by Pamela Crane
In some demented way I wanted the torture. I deserved the pain. No one could possibly understand the panic, the fear, the full-body anxiety, the self-blame unless they had lost a child.
It hurt to move. Every muscle, every brain cell ached. I could feel my own departure, as if my body was shutting down. And I almost wanted it to … if only just to stop the pain.
But what if Amelia was alive? What if she was out there waiting for me to find her?
What if …?
Hiding in bed wouldn’t help. I had to keep walking forward. I had to keep searching.
“Maybe you’re right, Shay,” I said wearily. “Maybe I can bring Amelia home.”
“Thatta girl. Think positive.” Shayla hoisted me by the elbow and pulled me upright. “No time like the present to get going.”
And yet I couldn’t muster the energy to move.
I sighed.
“Don’t give up. You are a fighter, Jo. Fight for Amelia. She needs you, and you can save her. I just know it.”
Shayla had always been a natural cheerleader. Back in high school her verve more than once motivated our basketball team to come back for a win from the most dismal of odds. That same perkiness anointed her cheerleading captain two years in a row.
“Let’s make some posters together and we can put them up. I’ll do some social media blasts too—you never know who might have seen her or know something. We’ll find her, Jo. I promise you, we’ll find Amelia.”
I needed to hear this. Though the reality was grimly hopeless, Shay’s encouragement shattered the darkness that had been sucking me in. I could lie in bed weeping away the days, or I could find my little girl and bring her home.
In a tearful moment of gratitude, I pulled Shayla into a hug and clung to her like she was my life support. Hugging me back, I felt the burden shift off my shoulders, as if hoisting it onto Shayla for us to share. Maybe I’d be okay. Maybe we’d get through this.
“I love you, Shay. I couldn’t handle this without you.”
“I got you, girl. That’s what best friends are for, right?” she whispered into my hair. Then she drew back from me, gripping me by the shoulders. “How about we get started on those posters and bring Amelia home?”
Although I forced a grin for the sake of my friend, I felt my heart tear a little, knowing it would all be futile. It had been too long. Amelia was already dead. I was searching for a corpse.
Chapter 11
Shayla
Lies piled on top of lies.
Secrets smothering secrets.
I was beginning to feel bound by the web of deceit I had woven.
Initially the plan was to go straight home from Holt Elementary where I taught a class of rambunctious first graders. Though, perhaps the word taught was being generous. Mainly I attempted to keep them in line—and injury free—until the dismissal bell rung at 2:15. On most days I was successful at this job. It just depended on when Isaak Bloomington came to school.
On the days Isaak graced us with his presence, all hell broke loose. After about a month of trying to keep Isaak from picking fights, or throwing chairs, or cussing at the staff, or simply doing what he wanted when he wanted, I looked forward to the days his mother simply didn’t feel like getting him to school. Luckily she didn’t disappoint me often.
Today was an Isaak day. Following a grueling seven hours of him talking back and slapping a third-grader who was twice his size—Isaak had balls, for sure—I wasn’t ready to go home yet.
I needed a smoke and a drink, but I didn’t want to drink alone.
After Jo’s hourly descent into depression from Amelia’s abduction, I let Trent know I’d be stopping by to check in on her again. I’ll be late getting home, I told him. Don’t wait up, I said.
Only, I’d hidden a little lie in there.
Okay, maybe a big lie. The best lies were always peppered with an ounce of truth.
I didn’t mention where I’d be heading after Jo’s.
Jim’s Tavern lived up to its Southern roots. Pictures of bygone tobacco plantations and Durham Bulls baseball jerseys lined every square inch of wall space, representing a collage of the town’s history. The booth where I sat was made of rough-hewn logs, and above my shoulder a deer’s head leered down at me. As unnerving as it was being watched by a stuffed dead animal, the drumming fingers of the man sitting across from me unnerved me even more.
“Kelse, could you knock off the tapping?” I said, irritation edging my voice.
He stared at me, grinning crookedly, his forehead wrinkled with confusion.
“Tapping?”
“Yeah, your fingers. Banging on the table. It’s annoying.”
“Oh, sorry, babe. I didn’t realize I was doing it.”
And that was the end of the argument.
Such compliance. I had the man wrapped around my pinkie.
As he returned his gaze to the menu sprawled open in front of him, I felt a teensy bit guilty for snapping at him. Why was I being such a bitch? I couldn’t help myself today. I needed to be. And yet Kelsey Gray would suck it up with a smile, like he always did.
“I’m sorry,” I added, breaking the awkward silence. “I’m having a rough day and taking it out on you.”
Kelsey looked up at me with a charming smile, his teeth so perfect they’d put Denzel Washington’s grill to shame. A lock of wavy black hair hung in front of his professionally groomed eyebrows. The man was more put together than me, goddamn him. I often teased him about being a metrosexual, and he’d never quite denied it. He tucked the strands behind his ear, then placed his palm on top of my hand. His cuticles were cleaner than mine, and I was almost jealous.
“It’s okay, babe. Let’s just try to enjoy the time we have together.”
He was asking the impossible tonight, because he didn’t realize a fight was in store for us. It had been a long time coming—our inevitable breakup—despite his optimism that we’d be together forever. In his love-drunk stupor, he imagined us eloping on some exotic beach while the wet ink of my divorce papers stained our fingers. For months I’d gone along with it—the dreamy anticipation, the forbidden excitement, the thrill of our lovers’ embrace. But the reality was that the fun had worn off. Reality set in, and the reality was that ecstasy lost its potency over time. Steadfast marital love was more enduring than hot monkey sex on the sly.
I had a husband. Kids. A mortgage. Vacation plans. A half-finished herb garden. I couldn’t just leave it all behind for Kelsey, no matter how much fun he was on the side, or how pretty he made me feel. Maybe I was a coward. Or maybe I actually wanted my old life and didn’t know it.
Once upon a time I had imagined life without my family, my house, my day-to-day existence. In this vision I traveled the world, sightseeing enchanting cities and dining on fine cuisine. But the more I envisioned sharing that journey with Kelsey and his rhythmic fingers, the more I didn’t want it. The more I realized I’d rather end up alone than with him.
He annoyed the shit out of me. He was too nurturing, like my mother. He smacked his lips while he chewed. His emerald eyes sat too far apart—his only physical imperfection. He talked about his feelings too much. I damn near hated the man. So why was I dragging this affair out? It could only end badly … and I had a feeling Kelsey wouldn’t be as eager to get back to reality as I was.
My reality was my family—Trent and the kids. If I lost them, there would be no exotic travels or extravagant meals. Instead I’d be hibernating in my room and starving myself like Jo was doing right now, because they were my anchor. I didn’t want to be alone. Not after seeing what Jo was going through in losing Amelia. I loved Arion and Tenica. I loved the comfortable silence I had with Trent. I loved my job, even on Isaak days. I couldn’t give it all up. Not for a man I had grown to loathe.
And that thought set me in motion.
“Kelse, we need to talk.”
The dreaded segue.
The beginning of the end.
Just as I mustered the courage
to get the conversation over with, the waitress arrived, pen and pad ready. “Welcome to Jim’s Tavern. My name’s June and I’ll be taking care of you this evening. Can I start you off with some fried pickle chips or pork BBQ nachos?”
I glanced up at her, unsure if I should order. Knowing what I was about to do, my appetite was long gone. But the poor woman looked so haggard with her hair falling sloppily out of her ponytail and mascara smearing under her vacant eyes. Stains dotted her black Jim’s Tavern T-shirt, and I wondered if she felt this job was as demeaning as it looked. She smiled, but as a fellow woman, I saw the insincerity behind it. June needed this order more than I did.
The most expensive item on the menu it was, then.
“I think we’re ready to order.”
We placed our orders with the waitress, and I wasted no time jumping into the conversation as she rushed off to another table.
“As I was saying,” I began.
“I’m going to stop you right there, Shayla,” Kelsey interrupted.
The remainder of my sentence snagged in my throat in shock that this good-looking pushover would dare interrupt me.
“I know what that line is—a breakup line. But I’m not going to let you do this to me. I refuse. I’ve waited months for you. I’ve put my life on hold for you. I’ve given my heart to you. My entire future is wrapped up in you, Shayla. You don’t get to just throw that away.”
His voice grew firmer with each sentence, and I was afraid to speak. And I was never afraid to speak my mind to anyone. Let’s just say I wasn’t the most winsome personality, but I was a force to be reckoned with.
Clearly I had lost that force with Kelsey.
“You’re going to get a divorce like you said you would,” he growled. “We’re going to get married. We’re going to travel to the places we talked about. You’re going to fulfill every damn promise you made to me. Or else, be prepared for war.”
“War?” I scoffed.
“Shut up!” he yelled, banging his fist on the table. A spoon clattered to the floor and my glass of water trembled. I felt curious eyes watching. “If you think you can just walk away from me, you’re wrong. No one walks away from me. I will take you down. Your husband, your children, your co-workers—they will all know about what you’ve been doing with me in your free time. I will ruin your life, like you’re trying to ruin mine. So before you say another word, think on that.”
I sat in stunned silence. Kelsey had never been rough with me, aside from in the bedroom. He had always seemed to go with the flow, letting me call the shots. But clearly not anymore.
I didn’t know this man who sat before me, and I didn’t want to find out more about him. All I knew was that I believed every word he said. The threat was real; the threat would devastate my life. This wasn’t going to be as easy as I hoped. I’d need a plan to get rid of him—one that would allow me to walk away free and clear. If any such hope existed.
Kelsey’s green eyes bore into me and I knew what I had to do. It would be ugly, it would require sacrifice, but in the end it was the only option. He left me no choice. I’d make Kelsey regret that first lustful gaze eight months ago, the moment he approached me across the bar offering to buy me a drink. I’d ended up ordering a shot of Johnnie Walker blue label, even though I didn’t like scotch, just to see how much he’d spend on me. Every steamy early-afternoon sexcapade after this would be a burning brand on his skin that he’d never forget and always regret.
Because I was going to take Kelsey Gray down, and I knew exactly how to do it.
“Well then,” I said, my voice quavering and my stomach wringing itself sick as I contemplated my next move, “how about we order a drink?”
Chapter 12
Ellie
I never expected to find myself the victim of unrequited love by the man I’ve married. How can it be that someone I’ve given all but a sliver of my heart to doesn’t love me back? How can twelve years of devoted for-better-or-worse, in-sickness-and-health love boil down to absolutely nothing to one half of the union and yet hold every ounce of meaning in life for the other half?
Sure, I’ve always thought it possible that one of us loved the other just a little bit more—that person being me, of course. It was obvious from the beginning, evident in the way I hung by his side while he shifted slightly away. In my longing gaze while his attention was elsewhere. In my need to talk to him in bed about anything and everything on my mind when he just wanted to fall asleep. I never discounted our love over those small details, though. It was simply me being an emotional, attached woman and Denny being an unemotional, detached man. But the depth of our love I never doubted. The security of our relationship I knew was strong.
Oh, how wrong I was. I loved him too much, and he loved me too little … or perhaps not at all. Maybe I was a prize to be won, only to be regifted to someone else. Or a conquest where the thrill faded, and being the macho man that he was, a new victory must take my place.
This wasn’t how marriage was supposed to be. One couldn’t simply give up on it without the consent of the other, right? We were bound together. But what I saw as cupped together in a delicate oneness, Denny saw as constrained by chains. While I delighted in our gentle drawing together, Denny pushed to break free from his bondage. What is left for me to do but fight for a marriage Denny has already surrendered, or walk away as years of love wither and die? What kind of choice is that?
I hadn’t meant to find it. But there it was, slapping me like a cold wind. A receipt for a $184 dinner for two at Ruth’s Chris Steak House, a fancy-pants restaurant Denny had never treated me to in all our years of marriage. And paid for with cash. How perfectly sly of him. The receipt told me all I needed to know—two surf-and-turfs, one bottle of wine, one dessert. There was nothing corporate about this meal. It was clearly romantic.
The receipt had slipped out of his pocket while I was prepping a load of laundry. It seemed innocuous enough, until I uncrumpled the wad of paper and read it.
Denny’s dress pants glided from my hands to the floor. As I clutched the thin, wrinkled paper, all I knew was that my suspicions were confirmed: Denny was a cheating bastard. And Denny was going to pay for his mistake. I couldn’t decide if I was heartbroken or angry … or maybe a bit of both. The line between love and hate was a thin gray haze, making it easy to slip between the two emotions. As much as I loathed my betraying husband at this moment, my heart still belonged to him. It always would; he’d been the only man I ever truly loved, and that wouldn’t change. It couldn’t change. Because I’d split my heart in half the day we got married, gave him that part of me, and entrusted him with it for life. Why did he have such a firm grip? Why couldn’t I take my heart back? Why couldn’t I shake him off?
Suddenly I knew the answer. Because deep down I was no one without him. He created me back before I knew who I was. I based my personality on what Denny liked in a woman, focused my dreams on Denny’s dreams, built my identity on Denny’s picture of what a wife should be. Without Denny, who was I? I didn’t know because I’d never bothered to find out.
I liked what Denny wanted me to like. I read what Denny recommended I read. I cooked the meals Denny savored most. I raised the kids the way Denny demanded they be raised. I cleaned the house the way Denny preferred. Denny was the sun I revolved around. And yet he had left me in a sunless void while he found a new galaxy to explore—the woman he ate $184 surf-and-turf with.
A tear slid down my cheek. The realness of my findings couldn’t be explained away anymore. The lipstick stain and lingering perfume on his shirt was circumstantial evidence. This was exhibit A. It was true. It was clear. There was no legitimate reason for this receipt to be in his pocket. Especially on a night he told me he was working late.
I suspected she was a co-worker, but it was only just that—a suspicion. I needed to know who he was screwing. If she was prettier than me, younger than me. Did I even have a chance to compete against her? Did I even want to?
I felt the pull
of obsession as I read the receipt again … and again, wondering if they held hands across the table, if candles illuminated the space between them, if they shared kisses between each bite, if they fed each other dessert, if they split the bottle of wine until they were tipsily flirting and touching. While I sat at home cooking him dinner and washing his laundry, he was spending our money on my younger, sexier replacement.
I hadn’t seen any unusual expenditures from the bank account—and I checked it almost daily online—so Denny was being extra careful when treating the home-wrecker to dinners out by using cash. Were there other meals? Or—God forbid—hotels?
A gasp choked me as I imagined my husband checking into a hole-in-the-wall hotel with a giggling skank by his side. Or was it something classier? Was she footing the bill? If she worked with him and made good money, there was no way I could compete with beautiful and successful.
Heading into the bedroom, I rifled through the dirty clothes hamper, searching every pocket but turning up empty-handed. I wondered if he had tossed any evidence in the bathroom garbage can, so with careful fingers, I pushed aside used tissues and sticky pieces of floss in search of crumpled receipts. Again, nothing.
Denny covered his tracks well.
I’d become the prey of deceit. While Denny’s manipulation tore at my flesh, horrid visuals sunk their teeth into my brain. Was he with her now? What did they spend their time doing? Did they talk? Or just bang each other’s brains out? The thoughts crackled and fizzled without mercy. No one wanted to be that woman—the bitter, suspicious wife who rummaged through her husband’s clothes and watched his bank account and checked his car mileage looking for clues to his secrets. Obsessive jealousy wasn’t becoming of anyone, certainly not me. I was above that … wasn’t I? Of course I wasn’t better than this flux of emotional turmoil. Any woman who discovered she’d been made a fool of by the love of her life would go a little crazy. It was my right to breakdown.
