where he’s heading. He’s often in our shared office at night. He says he’s grading papers and the like, but I wonder if there’s more to it. Could he be watching porn? Or worse? He always keeps the door closed, and once when I asked him why, he said it was because he needed privacy and quiet to do his work.
You’re being paranoid again, I hear Dr. Russell say. Her voice never leaves me. These thoughts have no weight. They are not real. They are of no importance or consequence. Your condition makes them appear so.
I reach for my panties and lounge pants and pull them back on. It’s fine, I tell myself. Everything is fine.
I can’t believe our relationship has come to this. I obviously don’t trust my husband anymore. It seems like only yesterday when we went on our first date.
He showed up with an adorable purple flower plant in a small basket. I smiled coyly and said thank you, wondering if he liked my dress; a checkered print jersey dress with a flowy skirt. I stared down at my red pumps for a second before inviting him into my house. Unfortunately, my sisters and mother were milling about, pretending to just be going on about their lives, while so obviously checking him out. They could not have been more conspicuous. At one point, Anika even whispered. “He’s soooo cute.”
My mom introduced herself, all giggles and smiles. She was over-the-top happy. I think she was just relieved that her youngest weirdo daughter could actually snatch herself a date, and a good-looking one at that. I was mortified.
Brian looked so handsome in dark jeans and a long sleeved black top. It was a hot summer day, so I was confused by his choice, but I later learned that he didn’t want my mom to see his tattoos. He was afraid that she would judge him unfairly, and I laughed because he was right — she would have.
I knew underneath the ‘bad boy’ rocker, there was a sensitive type, a good person. Despite my problems, I’ve always been a good judge of character.
We had dinner at a quaint little Italian restaurant, which was actually owned by his uncle, so the meal was on the house, which was great because both of us were broke. I was working at the Gap and saving up for college. Brian already had college loans, and didn’t have a ‘real job’. His band brought in some money, but not quite enough to pay for all his school expenses.
We gorged on warm bread, and by the time our meals came, we were already half full. He had veal piccata and I had penne a la vodka. When I ordered my entrée, he asked me if I was an alcoholic, and although it was a lame joke, I laughed genuinely because I was so happy.
We chatted about our families. He loved his siblings; two older brothers and a younger sister. I told him I kind of hated my sister Sacha. I told him about my father leaving us, and he said he was sorry. I knew he could never understand because his parents were still happily married and his whole family seemed very Leave it to Beaver, in other words, perfect.
He had brought a book along, and I loved that. I’ve always had a thing for nerds. Jocks did nothing for me, and the feeling was mutual. I’m pretty sure they all thought I was a freak. No, I much preferred the idea of this beautiful bad-boy rocker slash nerd. And I just didn’t like the ‘idea of him’, I really liked him too.
He was everything I could have hoped for, and I often reminded myself to take it slow, to not let him see how much I liked him, or he might just run away, or make fun of me, like Connor, my first crush, did. I knew I had a tendency to become obsessive when it came to boys… and so many other things.
I knew that self-awareness was a first step to appearing normal.
We shared blueberry pie and tartufo for dessert. I’d never had it, and I loved it; a cocoa covered ball of chocolate ice cream with a strawberry ice cream surprise in the middle. He let me have the last bite, and I knew right then that he was the man I would spend the rest of my life with.
“So, is that book any good?” I asked. A bookmark was sticking out of the pages — he’d read about three quarters of it.
“It’s amazing,” he said. “That’s why I brought it along. I wanted to tell you all about it. I thought you might like to borrow it after I’m done.”
I studied the cover, a black and white photograph of a man. At first sight, I thought it was a JFK biography, the resemblance was uncanny. A Beautiful Mind, the title read. By Sylvia Nasar.
“What’s it about?” I asked, genuinely interested.
“It’s a true story,” he said excitedly, “It’s the autobiography of John Nash, a Nobel winning mathematician with schizophrenia. It’s really good.”
“Sounds fascinating,” I replied. “I love anything psychology related,” I told him truthfully. What I didn’t mention was the fact that I buried my head in psychology and self-help books in an effort to try to fix myself.
He smiled. “I knew you would be into it. Most of the other girls I dated… there’s no way, but you, you’re different.”
I smiled. I knew what he meant. I knew he liked me not only because I was cute, but also because I was smart.
Was this really the same boy? The rocker who strummed his electric guitar, and screamed the lyrics of his songs about love, hate and life. This was a whole other side of him, and I loved it.
He handed me the book, and I read the back blurb and quickly flipped through it. The story intrigued me, and I liked the idea of sharing something with him, an interesting subject we could discuss. “Yeah, I’d like to borrow it when you’re done.”
His face lit up. “That’s great.”
“You read a lot?” I asked.
He reached for his glass of Coke. “Yes, I love biographies and crime fiction. How ‘bout you?”
“I love literary women’s fiction mostly,” I told him, but I wasn’t interested in talking about myself. I wanted to learn more about him. “What do you study at U of Chicago?”
“Liberal arts, taking a few language classes,” he explained. “Hoping to get into teacher’s college and teach.”
“Wow.” I admired that. There was no way I could ever be a teacher. I didn’t have the patience or social skills required. “I could never imagine being in charge of a bunch of kids,” I said. “I couldn’t handle it.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could,” he said. “You should give yourself more credit.”
My thoughts drifted back to just a few years before. There had only been three children, and I couldn’t even handle that. I ruined the poor girl’s life. Because of my stupid neuroses, I made the gravest mistake of my life.
I shook my head. “What do you want to teach?” I asked, desperately wanting to change the direction of my thoughts.
He smiled. “High school. English, History, Philosophy… Social Studies.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“And what about you?” he asked.
I bit my bottom lip. I was only sixteen and I didn�
�t really have a clue yet. I knew I worked best alone, and in calm orderly environments. “I like numbers… order.”
He studied me for a beat. “You could be an accountant,” he quipped. “The cutest accountant on the planet.”
I blushed, closed my eyes for a second, reached for my cup of coffee, and tapped it three times before taking a sip. I considered his observation for a moment — it wasn’t a terrible idea.
He smiled. “Why do you do that thing?” he asked, tilting his head in my coffee mug’s direction. I was hoping he hadn’t noticed — most people didn’t.
“What do you mean?” I asked, downplaying it.
“The tapping on the cup, just before, every time you take a drink,” he said. “You did it with your iced tea too. And the rearranging of your plate and silverware.”
Oh crap. Yes, three taps before every sip.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I must be nervous. It’s just a silly thing I do sometimes.”
He grinned. “You don’t need to be nervous.” He took my hand in his, and it sent shivers down my spine. I studied our hands because I couldn’t quite look up at him. My skin was so pale next to his. “I like you… a lot, Mischa.”
My heart skipped a beat as I ventured a glance into his gorgeous green eyes, wondering if this was all a dream. He was too good to be true. “You don’t think I’m a weirdo?” I said playfully, but the words were in fact, a question I desperately wanted answered.
He laughed. “No. I think it’s kind of cute.”
Boy, you must have it bad for me, I remember thinking.
It’s okay, because I have it bad for you too.
4
I’m having lunch when Janet finally gets back to me. I’m over the moon when I hear her voice because I’m positive that she’ll set things straight.
“Wow, it was such a surprise to hear from you after all these years, Mischa,” she says, and the tone in her voice tells me she’s being genuine.
“Yes, it’s been a long time,” I agree, a little lost for breath. I’m very nervous for reasons I don’t quite understand.
“I always enjoy receiving your Christmas card every year,” she says. “You have such a beautiful family.”
“Thank you.”
“Sorry, I haven’t been sending Christmas cards these past few years,” she adds. “Just too busy. You know how it goes, I’m sure.”
“Oh, yes.”
“So….” she goes on, and the curiosity in her voice is palpable. “What’s new? Just curious why you called.”
My heartbeat makes itself known. “Oh, nothing much. It’s just… something silly,” I admit, feeling a little strange. “Remember the frame you and Rob gave us for our wedding?”
“Yes?”
“Well, anyway. I loved the photo you included in it. I’d never opened the frame until recently, and as it turns out, there was another photo at the back. I thought you might want it back.”
“Really?” she says, confused. “What was the picture?”
My heart is pounding against my ribcage now. “A young girl.”
“Well, it wasn’t my photo,” she tells me. “I bought the frame at an antique store, and there was no picture in it. Did you think I re-gifted an old frame of mine?” she asks in a teasing tone.
My laugh is forced when I reply, “Oh, no… well, maybe. I wasn’t sure. Sorry.” This might be one of the most awkward conversations I’ve ever had, and I’ve had plenty.
“No worries,” she says. “Anything else? What’s new with you guys?” she asks, attempting conversation.
But I’m just too shaken to properly respond. “We’re good… uh… okay, bye, Janet. Nice chatting.”
Why must I be so socially awkward?
“Uh… okay. It was so nice to hear from you, Mischa…” her words trail off, as if she’s suddenly questioning my sanity. She knew me well back in the day, and she’s probably wondering if I’m okay, but is too polite to ask.
“Yes, it was great. Well, I’ll let you go. I have a busy day ahead.” Yes, I’m very busy and normal. I am not going through another existential crisis. Not at all.
I abandon my lunch on the kitchen table, which is very unlike me: a half-eaten turkey sandwich, an apple, and a half-empty glass of water.
I leap off my chair and dash to our master bedroom. In search of what? I’m not quite sure. I rummage through Brian’s bedside table and sock drawer. Everything is in perfect order as it always is, because I’ve taken the liberty to organize every single one of his possessions. He says he likes his ‘little neat freak’. I do the same for the boys, and they’re not quite as appreciative. I plop down on our bed, and exhale a long breath. I know I won’t find anything in this condo. I know every square inch of this place. If he had so much as a new pair of socks, I’d know. And there hasn’t been anything out of the ordinary, absolutely nothing.
Save for that picture.
Why would he have put that picture there? How could he have been so careless? There has to be another explanation.
But on the other hand, he knows I adore that frame. And he also knows that wedding photo of us is my favorite, and I would never dream of replacing it, not the picture or the frame.
I’m on edge for the next few hours, so much so, that I can’t quite focus on my work. When Brian and the boys get home, I bounce off my office chair to go give the boys a hug.
My heart is pounding when I hug Brian. There are about a million questions I want to ask, but I’m speechless.
“How was your day?” he asks with a peck on my cheek.
I eye his worn leather suitcase. I know it holds his laptop, phone, wallet, keys and student papers and such. “Uh… good.”
He eyes me with a look of concern, but I’m determined to act normal. “So… how about chicken parmesan for dinner tonight? I made the bread you like.” Thankfully, I’ve already bought all the ingredients for dinner, and the bread is already being made in my trusty breadmaker.
“Sounds great,” he says, leaving his briefcase by the door. “Tristan and I are going to shoot some hoops, before I get to my grading.”
“Oh, okay.” They often do this when the weather allows. There’s a basketball court nearby. Trevor couldn’t be bothered — he’d rather read, but Tristan loves it. As soon as Brian dashes off to go change, my pulse quickens as I dive right into his briefcase.
My fingers shake as I tap his password on his phone. I know his password and he knows mine. I quickly check his recent texts and activity. My heartbeat is relentless as I scroll through a few of the messages, feeling extremely guilty. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. There’s not much actually. Brian is not a big texter. I quickly slip his cell back in his briefcase. I’m acting crazy.
I know this, yet, I can’t help myself. As soon as he and Tristan are out of the house, I go back to the briefcase. Thankfully, he never brings his phone when they go to the court. I resume my investigation, moving on to his Messenger app because I know he spends a lot of time on Facebook. There’s nothing out of the ordinary there either. I’m now hidden in the powder room with the door locked, like the crazed lunatic that I am.
I’m getting frustrated now. I browse through his apps — the usual basic ones. No Twitter. No WhatsApp. But I do notice Instagram. I click on it — there are no posts. He has just a few followers. He follows about twenty handles, mostly music and car related. I check his messages — nothing. I check his search history. A few random handles — no Ava, no girls.
Next I check Facebook. Facebook was how Claudia found out her boyfriend was cheating on her, and I know Brian is a user. I browse through his list of friends — nothing out of the ordinary… no Ava.
I shake my head. I’m being crazy. I suck in a long breath. Relabel. Reattribute, Refocus and Revalue. Dr. Russell’s words play over and over in my head. I exit the powder room, and tuck the phone back in Brian’s briefcase. But when I spot the student papers, my pulse quickens and curiosity gets the best of me.
This tim
e I take the whole briefcase with me to the powder room. I lock the door and flip the toilet cover down. I sit on the toilet and pull out the student papers. I flip through them and study all the names. Messy scribblings in pencil. No Ava. Again, nothing suspicious.
I reach for his laptop and make a promise to myself: Quickly check the laptop, and then never think about this again. I fire it up. I type in the password. Brian has a horrible memory and I know for a fact that his passwords are all trevortristan with the current year added.
I’m in, and my breathing is suddenly shallow. I suck in a long breath to calm myself. I’m checking one thing only, and then I’m done. Browser history. Unlike me, I know Brian is not very technologically inclined. He teaches English and philosophy. He’s old-school. He still reads the Chicago Tribune — he wouldn’t dream of getting his news on the Internet. He still listens to his old iPod Nano with wired headphones. He reads paperbacks, and refuses to get a Kindle despite me repeatedly trying to convince him otherwise. I tease him mercifully about it. I know he wouldn’t think about erasing his history.
When I initially click on his Safari history, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. It seems he’s checked out a music store, tendinitis on WebMd, a weather site, a sports site, his school’s website portal, and the restaurant we went to last week. Nothing suspicious.
But when I click on Show all history, a long list pops up. The name Ava Hall is right there, in front of my eyes. I feel faint, and my lunch is threatening to come back up. In the flash of a second, I click on her name. I’m instantly brought to a Facebook post. A photo of her holding a cat. The caption reads: Just hanging with my BFF.
My heart dips into my stomach. It’s her. It’s definitely her. And her name is all over his browser history. I fall into sobs, and click on her name, at the top of the post.
I land on her page. My eyes are greedy, my fingers are restless, and my heart is breaking. Her profile photo is a close-up of her smiling, a closed mouthed grin. There’s something innocent and sweet about her. She reminds me of myself at that age. And I wonder if that’s where the attraction stems from. Innocence… sweetness. Life hasn’t had a chance to harden her, to jade her, to turn her into a cynic. Like me.
