by R. R. Banks
I'm accustomed to only seeing Greg and the rest of the guys when they're crowded around a card table in the living room surrounded by a cloud of smoke, so it takes me a few seconds to actually recognize him. He seems to instantly know who I am, though. His eyes widen slightly, and he gives me a smile that seems slightly less than friendly. I can't quite put my finger on why. Letting the baking potato slip from his fingers back onto a stack that seems unstable enough to send the entire display spilling onto the floor, Greg walks over to me.
"Hey, Abigail," he says. "Funny seeing you here."
"I'm just grocery shopping," I say. "This is the closest store to our place."
I can feel my eyes narrow at him. It's true that this is the closest grocery store to my house, but from what I know about Greg and where he works and lives, I know it's decidedly out of his way. I can't think of a reason he'd stop by here first thing in the morning to grab some potatoes.
"Grocery shopping," Greg repeats, nodding. "That's a good thing to do in the morning."
The interaction is getting stranger by the moment, and I look around, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.
"Well, I better be going. I should get home and get some cleaning done before I get supper started."
It's hours before I need to start cooking, but it's the first thing to pop into my mind that might help me get away from Greg. I don't wait for him to respond before making a beeline across the produce section to grab the few items I need there.
"Tell Trevor I say hi," he calls after me, "and that I'm looking forward to our game on Friday."
I nod and wave over my shoulder at him, relieved when I see a mother with four small children in tow come into the section.
When I arrive back at the house almost an hour later, I'm startled to see Trevor's car still in the driveway. He should be at work by now. Grabbing as many of the bags as I can, I start toward the back door of the house. This door leads directly into the kitchen, making it easier when unloading groceries. As soon as I step inside, I see Trevor leaned against the counter. He's sipping an amber-colored liquid from a glass in his hand, and I'm certain it's not sweet tea.
"This is a surprise," I say. "I thought you'd still be at work."
"That's what I wanted you to think," he says.
Some of the smile from this morning is still on his face, but like when I saw Greg, there's a hint of something beneath it that puts me on edge.
"What do you mean?"
I start toward the door again, and Trevor downs the rest of the liquid in his glass and starts to follow me.
"Are there more groceries in the car?" he asks.
I glance over my shoulder at him.
"Yes," I say.
He peers in through the open door at the bags lined along the back seat.
"What did you get?" he asks.
"I replenished the breakfast things. Stuff for dinner for the next week. Some snacks."
"Did you get any produce?"
I'd been walking back toward the open door, but this makes me stop in my tracks. I turn toward him for a second.
"A few things," I say.
"Good," Trevor says as he walks past me into the house.
There's a knotting sensation in my stomach as I follow him. We stand at the counter, him watching me as I unload the groceries from the bags and start to put them away. I can feel his eyes following every movement I make, only increasing the uneasy feeling in my stomach.
"You sure didn't spend as much time in the grocery store as you did with that woman yesterday," he says.
I stop in front of the open cabinet, leaving the box of cereal I was putting up hovering just beneath the shelf.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
I hope my voice doesn’t crack as much as I think it is.
"In the grocery store," he says. "You didn't spend as much time in there as you did when you went out with that woman yesterday."
"How do you know how long I was at the grocery store?" I ask.
"Greg texted me and told me he saw you. Told me how long you were there."
I turn and shake my head at him.
"No," I say. "That's not what happened at all. He didn't see me when I got there, and I was there after I talked to him. He wouldn't know how long I was actually at the store."
I feel like I'm being set up. This isn't a casual observation. It's not just a pleasant conversation. Trevor is trying to make me say specific and reveal some hidden truth about the time I spend away from the house. I look back at him silently until he finally lets out a barking laugh.
"Alright," he says. "I'm just playing with you. He didn't tell me you were there. That's not how I knew how long you were shopping."
"Then how? If he didn't tell you, how did you even know he was at the store?
"I was there," Trevor says, pushing away from the counter and stepping toward me.
"What do you mean you were there?" I ask.
"I was there," he repeats.
"At the grocery store?"
Trevor nods.
"I didn't actually go to work today. I took the day off."
"Why?"
Some of his smile fades.
"Because I wanted to. No matter what excuses you gave me yesterday, I don’t believe you. I wanted to make sure you were doing what you said you were, and that meant I had to see it for myself."
"So… you followed me?" I ask.
I don't know why I feel so incredulous. I would put little past Trevor at this point, especially when it comes to proving himself right.
"Yes, I followed you," he says. "I waited around the corner for you to leave. I’ve always told you that you don't pay enough attention while driving. This just proves it. I was right there behind you, and you didn't even notice. I watched you go into the store, made sure you met up with Greg, and then watched you come out. I left while you were putting the bags in your car."
"That's why he was there," I say.
"You're quick," he says sarcastically. "I couldn't risk being embarrassed anymore, Gail. You understand that, don’t you?"
"I still don't know why you think you should be embarrassed at all," I say. Any worry or fear I've felt is gone now. Only anger remains. "I do nothing but take care of you. I'm at this house all day making sure it's clean, that you have food waiting for you. And no matter what, I'm still never good enough for you. I'm not even your –"
I stop myself before I let the word come out of my mouth. Intense heat creeps up the back of my neck and burns on my cheeks.
"My what?" he asks, then lets out a mirthless, bitter laugh. "My wife? Is that what you were thinking? You're not even my wife, but you still do all those things for me? Maybe if you were better at it, and not constantly making me check up on you, or follow after you to keep you in line, I'd be more willing to even think about marrying you. But it's going to take a lot more than doing chores and serving mediocre food to make you worthy of being my wife."
Something inside me snaps. It feels like it has been coiled deep inside me for so long, I barely even realized it was there until I feel it unraveling explosively within me. I've never felt anger like this. It brings me back to countless childhood nights spent cowering and trying to hide the tears streaming down my cheeks. I refuse to cry this time.
"You know what, Trevor? You're right. I'm not cut out to be your wife. I never have been. There's no point in trying to convince either one of us that it will work out one day. Not anymore."
"What do you mean by that?" Trevor asks, taking another forceful step toward me.
I stay right where I am.
"It means I'm done," I say. "This isn't the life I want. It's not the life I ever wanted."
His dark eyes are almost obsidian now.
"It seems like you wanted it just fine for the last four years."
"I want the man I thought you were when we met. He never would have been so suspicious of me. He never would have followed me or planted one of his friends somewhere to make sure I was behaving. He never
would have stopped me from working or taken my phone. You aren't that man anymore. There's no reason for me to stay."
I start toward the bedroom to start packing, but Trevor steps in my path and blocks me from going any further.
"Where do you think you're going? I didn't tell you this conversation is over."
"I don't need you to tell me that. I'm an adult, Trevor. I'm not your child, and I'm not your property. I'm not going to let you treat me like a prisoner anymore."
I try to get around him, but he grabs me by my arm.
"A prisoner?" he growls. His eyes flash now, and fury rises up beneath his tanned skin to make them seem sunken in. He looks like a feral animal. "Is that how you think I treat you?"
"Let go of me, Trevor."
"No," he says. "You know what? I think you're exactly right. I shouldn't have been giving you so much freedom."
He starts trying to drag me toward the narrow yellow door leading down into the basement. Digging my heels down into the floor, I try to resist.
"What are you doing?" I demand.
"Exactly what you said. I'm making you my prisoner. That way you can't possibly resist my control anymore."
I reach out and grab for the table, then the doorknob to the pantry. I'm doing everything I can to not let him get me to the door. The fear I thought I had pushed out of my mind has returned as a sharp spike of terror. The fury in Trevor's voice is beyond anything I've heard before, and I don't want to think about what could happen to me if he gets me down into the basement. One of my nails cracks and starts to pull away from my finger as I continue to grasp at anything I can. The door to the basement opens, and the creaking of the old hinges sends a shiver along my skin. Trevor yanks me forward, and I stumble. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the hazy, dusty light coming from the bare bulb in the center of the stairway leading down, and the other positioned in the center of the small room.
"Trevor! Stop! Let me go."
"No," he hisses. "I've done everything for you, Gail. If it weren’t for me, you'd still be in that dark hole you were trying to crawl out of with your parents and your brother. You are so fucking ungrateful. You're always trying to get things your way. You never show me the respect I deserve. I'm not going to let that happen anymore. You're going to stay right here where I can keep a close eye on you."
He starts down the stairs, and I feel my body hit the top step, the sharp edge of the unfinished wood scraping across my skin. I can't let him do this. I can't let him pull me down into that dank, dirty space and leave me there. I suddenly feel as though everything I've experienced has built up to this very moment, and I know I have to act. A few more seconds could take away any possibility I have of surviving this. Trevor goes down two more steps, and rather than trying to control my movement, I let my body slide off the steps, so I hit the backs of his legs. Just as I hoped he would, he loses his balance just enough to have to release his grip on me and hold the banister beside him. The instant I feel the pressure of his hand loosen on my arm, I scramble the rest of the way up the steps and slam the basement door behind me. The doorknob was installed so that the thumb turn of the lock is inside the kitchen, and I quickly turn it. I can hear Trevor screaming obscenities from the inside of the basement, and I know it will only take a few well-directed kicks to take the door down, but it bought me the few seconds I need.
I run into the living room and reach under the couch. I feel around for a few seconds, finally grabbing onto the handle I'm seeking. The sound of wood beginning to splinter fuels me to go faster, and I finally yank the bags out from where I had hidden them beneath the piece of furniture. I grab my purse from where it sits on the kitchen table and run out of the house. My hands are shaking so hard I almost can't start the car, but I keep trying until the engine finally roars to life. My tires squeal angrily against the gravel of our driveway as I slam on the gas and shoot backward out onto the narrow road in front of our house. I'm driving almost blindly, I push the car to its greatest speed and pray I won't meet any wildlife or another car as I make my way down the curvy road. Every few seconds, I glance into the rearview mirror to make sure Trevor isn't following me yet. Knowing he was right behind me when I was driving to a grocery store this morning is sickening, and I can't escape the sensation of his eyes on my back. Even though I can’t see him in the rearview mirror, I can’t shake the horrible feeling that he's somehow right there and I just can't see him.
I don't know where I'm going or what I’m doing until I see the illuminated sign of a hotel in front of me. I didn't realize I had driven so far, but that welcoming sign sends a rush of relief through me. Even though I can see the fluorescent Vacancy sign next to the door to the lobby, I skid around to the back of the building and park. I didn't notice Trevor behind me, but I don't want him to see my car parked in front of the hotel when he drives by. If he is following me. I know he probably is. He has to be. He wouldn't go through all of that, and then just let me go that easily.
After shutting off the engine, I look at the bags I have sitting on the passenger seat. I don't even remember what's inside the two small duffel bags I had shoved under the couch. They've been there for many months, just waiting for when I might need them. Looking back on the compulsion I felt to hide them in the first place, I now know that should have been a red flag. As soon as stuffing necessities into bags and shoving them under furniture became a valid strategical step, I should have realized it was time for me to leave. The idea for packing the bags came out of a show I caught in the middle of the afternoon a while back. Sitting on the edge of the couch, I watched the survival expert describe how to get through emergency situations by preparing for them ahead of time. Creating a bug out bag was his way of preparing for severe weather. It was my way of giving myself an escape. The expert said the bags should be kept somewhere easily accessible. Instead, I chose to make mine inaccessible – at least to Trevor. I tucked them away where he would never find them. Looking under the furniture was a step too close to cleaning, so I knew there was no chance of him discovering the collection of items that are now all I have left of my former life.
I can't go back to that life. I can't live another freaking day in a situation I had been so desperate to escape. Scooping up the bags, I dart out of the car and across the empty parking lot. Ahead of me, I see a swimming pool well past its prime. There's a tinted door leading out onto the empty pool deck, but also a fence wrapped around the entire area, preventing me from getting any closer. I run around the corner of the building, open the front door, and slip into the lobby. The woman sitting behind the registration desk looks up, and I rush across the cracked cream and brown tile floor toward her. I've never been inside this hotel before. It always seemed rundown and semi-abandoned. Right now, however, I'm extremely grateful for the walls around me, and the tint of the front doors that means even if Trevor does drive past the hotel, he won’t be able to see inside.
"Hello," the woman behind the desk says.
"Hi," I say. My voice comes out breathless and dry, and I know she sees my eyes flickering back and forth between her and the road outside. "I need a room, please."
"Just you?" she asks.
"Yes," I say.
She steps up to the computer, turning just enough that I can see the nametag pinned to her chest. Brigitte.
"How many nights will you be staying with us?" she asks.
That question makes me realize just how little I thought this whole thing through.
"Three nights," I say.
I know I can't pay for it. The little bit of money Trevor gives me was basically depleted by grocery shopping this morning, and I don't even have enough left to pay for one night. But I'll find a way to deal with that when I must. This will give me some time to figure things out, and right now, that's all I need.
Brigitte hands me a keycard with an advertisement on its back for a steakhouse that closed a few months ago. She nods toward the single elevator at the back of the lobby, and I thank her before picking up m
y bags again and dragging them toward the dinged silver doors. As soon as I step inside, I feel safe. The space is small enough that I can see everything around me, and the enclosure of the walls and doors gives me the sense that nothing can approach without me knowing. This lasts only a few seconds before the elevator stops and opens on my floor. The hallway is eerily quiet, and I remember that I only saw four other cars sitting in the parking lot. I can only assume one of them belongs to Brigitte and one more to another employee since I can't imagine only one person working at a time. This means there are likely only two other occupied rooms in the hotel. As I quickly head down the hallway and slip into my assigned room, I don't know if the solitude is comforting or unnerving. As I engage the chain lock behind me, I wonder why Brigitte chose this room for me. If the rest of the hotel is largely empty, I would think she would have assigned me a room close to the lobby, yet I'm sitting here on the third floor of a three-floor hotel, wondering if she might have put the other guests on the first and second floor to spread us out.
I stand in the middle of the room and realize I don't know what to do next. My day isn't mapped out for me anymore. There's no lasagna to make for dinner, or laundry to finish fast enough to where it seems that dirty clothes never exist in the house. I don't have to vacuum or strip the bed. I don't even have to make sure I always have the cordless phone with me, just in case Trevor calls to check on where I am and what I'm doing. That connection is gone.
The realization seems to take all the remaining energy that I had out of me, and I sit down on the end of the bed, suddenly exhausted. Around me, the room is cool and silent. I haven't turned on the lamp, so the only light flickering in comes through a slight gap in the curtains on the window. Which is perfect, because right now, all I want to do is sleep.
Chapter Two
Abigail
The next morning…
