Whisper Me This

by Kerry Anne King

  Greg grabs it first, and I think he’s going to pour for me, but instead he adds another splash to his own glass.

  “Do you think that’s wise, Maisey? You know how you get. Lenny? A refill?”

  This time Lenny pushes his chair back with determination and gets to his feet. “I really do need to be going. Good night, Maisey. Thanks for the evening. Nice to meet you, Greg. Hope the little girl is okay.”

  He flees like a frightened bunny.

  I watch him go, sadness and inevitability warring with the clear reality that the man is not exactly heroic, or at least certainly isn’t interested enough in me to put up a fight.

  “Oh damn. I’m sorry, Maisey. What a dick!” Greg says. “Here, have a drink. You deserve it.”

  He pours for me, and I catch myself feeling grateful before I remember that if he hadn’t come over, I’d very possibly be naked by now and well on my way to a much-needed orgasm.

  “What the hell was that?” I demand. “You couldn’t just bring her home and then leave?”

  “I have a responsibility to make sure my daughter is safe. If your latest boy toy isn’t man enough to withstand the scrutiny, you’re probably better off without him.”

  The fact that there is some truth to these words just drives them deeper under my skin. I take a sip, resisting the temptation to skip the glass and go straight for the bottle.

  “Well, we’re good and safe now. You can go home with a clear conscience.”

  “I’d think you’d be grateful,” he says. “But never mind. Like I was telling your friend—”

  “Lenny.”

  He rolls his eyes, as if he’s an overgrown teenager. “Right. Lenny. What kind of name is that, even, for a man? I know you’re trying. But you can do better.”

  “Tony, am I right?” Greg’s voice-in-the-now cuts into my memory. “I believe we spoke on the phone. Thanks for watching out for my girls.” He speaks dismissively, possessively, as if I’m a dog he’s picking up from the kennel.

  The pressure of his fingers between my ribs is growing into a torment. I want to tell him to stop, he’s hurting me. I want to pull away. But everybody is watching, including Elle, and anything I do is going to cause a scene.

  Tony extends his hand for a shake, but his blue eyes have shaded nearly to black, his face set in lines that make him look edgy and dangerous. He’s dressed up for the funeral, which for him means a nice shirt and a new pair of jeans. Unlike Greg, who has every button done, Tony’s got his sleeves rolled up over his forearms; the top button of his shirt is open. His hand is bigger than Greg’s, his forearm about twice the size, the skin multiple shades darker.

  Greg winces a few seconds into the handshake, and when they’ve completed that manly contest, he flexes his right hand twice before stuffing it into his coat pocket. His grip on me does not ease.

  Tony rolls forward a little onto the balls of his feet, hands loose and open, his eyes never straying from Greg’s.

  My brain does its usual thing, diving straight into a brawl right here in Mrs. Carlton’s living room. A left hook from Tony, Greg laid out flat on the floor, me counting out the seconds like a referee.

  I need to fix this. The whole scenario is my fault, somehow, although I’ve forgotten what it is that I’ve done. If Tony hits Greg and Greg sues him, that’s my fault. If Greg gets pissed off and takes Elle away from me, on grounds that I’m an incompetent mother who is exposing her to unhealthy influences, that’s my fault. If the day of my mother’s funeral is desecrated by a postfuneral brawl, that is definitely my fault.

  But my imagination, so adept at making up stories so real I can see them unfolding in front of my eyes, is a total dud at real-life solutions. All I can seem to do is breathe past the pain of Greg’s iron hand clamping down on my ribs, the looming shadow of his power play over my life, my child, this room.

  Mrs. Medina breaks the tension.

  “Oh, thank God, you’re here,” she says. “Take this plate from me, Tony. I ate so much I can’t get up off this couch. Come and give me a hug, Maisey. How are you holding up, my girl? Exhausted, I am sure.”

  Tony doesn’t move, doesn’t even look at his mother. His eyes lock on mine, asking a question I’m too afraid to answer.

  “I can take your plate, ma’am.” Greg releases me, flashing Mrs. Medina an easy smile. “I know exactly what you mean. Edna here has orchestrated quite a feast. I think I’ve gained five pounds myself.” He pats his flat belly and winks at Mrs. Carlton, who actually dimples.

  My legs feel a little unsteady, but it’s my wavering reality that makes me want to sink down onto the floor to make sure it’s still solid. I watch Greg take Mrs. Medina’s plate, bend down to pick up a dropped napkin, bestow another extravagant compliment on Mrs. Carlton, and then hug Elle and drop a kiss on the top of her head.

  I take a deep breath. It hurts, but it’s a relief and it anchors me back into my body, this room, this time and place.

  Maybe I’ve been manufacturing drama out of nothing. Again. Greg is a good man, I tell myself. He didn’t mean to hurt me. I only imagined the tension between him and Tony. Still, I find myself automatically putting distance between us, moving around the edge of the small room and scooching Elle over so I can sit on the end of the love seat with her beside me as a buffer.

  The instant Greg clears the room, Mrs. Medina hefts herself up from the couch, no assistance needed. “Go hug your grandpa,” she says to Elle, and then plunks down beside me. Her bulk fills the vacant space.

  “I’ll go look for Mia,” Tony says, and vanishes. I catch myself listening to his receding footsteps, knowing they are walking not only away down the hall, but out of my world. He’ll be like Lenny and all the others—poof, gone—which is just as well, really.

  So why does his absence exaggerate the empty space in my belly, make me want to run after him, grab his arm, and spill a bunch of apologies and explanations and even a plea to be my knight in shining armor and fight for me?

  That’s an image that instigates an urge to laugh and then to cry.

  A knight will fight a dragon, sure, or maybe even a cutthroat attorney, but generally for some sort of reward. The hand of a princess, say. I am far from a princess and too much of a failure to be worth fighting for.

  Laughter and sadness both give way to a wave of weariness so intense that I want to lie down on the floor, right in the middle of everybody, and close my eyes. But I can’t even let my head lean back, because this love seat is the most uncomfortable piece of furniture on the planet. The plastic cover is an extra diabolical touch. I keep sliding toward Mrs. Medina and the hollow her bulk has made in the seat cushion. At first I fight it, but finally give in and let my body rest up against hers.

  She’s more solid than she looks, muscle overlaid with padding. She pats my knee, her hand warm and steadying, and then, as if she knows what I need, guides my head down onto her shoulder and strokes my hair.

  I hear footsteps in the hall and know they are Greg’s. My heart lurches sideways, my eyes fly open. When I go to sit up, Mrs. Medina makes a soothing sound and weighs my head down with her hand, not so heavily that I couldn’t easily break away, but just enough to encourage me to stay. I feel safe, protected, and I let my eyes close.

  If I can’t see him, he can’t hurt me.

  Maybe I’m an ostrich with my head in the sand, but at the moment I’m a very comfortable ostrich.

  “How long are you staying, Daddy?” Elle chirps, and I feel my shoulders tighten, listening for the answer.

  “Thought I’d stay a few days and help your mom square away some paperwork. Maybe I’ll take you back with me.”

  “I’m staying till Mom goes.” Her voice is decisive and fearless, and I feel a small burst of pride at her strength and confidence. “School’s out next week already. I’m not missing anything.”

  “We will discuss it later,” he says, and I wonder if he’s already bought her a ticket. “Got an extra bed for a stray traveler, Walter?” It’s a qu
estion, technically, but said rhetorically. My stomach rises, then free-falls, like a broken elevator in a high-rise.

  Dad hasn’t made a single decision since my arrival. Sometimes he’s reasonably present and focused; sometimes he wanders where I can’t follow. I’m not capable of telling Greg no. I can already see all the rational arguments he’ll trot out if I should even try.

  “I don’t,” Dad says. “No room at this particular inn, I’m afraid.”

  Greg laughs. “I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

  “Well,” Dad says, in a considering sort of way, “Elle has the spare room bed. Maisey’s got the couch. I could offer to give up mine, I suppose.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of taking your bed, sir,” Greg says. “Elle can sleep on the floor. Right, Ellie?”

  “No.”

  My response surprises all of us, especially me.

  “Good girl,” Mrs. Medina whispers, releasing my head and patting my shoulder.

  I sit up, roll my shoulders back, straighten my spine. “Nobody’s sleeping on the floor. Nobody’s sharing beds. Wouldn’t your mother be disappointed not to have you?”

  “She moved into Parkview last summer. You know that. She doesn’t have room for guests.”

  “Neither does Dad. You could get a motel, maybe, or else sleep on her couch.”

  Greg laughs again, in a doting, condescending way as if he’s humoring a precocious child. “Come on, Maise. That’s just silly.”

  My momentary courage ebbs. He’s probably right. What would it hurt me to share a house with him for a couple of days? He’ll need access to paperwork. We have funeral food that needs to be eaten. He can spend some time with Elle, see that she’s okay, and will be more likely to let her stay with me, at least for the summer.

  I’m about to acquiesce when my father speaks up. “Maisey’s right. I’m afraid I can’t possibly put you up with any sort of comfort. Maybe Benny’s Inn? Or there’s that new hotel down by the Super One. What’s that called again?”

  Dad and Mrs. Carlton dive into a discussion of the merits of the local motels. Greg gives me his I know best and you’d better pay attention stare, the one he likes to bestow on the jury during his final argument, and then seamlessly joins into the motel discussion.

  “Have you eaten?” Mrs. Medina leans over to whisper in my ear.

  I blink at her, finally shaking my head. I’m not sure which time frame she’s talking about, but if she means today, the answer is no.

  “Come with me, dear. Let’s get you fed.” She hoists herself up with a whoosh of expelled breath and then reaches down and pulls me up. She precedes me down the hallway, runs interference between me and anybody who presents as too weepy, too clingy, or too nosy, and makes sure my plate is filled with not only salads and veggies, but two brownies and a slice of apple pie.

  “Don’t you dare even think about dieting at a time like this. Comfort food all the way. I wonder where my children have got to?”

  I shrug, but if Tony and Mia have any sense, they’ve gotten themselves well away from the train wreck that is me and my life. My sadness about this feels as inevitable as rain, and I brush it off. There’s a little glimmer that keeps me afloat. With Greg here to occupy Elle and keep an eye on Dad, with Tony and Mia safely out of the way, there is nobody to interfere with my plan to drive down to the Tri-Cities and make my sister talk to me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I use Dad as an excuse to go home.

  He’s clearly exhausted, his face drawn, eyes sunken. He looks like I feel. But once he’s tucked into bed for a nap, I still can’t rest. My nerves zing, my heartbeat won’t slow down, and the internal shaking feels like it will go on forever.

  Elle has gone off with Greg to see her grandmother. With Dad in bed, I have space and time to myself to read, to nap. But I feel too restless and unfocused to do either. My body aches in a million small places.

  It occurs to me that a hot bath would be a luxury, and I make my way into the bathroom, where I gaze, appalled, at myself in a mirror that performs the opposite of the Snow White magic.

  My mascara has smeared under my eyes; my blusher is long gone. I look pale and wretched, and the sight of myself makes me feel even less like the princess a knight would fight for. Tony was wise to flee. It’s a miracle Greg still talks to me.

  I give myself a mental shake, remind myself that the lighting in this bathroom made me look hideous even when I was sixteen. The walls are green, for one thing. And my parents have installed a set of harsh and unforgiving bulbs directly above the mirror.

  Fortunately, what the bathroom lacks in lighting and mirror kindness, it makes up for with the bathtub. Sometime after I left home, my parents installed a huge tub with water jets. I’m not sure if either of them ever used it, but I am about to.

  In some perverse spell of self-punishment, I undress in front of the mirror, forcing myself to notice every defect, every sign of aging. The soft pouch to my belly, the dimpled cellulite on the backs of my thighs, the beginning of a sag to my breasts.

  And on the right side of my rib cage, four purplish oval marks, lurid against the winter pallor of my skin. I stare at them, my brain frozen and not processing, until I turn and see the fifth mark on my back.

  Fingerprints.

  All my rationalizations scatter like cockroaches do when the light comes on. I didn’t just feel commandeered, claimed, objectified; it happened. The evidence of Greg’s possessive behavior is imprinted on my flesh.

  For a long time I stand there, breathing in a new reality. Realizations move through my head, clearing out debris. Memories reframe themselves. Beliefs transform. In the space of a few moments, I’m a brand-new Maisey. I even look different to myself in the mirror.

  Stronger.

  Braver.

  More like my mother.

  The tub is now full of water, but before I get in I do one last thing. Using my phone, I photograph the marks on my body from multiple angles, a reminder to myself in case I begin to forget.

  I soak in the tub until the water cools to tepid, letting all my new pieces come together. When I get out, I picture emotional debris swirling down the drain.

  I realize that I’m starving and think longingly of the plate I abandoned at Mrs. Carlton’s house, largely untouched. There’s plenty of food, though, and all I have to do is warm it up. Dad needs to be reminded to eat, and I go to his room to wake him. He’s not there.

  My heart starts an anxious flutter all over again. What if he’s wandered off and forgets where he is? What if he’s chosen to follow my mother and deliberately harmed himself?

  I don’t have time to get worked up very much because he’s sitting at his desk in the study, sorting through papers.

  “I thought you’d be sleeping,” I tell him, and he swivels around to face me.

  “Every time I closed my eyes I saw . . .” He swallows and stops. “Well, you know, I expect.”

  “I know, Daddy.”

  He turns back to the desk, sorting papers into perfectly even stacks. He looks better, sitting at his desk. More focused. More like himself.

  “I didn’t do right by you,” he says. “I’m deeply sorry.”

  “Are you kidding? You couldn’t have been a better father to me if—”

  “Not that. About Greg. I didn’t do right by you where it comes to Greg.”

  My knees do that wobbly thing. Fortunately, there’s nobody to see or care, and I plop down right there in the middle of the study.

  “I don’t understand,” I whisper.

  He turns the chair to face me. “Neither did I, until today. Did he hurt you?”

  My mouth opens and gets stuck that way, without any words appearing. I’m not sure what he’s even asking.

  “Today,” my father says. “At Edna’s. Come here, Maisey.”

  Obedience kicks in, and I get up and cross to his desk. He lifts my sweatshirt just high enough to see the marks where Greg has staked his claim. “I thought so,” he says,
softly. “Let me see your back.”

  So I show him that bruise, too, after which he says nothing, and I let myself sink back down onto the floor, legs crossed yoga style. My cheeks burn with shame and anger and even denial.

  I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t my fault.

  “I never liked him,” Dad says, interrupting my self-admonishment. “From the first time you brought him home. My very first thought when he walked in that door was that he was a fine young rooster in need of a little beak snipping.”

  “Dad!”

  “It was true, wasn’t it?”

  “You never said anything. I thought you liked him. Everybody loves Greg.”

  “Your mother loved him,” Dad says, very quietly. “She thought he was good for you—steady, balanced, decisive.”

  I pick at the carpet, like I used to do when I was a little girl. One of the fibers comes loose, and I twist it through my fingers, wishing Mom was still here to give me a harmless smack on the back of the head and tell me to stop ruining things.

  “I always thought there was something wrong with me,” I finally murmur. I glance up at my father’s face and then just as quickly away again. “It’s something about me makes him like this. He doesn’t do it to anybody else.”

  “Not true,” Dad says, vehemently. “Don’t you let him make you believe that, Maisey. Don’t you believe it. What he did today, at the funeral? There was no excuse for that, even if you are sleeping with that nice young fireman.”

  “Dad—”

  “Are you?”

  “What? No!”

  “Pity. Him, I like. And his mother, too. Greg’s mother—let’s just say I’m glad she didn’t make it to the potluck. I always thought you did right, refusing to marry him. I never told you, and I wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Daddy.”

  “If I’d known—if I’d realized that he was laying hands on you—well, of course I would have said something. Your mother, too. If she had known—”

  “She’d have come after him with the broomstick. Or the frying pan. She didn’t know. You didn’t know.” I lower my voice. “I didn’t even know.”