by Belle Brooks
Why the fuck isn’t she here? Is Morgan really not my girl anymore? Is she not happy? Have I ruined us?
Sitting heavily back down on the wooden chair at our ten-seater dining room table, my heart constricts. This is the table Morgan wanted. The one matching the polished wooden floors, the flooring she couldn’t live without.
I feel bitter towards Morgan. I’ve never felt this way towards my wife in our entire sixteen-year relationship, yet here I am, confused, angry, and hurting. How I wish she’d never gone back to work. We don’t really need the money. We could have made do.
Am I jealous of her working again?
One year ago, our life was her only existence. She breathed us and only us. Now she has this job, and we’ve been shoved to the back seat. She loves the kids, there’s no doubting it, but I don’t know if she still loves me. Honestly, I doubt it.
Finishing off another glass of wine, I note the time on the clock hanging on the wall. Nine p.m.
“Fifteen minutes away, my arse,” I scoff out loud. “This is bullshit.” I bet she was never fifteen minutes away when she called, and the whole tyre blowout was a scam, an act of disguise so she could rendezvous with her new lover.
I'm so fucking over this.
Reaching for my mobile on the bench, I’m ready and raring to have it out with my wife, but I stop myself. If she wants to play silly games, then silly games we’ll play. My nostrils flare in the reflection of the toaster before I sit down and pour another glass of wine and I think about where we went wrong.
I wait for her like a lost fucking puppy. I stare at her empty place … there’s still no Morgan. Leaning across the table, I skull her glass of wine too.
Blowing out the candlelight that flickered hope as a soft and peaceful glow in the room, I head up the stairs to the master bedroom. What the fuck? Ten p.m. She’s still not home. Maybe she won’t ever come home. My throat becomes strained at such a notion. Morgan’s never done anything like this before. Why tonight? I said I was sorry for yelling at her on the phone, didn’t I? My stomach knots as my heart thrums loudly in my chest. Is Morgan in trouble? I shake my head telling myself that I’m tired and my muddled thoughts are just unfounded insecurities hell bent on plaguing me.
The water is hot and stings my skin once I step under its flow. Usually I’d run a cooler temperature when showering, but I’m so numb right now, this little bit of a burn tells me at least I’m breathing. I should have gone to her. Why did I leave her out there in this storm? Guilt.
A sudden loud bang comes from the direction of downstairs. It’s loud enough to be heard over the water’s spray.
Morgan!
I’m quick to reef off the taps before lunging out my arm in retrieval of my towel. It’s swiftly wrapped around my waist. Running, I nearly slip on the steps when my wet feet meet polished wood. The kitchen is all but a few steps away as my breathing quickens and I fly past one of the chairs that’s been tipped over. Is she drunk?
“Morgan, where the hell have you been?” I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going easy on her, as I eye the open fridge door. I’m even angrier than I realised.
“Sorry, Dad. Was just getting a drink.”
My body relaxes when I see Brax. “Sorry, mate. Hope I didn’t startle you.” I wrap my arm to his head and pull him close, kissing the top of his scalp.
He pushes me away. “You scared me, Dad. And you’re wet. Get off,” he huffs. “Is Mum not home yet?” His brown eyes glaze with a look of sadness. He has the same brown eyes as his mother. This saddened look is all too familiar to me—it’s identical to the one his mother flashes when heaviness overcomes her. I sigh at my observation. Where the fuck are you, Morgan?
“Not yet, mate. She’s had to work late. It’s okay though, go back to bed. Mum should be home soon.”
“You’re angry at Mum, Dad.” I’m not sure if he’s asking a question or making a statement, but those gloomy eyes are searching for an answer.
“A little, but it’s because I’m worried about her, that’s all. I’d say she will be pretty tired by now. Brax, I promise she won’t be far away. I’m going to wait up until she’s home safe. I promise you’ll see her in the morning.”
Brax glares at me like my nose is growing and the words coming from my mouth are complete lies.
The kids sense our recent unhappiness. I know they do. Hell, anyone who has been in our company over the last few months can.
“Go back to sleep, Son. You have a busy day tomorrow.”
He manages to cock his lip in a half-smile before moving past me towards the stairs.
“Brax,” I call out, jogging in his direction.
He stops, just short of where I halt.
“Be careful walking up those stairs. I don’t want you to trip. They have water on them. I’ll dry them off.”
“Okay, Dad,” he replies, waving his hand at me, while gingerly making his way to the second level.
Dropping my towel to the floor, my leg moves backwards and forwards, my foot handling the task of wiping the water off each step as I make my way slowly up the staircase. If Morgan were here, she would have purred seeing me like this. Well, I can be certain the old Morgan would have. In those days, even a flicker of my bare skin would send her crazy. Morgan has always admired my body through tender eyes, and I hers. We’re fit, healthy people. I’m not all bulging muscles, but for a father of two who’s well over thirty, I’d say I’m looking pretty damn good. For a mother of two, she looks more than amazing—she’s still hot to trot.
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been allowed the opportunity to explore her body—been allowed to let my fingers trace along her tender skin and my lips to skim her neck in the subtle way she likes. Now I’m invisible. Now Morgan stays covered.
Why is she so withdrawn?
Pulling on a pair of long checked pyjama bottoms and a plain white T-shirt, I head back to the dining room, turning on the lights in wait of her homecoming. The front door is my target and my eyes never stray, until I search for the time once more. The clock reads 10:27 p.m. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Morgan, why are you doing this to me?”
That’s it, I’m calling her. No more games.
Taking my mobile off the charger in the kitchen, I press Morgan’s number. It rings. Voice mail.
“Hi, you’ve reached Morgan Banks. I’m not available at the moment, but please leave a message and I’ll call you back soon. Have a great day.”
I press call again. It rings out. I listen to the same voice message before redialling. What am I doing? Why am I doubting her loyalty? Is it because she’s been turning a cold shoulder in my direction every chance she’s had of late? Or is it because I’ve once been tempted to bite into the apple of infidelity myself? I never told Morgan of that night, and although I walked away without breaking our wedding vows, I fear I treated her in this same way upon returning home. I was distant. I was cold. Morgan didn’t deserve that from me, and as I stand here lost, running these thoughts through my head, my hands become clammy. Quickly, my throat restricts as if I’ve swallowed a glass marble and it’s shifting to block my airway. I clear my throat and when my hand launches to my lips I taste my own guilt. Am I wrong? Is it my own past mistake creating a non-existent one for Morgan?
Why didn’t I go and get her? Hell! Why have I left it so long before I tried calling? I’m such an arsehole. My fingertips press hard into my scalp. My gut ties into hangman’s knots as heat burns a path up my throat. Panic.
Even though things aren’t great between us, Morgan’s never been out this late, and she has never not called to give an update or an estimated time she’d be arriving.
I’m guilty. Morgan’s not.
Oh shit, has something happened? “Reid, you are a dick. What if she’s had an accident?” I mutter under my breath.
Sweat slides in a drip down my eyebrow as my heart asks me if the woman I love with all my heart is in trouble … danger. Shaky fingers meet each key as I dial 000.
“Police.
Please.” There’s no calm in my tone, there’s no hope, only shuddering fear.
Morgan
Three hours earlier
The door to my office cracks open slightly, followed by a light knock against the wood. A head full of thick blond hair, followed by big blue, familiar eyes peeks in.
“Hey, Morgan, can you look over the Strassman file before you leave today? We have to present the proposal in the morning.” Brett’s voice is controlled in its usual manner, and as he treks into my office, brushing the lapel of his dark suit jacket as if a piece of lint hitchhiked a ride, I smile.
“Sure, Brett, not a problem,” I reply, with probably too much enthusiasm. As soon as the words leave my mouth I realise this is going to be a problem, a big problem.
The sound of the door latching behind him on exit, turns my once moderately sized office into what feels like a small cardboard box. The walls begin closing in, attempting to swallow me whole. Reid is not going to be happy. Not one bit. Maybe my office swallowing me in one gulp probably won’t be a bad thing after all.
You could have said no, Morgan. You’re your own undoing.
I cross my arms defensively releasing a drawn exhale. My head drops to my desk. I lift it slightly and then let it drop down again. “Stupid. You’re stupid, Morgan. You promised you’d be home on time today,” I whisper.
Crap! This will be the third time this week I’ll have to call Reid. I shiver at the thought of picking up the phone, but there’s no point delaying the inevitable. Without any further hesitation, I prepare for my husband's wrath. Somehow, I think simply going through my standard breathing exercises to bring calm to the situation is not going to be enough. The wretched Strassman file, situated on my desk by the phone, stares at me. Even it is cursing me.
"Morgan. Let me guess. You have to work back," he snaps through the speaker. Yes, he's angry. Again.
“Hi to you, too, honey.” My eyes roll, even though I know he can’t see me. “Yes, I do. But I promise you it won’t be too late tonight.” I try to make my voice sound cutesy, willing it to dampen his vexed mood. My breath hitches in my throat, hopeful this schoolgirl ploy works.
“Whatever, Morgan. So I’m picking up the kids from vacation care again?” His irritation towards me is evident.
“Please don’t be mad. Just today ... I promise. I’ve got it tomorrow … No working back. Cross my heart.”
The Strassman file is now clutched in my desperate hands, and is creasing from my mistreatment as I scramble to improve our situation. “I know they wanted me to collect them and they’re going to be upset I couldn’t make it again. I know this. But, please Reid. Can you handle this for me today?”
“When are you going to make time for us? For them? For me?”
I sigh. “Maybe we could arrange for a sitter and go out tomorrow night? Just you and me. A date? I know I’ve been tired lately and we could do with some alone time together, or we can go out somewhere nice as a family.” My voice is hesitant as I wonder if my husband will accept my latest peace offering.
His breathing is harsh and quick, but this drawn-out pause in our tense conversation generally means he is relaxing. “Okay. And of course I’ll get them. They’re my children. I wouldn’t just leave them there. What time will you be home?”
According to the clock high on the wall, it’s already 4:45 p.m. When did it get so late?
“About—” I stop, making sure to give a realistic calculation. “Seven, no later.”
I wait for his reply. It’s delayed as it always is when we have these conversations. They’re becoming so frequent now that my stomach knots into a tight ball every time I need to call and tell him I’ll be late. Ultimately though, I hear disappointment in his tone. What more could I expect?
“Okay. Can you promise you’ll be home for dinner?”
A soft sigh escapes me as my polished nails begin to press harder into the document folder. I hold my breath as I prepare to supply him with the answer he wants to hear. “Of course, Reid. I promise.”
With no farewell, the line falls silent as Reid disconnects. It’s not a comfortable silence either. Reid’s not himself of late. But, then again, neither am I.
The Strassman file falls to the desk with a soft thud. I stare at the manila folder thinking about all the promises I keep making to Reid and our children. Lately, breaking them has been my greatest downfall. Why I keep doing it—making them, and rarely following through—is beyond me. Is it because the words “I promise” deliver a sincere indication of my intentions of being there? I shake my head in confusion. Slow, shallow breaths become the only sound I hear as my tired brown eyes fall to the table. My hands lift, removing the clawed clip from my hair, allowing the mass to fall free of its binds. How I wish I could fall free too. Juggling work and family is not as easy as I expected.
“Strassman file,” I whisper, as my breath slowly escapes through still-tense lips. I already know when the kids are in bed tonight we will be at it again, arguing about every little thing.
When did my life go from blissfully happy to one full of stress and unease?
Strassman file complete: Check
Office locked and secured: Check
Numbers floating through my head: Check
The corners of my mouth rise into a smile with the realisation it’s home time. A feeling of satisfaction fills me as my Range Rover pulls away from the curb. I love being back in the world of finance, and even though I adored being a stay-at-home mum, this last year as a contributor to the household income has been a welcome change. Reid is still adapting, but I know if we keep trying, we will find a balance, eventually.
I turn the music up on the radio when I hear “Sexy and I Know It” by LMFAO. The traffic moves along nicely and I tap my hands against the steering wheel while ripping out a tone-deaf rendition of the song.
My shoulders slump as the music fades. The radio announcer discusses Kim Kardashian’s apparent butt implants. My mind, drifts off to thoughts of Reid. No doubt a stormy mood is brewing at home, waiting to explode upon my arrival. I let out a small groan. I hate that he’s having so much trouble with the fact sometimes I have to stay back at work.
Suck it up, and take on some household duties, will you? Work with me now. Damn it, Reid! Stop expecting everything from me. Those days are gone. I find myself glaring at the steering wheel gripped tightly between my hands. For twelve years, I took care of everything in our lives—our home, our finances, and our kids. Twelve years of calls from him to say he wouldn’t make it home in time for dinner. Twelve years of business trips and airport drop-offs and pick-ups. Twelve years of wiping away tears from two little children’s eyes who wanted Daddy to kiss them goodnight, Mummy having to comfort them because he was God knows where.
Now it’s my turn, and he pounds on me emotionally about it, even though I’ve never done this to him. I could have told him how I really felt at times. How overwhelmed I would often be when he was away. How he made me feel so unimportant and lonely at different periods of our life together. How I sought refuge in a glass or two of red wine to calm the fires burning inside me after an exhausting day, or how I would curl into a ball and cry my eyes out deep into his pillow. But I didn’t. Why? Because he was just doing his job, and I sucked it up like he should.
My hands grip the steering wheel so hard my fingers cramp. Relax, Morgan, relax. I inhale to alleviate this sudden tension. Immediately, my grip begins loosening its strangle hold. You’re doing the best you can, I tell myself in the hope of dispelling my insecure thoughts. I am doing my best, even when it doesn't feel like it’s good enough.
BANG!
“What the hell?” I shriek as the car swerves off the road. With unsteady hands, I manage to keep control and come to a dead stop in the gutter.
I’ve blown a tyre. Of course I have. Just my luck. “Arrhhhh!” I scream. With my palms banging the dash, I lean forward and look out the windshield down the long stretch of road leading me home. Knocking my head lightly agai
nst the steering wheel, I wonder when life is going to feel easy again.
“Really? Tonight? I have to do this tonight?”
If only that flat tyre was where my bad luck ended.
Reid
Where are they?
I called the police forty minutes ago, right before I called everybody I could think of who might have a clue where Morgan could be. No luck, and plenty of messages left to voice mail or answering machines. Good old coppers—probably eating donuts and drinking coffee somewhere, meanwhile my wife is possibly lying hurt in a ditch in the pouring rain. There’s a summer storm in full force, my wife is nowhere to be found, and I’m a mixture of blood-boiling mad and apprehensive. Shit combination.
The swing on the patio bangs against the rendered walls of our house for the fourth time in the last five minutes and it is annoying the absolute piss out of me as I wait by the door for the cavalry to arrive. I’ve called every hospital in the area. No Morgan Banks, or any unknown Jane Does for that matter. Where the fuck is she then? Pacing back and forth in angst, I find myself jumping every time the damn swing smacks against the bloody wall.
For fuck’s sake!
Stomping through the front door out onto the patio, I’m sprayed by rain, which stings my cheek as I slide the swing away from the foundations holding our two-storey house together.
“At least the banging will stop now,” I hiss through a tensed jaw.
Shielding my face, I search the road and with every glance I squint, due to the water droplets being hurled my way from Mother Nature … It’s impossible to see a damn thing out here. “Stop raining, will you? Fuck, I need it to stop raining now!” I shout my frustrations. “Morgan, where are you, honey? Where are you?” I’ve resorted to begging her to answer me, but all that can be heard is the howling of the wind as it barrels down the street.
The sky is a dome of plasma-grey, mixed with bolts of electricity-infused pulses. I make my way back just inside the house to escape the fury.
