by Pamela Crane
“I’m glad you find this so fucking funny,” I finally said.
“What I find humorous is that you think it’s over between us. I already warned you, but you won’t listen. I will make your life a living hell, Shayla. I will leave you with no one and nothing but lonely shame. Is that what you want?”
I had no idea what that meant, and I didn’t care. I’d call his bluff and raise him one insanity. I turned on him, pointing my finger in his face, my voice low and full of hate.
“Bring it on, asshole. Make your threats. See if I care. You can’t force me to love you. Hell, I don’t even like you!”
He pushed me away. “You’ll like me even less when I take everything you care about away from you, bitch.”
Just as Kelsey rose from the bed, I heard footsteps outside in the hallway. A shadow crossed the floor, then stopped. I glanced at the clock and groaned. How could I have been so careless and lost track of time?
“Arion?” I called out.
My son’s head slowly peered around the corner. I had no idea what Arion had heard or seen as Kelsey took his sweet time belting his pants, but I needed to clear things up for him before his imagination went wild with scenarios.
“Honey, are you okay?”
I had no idea how a ten-year-old would process this. What could possibly be going through that head full of tight curls?
“Who’s this guy?” Arion finally spoke. “And why is he in your bedroom?”
“Well …” I stuttered. I had no idea how to explain this in a way that would make sense to my son. “This is a friend of mine. And we were just talking about something.”
“Is he your boyfriend?” Arion asked bluntly.
“What would make you ask that?”
“Because he’s in your bedroom showing you his private parts.”
I couldn’t speak. My throat tightened, and I knew this was bad. Very bad. Traumatizingly bad. My son might never get over seeing this.
I had two choices: I could lie and attempt to cover it up, but Arion would know and he’d call me out on it. He’d always had my nose for smelling bullshit. Or I could simply beg for his forgiveness and hope it would blow over.
Walking over to him, I knelt down in front of him and clasped his small hands in mine, the tears stinging my eyes as I thought through each word. “I made a big mistake. But I’m going to talk to Daddy about it tonight and fix everything. I promise. Can you forgive me?”
Searching my son’s hazel eyes for support, all I saw was disgust reflected back at me in his smudged glasses. Ripping his hand away from me, he stepped back, widening the schism between us.
“No, I don’t forgive you. You hurt Daddy. You hurt me and Tenica. All you care about is yourself and your boyfriend. Do you even love us—your real family?” Arion glared at Kelsey, who stood there dumbly.
“Of course I love you, sweetie.”
“A mom who loves her family doesn’t replace them with someone else. I hate you. I wish we were all dead so you could feel what it’s like to lose us. You don’t care about us anyways, and there’s no point living if we don’t have a mom who loves us!”
Leaving me no room to reply, he ran off through the living room, and a moment later I heard the front door slam shut. Kelsey was right. I was about to lose everything I cared about, and I’d brought it on myself. Taking a step forward to run after Arion, I felt a hand grip my upper arm, stopping me.
“Let him go,” Kelsey said.
I ripped my arm out of his grasp. “Just leave, Kelsey. Haven’t you done enough damage already?”
Kelsey shook his head, and I saw pity in his eyes. “You really blame me for your drama? You created this mess. Hell, you thrive on this shit.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know,” he said, wagging a finger at me, “I’m starting to realize I dodged a bullet. You’re a walking timebomb. You create drama everywhere you go, Shayla. I’m out. Done. I don’t need your chaos. Good riddance.”
“Fuck you!” My voice box tore as I screamed.
Maybe he was right, but right now I couldn’t dwell on what a piece of shit I was. I needed to be with my son. I ran to the door, threw it open, and sprinted through the front yard. Arion had vanished without a trace.
How would I ever explain this to Trent? Could he ever forgive me? Could I forgive myself? One cold, hard word echoed in my mind: no. I didn’t deserve mercy. I deserved hell, which was exactly where I already was.
Chapter 28
Ellie
Today I believe in miracles. Today I need one.
It appears that things between Denny and his mistress are falling apart, which means that there’s a chance I can rescue us, repair our marriage, restore our hope of a future together. It’s chilling how I don’t see a future unless Denny is in it. Why is that, I wonder? Are all wives linked to their husbands with such stiff cords? Or am I alone in this codependency? I feel like an island and Denny is my ocean. I’m surrounded by him, tamed by him, shrinking slowly in on myself by him. And yet it’s the only way of life I know, so it comforts me.
I’m so scared, though. After twelve years of marriage I’m petrified my husband won’t end up choosing me in the end.
This vulnerability makes me reflect, take a personal inventory of who I am, who I could be, who I want to be. I’ve gone from pathetically desperate, to insanely jealous, to bitterly angry, to self-loathing, to a creature I’ve never seen before. I used to wander through the days in blithe bliss, unfettered by drama or extremes. Now it seems I’m all extremes, from one emotional breakdown to the next. Having to hide it all from the one person I should be able to share everything with. I hate feeling this way. And yet I can’t stop. Why can’t I stop?
I’m human, that’s why. I’ve spent the better part of my lifetime needing Denny, thus my world revolves around him. My world can’t exist without him.
Darla asked me why I was dressing up today. Why I would bother. I told her that sometimes looking pretty for your husband is important. “So I should do whatever will make other people like me more?” she asked. “No, you should be true to yourself,” I tried to explain, but I clearly wasn’t making my point. “But you’re not being true to yourself with Daddy.” I didn’t want to tell her that being true to myself was what lost him to another woman in the first place.
I’m not sure what to think of that. Is she right? Has my eleven-year-old daughter grown wiser than her mother already? I’m wondering what kind of example I’m setting for Darla and Logan, teaching them that a woman’s job is to make a man happy, and that a man’s job is to control his wife or find a new one when he’s bored with her. Is this the lesson we’re imparting on these impressionable minds?
Whoever thought parenting was easy clearly didn’t have children. Every decision parents make either sets a precedent, leaves a trauma the kids will discuss in therapy years later, or spoils them rotten. I’ve accomplished all three of these in a matter of days.
God help me. I need a miracle.
Candles: check.
Mood music: check.
Something chocolatey: check.
The evening was planned, and it was perfect. An early dinner of macaroni and cheese and hotdogs for the kids while watching Finding Dory, followed by a hurried bedtime routine. After a round of goodnight kisses and short stories, I finished the final touches on the chicken cordon bleu and roasted asparagus that warmed in the oven. Two glasses of cheap champagne completed the dinner I’d spent all day looking forward to.
Sure, Denny had cheated on me. Sure, he had lied to me. Sure, he had broken my heart and will to live. But he was coming back to me. We were going to fix everything and go back to being the picture-perfect family we were meant to be. Even if it killed me.
June called it insanity, me returning to my emotionally abusive husband expecting loyalty this time around. But I called it love, forgiveness, endurance.
The only issue was keeping Janyne away, who was making it her mission to
stay in touch. I hadn’t told Denny about our texts or the note I’d gotten today, and I planned to keep it that way. Written on kitten cardstock, she’d penned the following message in perfect script, just like her perfect hair and perfect body and perfect teeth:
You think you’ve won, but this is only the beginning. This is your first warning. Don’t make threats you can’t back up. I know your type—the meek, naïve housewife who fights behind the safety of her cell phone. Learn when to surrender or I will be your worst nightmare.
In reactionary haste, I burned the note in the kitchen sink, only afterward regretting it. I’d disintegrated any evidence in case she came back for a fight. I couldn’t let it spoil the evening, so I shrugged it off and figured what could be the worst that happened? She’d show up at my house and we’d scream it out? I had two obnoxious kids; I could certainly handle the she-devil.
Our dinner and conversation had gone seamlessly, down to the last juicy bite of chicken, as we laughed over Denny’s co-worker anecdotes. Everything felt so normal again, and I relished it. I told him to meet me in the bedroom for some dessert while I tidied up the kitchen.
As the rain settled down to a drizzle, I remembered that it was garbage night. It was supposed to be Denny’s chore, but somewhere along the line it had fallen upon me—and I forgot at least once a month, including last week. My usual reminder was when I saw the boy across the street—Arigon or Arion or some unusual name I could never remember—dragging his can to the curb.
I’d quickly run the garbage out, then resume our night of perfection. Nothing could go wrong.
Until it did.
I hauled the full kitchen garbage bag out the back porch and along the driveway where a thin row of bushes separated my house from the elderly lady’s next door. Having forgotten the garbage can on the curb for the past week, I opened the lid and hefted the kitchen bag up, and there it was—sitting right on top of last week’s unpicked-up trash, as if taunting me.
A pregnancy test.
And it was positive.
The kitchen bag slipped from my fingers to the ground, spewing garbage along the sidewalk.
No, this couldn’t be happening. Was Denny’s mistress … pregnant? And how did it get here, anyways? Was that bitch in my house taking a pregnancy test with my husband in my bathroom? My legs went numb and wobbly as I dropped to the cement, my tailbone taking most of the impact. But I felt no pain. All I felt was despair.
Time passed, but I wasn’t aware of it until Denny came walking outside looking for me.
“Whatcha doing out here, El? Come inside. I’ve been waiting for you.”
I couldn’t talk about what I’d found … not yet. The anger was too great for words right now.
“I slipped and fell. I’m going to have to postpone tonight.”
“Are you okay?” His eyes widened as he suddenly realized I was sitting on the ground. He rushed toward me, insisting on helping me up despite my waving him off. His touch sickened me, his comforting words made my skin crawl. I wanted nothing to do with this man who had broken me for the very last time.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I insisted, but I really wasn’t fine. The seams that held my sanity together were fraying fast.
I followed him into the house, hating him more than I ever had before, wanting him to feel as devastated as he’d left me. I’d bought into the hope of a new beginning for us. I always clung to false hope, it seemed. It was true—I was the definition of insanity. I’d embraced the lie that we could find love again. And I did that without a single confession, an ounce of repentance, or so much as an apology from him. Another woman was having his child—what did that even mean for us? If he wanted to stay, would he expect me to raise her child with him? Would I have to face her for drop-offs and pick-ups and Little League games and ballet recitals?
No.
I simply couldn’t accept that life.
I’d been through enough.
“I’ll be back,” I said as I headed for the stairs. “I think there’s pain medicine in the upstairs bathroom for this.” I pulled up my shirt and craned my head around to gaze numbly at the red bruise growing along my tailbone.
“Jeez, El, that looks nasty. How about a massage when you get back?” he offered with a green spark in his eyes.
“We’ll see,” I tried to say playfully, but my voice fell flat.
I passed by the kids’ rooms—first Darla’s, then Logan’s—and watched them sleep, their blond heads tucked sweetly into the soft folds of down pillows and quilted comforters. I wondered if they’d even care if I was out of the picture. I already knew the answer, though. None of them cared if I was alive or dead. I didn’t care at this point either.
Chapter 29
Jo
A movie. Popcorn. And chocolate. Three things that I promised Preston and Abby that morning, three things that stole my focus just long enough that I hadn’t seen him come.
We had just finished a Harry Potter movie marathon, the three of us snuggled on the sofa under a heap of Sherpa throw blankets. It was the first time since Amelia’s disappearance where I resumed a normal semblance of living. Jay had been right—I’d been neglecting the kids, and I wanted to make up for it. Nothing like a movie to cuddle up to while we shared a bowl of buttery popcorn and licked melted M&Ms off our fingers.
I was lucky enough to lose track of time instead of watching every minute pass, worrying every second away. But during those misplaced minutes, he had come and gone, and I’d lost a chance to save my daughter.
A trip to the mailbox would never be so innocuous again.
It was late morning when I caught a glimpse of the white mail truck passing by. The heat of the day hadn’t yet peaked as neighbors lounged on their front porches or walked their dogs, always sure to carry a dog waste bag lest they be fined for not picking up after their furry companions.
I told the kids I’d be right back, then headed down our walkway toward the mailbox that I had spent an afternoon decorating with the kids a couple years ago. Preston’s handprints in blue and green were the biggest, then Abby’s tiny pink and purple handprints with silver polka dots next to his. Amelia’s one-year-old palms had been so small that I couldn’t hold them still as she wiggled her fingers in the gooey paint, creating a smudged blur of orange. It was messy, but it was beautiful because it was their handiwork.
Everything the kids had created gave me pride, from their colored artistic designs to their scribbled literary endeavors. Drawn pictures of our latest zoo trip, stories about talking animals—I treasured it all as if they were da Vinci’s original Mona Lisa or a first-edition copy of Gone with the Wind.
I peeked inside the mailbox before reaching in. A force of habit, always fearing I’d grab a spider or some other creepy-crawly. After pulling out the stack of ads with some bills tucked into the fold, I noticed a white envelope with one word scribbled on the front:
Josephine
Instantly I knew it was from him, whoever him was. Breathless and frenetic, I ran inside, tossing the mail on the island. Grabbing my dishwashing gloves, I slid them on and carefully tore open the envelope. If there was any chance of a fingerprint or spit, I needed to preserve it.
I unfolded the sole piece of computer paper with one inky paragraph written on it:
Your daughter is safe. But not for long. There is only one thing I want, and you know what it is. I’ll be coming for it soon. But if you refuse, your whole family will pay the price. You know what you have to do.
The problem was, I had no idea what he wanted, or who he was. What the hell kind of clue was this? But at least she was alive. There was no reason for him to lie about it … right?
I read the note again, searching for something familiar. I was supposed to know him. He expected me to. Was it possible …? Had my secret from ten years ago come back to haunt me, torment me, strip everything away from me?
That couldn’t be right. It was one stupid, regretful night with some random, nameless guy. What kind of man
would even remember such a night, let alone hold on to it for a decade? Perhaps a man capable of kidnapping an innocent child.
It didn’t make any sense. And yet … it was the only thing that made sense. This whole kidnapping was about me. It was about someone wanting something from me. I had no enemies I was aware of, no dysfunctional family members, no drama in my life. Only one life-destroying secret that I had thought faded out of existence years ago. Until one month ago when I got that letter.
I needed to know for sure if this was the same person. Heading into the bedroom, I opened my underwear drawer, shuffled my intimates aside, and felt the paper crumple. I pulled it out, then rushed back to the kitchen. Setting the letters side by side, I examined the handwriting. It was hard to tell if they were the same or not.
The letter from J was cursive and scrawled, as if the words poured from an emotional place. The note today was carefully printed, as if the writer had taken his time. But there were enough similarities that it could be the same person. Maybe Detective Cox would be able to tell with more certainty. But if he read the letter, he would know for sure about the affair. The graphic details, the timeline … J had recounted everything necessary to bury me in my lies. If only I could figure out who J was without handing over the letter.
My phone. I needed to call the detective and Jay. Hopefully Detective Cox could find some trace of DNA or a fingerprint to figure out who was behind this hell. Spotting my hot-pink cell phone case on the end table in the living room, I picked it up to call the detective, whose personal number I had memorized by now.
“Detective Cox,” he answered on the first ring.
“Hi, it’s Jo Trubeau. I got something in the mail you need to see. Right away.”
