by Janis Thomas
As I gaze at my wretched reflection, my mind reels. For a brief moment, I consider going to the hospital and filing a report but immediately reject the idea. What possible good would that do? Richard would spin it. That’s what he does. He’d say I wanted it. You’ve been teasing me for five years, Em. He’d find ten witnesses to testify that I flirted with him, led him on. I’d lose my job, my income. My private life would be ripped open and torn apart, my family laid to waste. And then what?
No. No hospitals. No police. I just have to figure out how to keep this from Colin and Josh.
I could get away with the cut on my forehead, explain it as a mishap with a coworker and the bathroom door. I could get away with the absence of underwear and the bruises blooming on my upper thighs, since neither my husband nor my son can see beneath my skirt. The scrapes on my arms and legs I can blame on my fall this morning. But not my cheek. My cheek is swollen and slowly turning purple. Josh would figure it out. His mind works like that of a crime scene investigator. He’d know that if my hands and knees stopped my fall, I would not have hit my face, at least not nearly as hard as the damage suggests.
I’m not worried about Katie. My daughter doesn’t see me anymore. Even if she did, I doubt her thoughts would linger too long on the ramifications of my injuries. But Colin and Josh are different. Colin would be devastated, as much by his inability to exact revenge as by the knowledge of my suffering. Josh would be altered. I am the strong parent, invulnerable in his eyes. He doesn’t witness me sobbing in the shower or screaming into my pillow, which I do regularly. I need to keep his image of me intact.
And these are the things that plague me. Not the fact that a loathsome, evil fuck attacked me in the ladies’ room, violated and beat me, but the fact that I can’t let my son and husband find out.
The door rattles against the bolt, and I jerk with surprise.
“’Lo?” Bobby Mackenzie, the janitor.
My voice cracks when I try to respond. I clear my throat and force a chipper tone. “I’ll be right out!”
“Miz Davies? That you?”
I retch into the sink.
“Yes! Hi, Bobby. Just give me a minute, okay?”
“Sure thing, Miz Davies. I’ll just start with the men’s this time.”
“Thanks!”
I splash my face with cold water, cup my hands, and drink. The cut on my forehead has stopped bleeding, but a crust of red remains. I grab some paper towels and wet them, then gently rub at the blood trail on the side of my face. I discard the soiled wad and grab more, repeating the procedure, only this time between my legs. The towels feel as coarse as sandpaper, and I wince with each swipe. My hair is a bird’s nest. I reach up and remove the remaining bobby pins, freeing the brown curls from their confinement. I pull a chunk of hair forward, hoping it will cloak my devastated cheek.
I tuck in my blouse. The wrinkled fabric tells a sordid tale. One last look in the mirror. One more handful of wet paper towels to dab against my face. One deep breath. I move slowly to the door, slide the bolt free, and step into the hallway.
Bobby’s cart stands at the open men’s room door. I hear the janitor inside the bathroom, humming an old Frank Sinatra tune. “It Was a Very Good Year.” My throat burns at the irony.
I pass the cart without a word.
“Hi, honey.”
“Hi. Are you still at work?”
“Yes.” No. I’m in a dark little dive at the far edge of downtown. “I’m not sure what time I’m getting out of here. The meeting didn’t go well today, and they’ve given us twenty-four hours to fix our proposal.”
“I understand.”
“Listen, can you ask Raina to stay late tonight to help you with Josh?” I polish the scarred wooden counter with my index finger.
“Emma, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of Josh by myself.” He is, but he won’t. He’ll ask Raina to stay. He’ll shadow her and watch her closely as she carefully sponges Josh before helping him into his pajamas. Colin will never stray, but I have given him every reason to fantasize about other women. Raina is not beautiful, but she’ll do.
“I know you are,” I tell him. “But an extra set of hands is always helpful.”
“I’ll talk to her.” He pauses. “Em, are you okay? You sound . . . I don’t know . . . upset.”
“I am upset, Colin. I’m stuck at work with Hitler’s apprentice.” The lie slides out of my mouth with no difficulty.
He chuckles. “I’m sorry.”
So am I, Colin.
“I’ll take night duty again,” he says. A magnanimous gesture. “So you can sleep. You work too hard, Em. Are you sure there isn’t some other job you can find?”
“This is a conversation for another time, Colin. I have to go. Richard is waving at me.” The sound of my boss’s name from my lips nauseates me. “You’ll probably be asleep when I get home.” Please, God, let him be asleep.
“Unless Josh . . .” Has an episode. He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t have to.
“Well, if he doesn’t, and you’re asleep, I’ll see you in the morning.” And hopefully the swelling on my cheek will be gone and I can cover the purple with foundation and we can all pretend that everything is perfectly fine.
“Okay, babe. Don’t work too hard or too late. I’ll give Josh your love.”
The bartender sells every shade of Marlboro—red, gold, silver, blue, and green. A holiday season of cigarettes. I choose the golds because they are familiar and order vodka on the rocks. A double. The bartender gives me a sideways look, his gaze landing on my cheek, but makes no comment or inquiry. I carry the cigarettes and my drink to the small patio outside where smoking—and, apparently, heavy petting—are allowed. A couple sits in the far left corner next to the railing, faces mashed together, murmuring softly as they grope each other beneath the table. They are oblivious to my presence, as if I am invisible, as if I don’t exist.
I sit at a table as far from the couple as possible. The summer night air is filled with the aroma of fried onions—a staple of this establishment, and based on the intensity of the smell, ordered frequently.
I try to avert my eyes, but my gaze is inevitably drawn to the lovers across the patio. They remind me of another time in my life, when the world seemed full of possibilities and love was a joy, not a burden. Before Colin, before my ex-husband, I knew a man named Dante. I loved him.
Dante was born and raised in Suffolk County, but he seemed to embody the very essence of Bohemian sensibilities. Perhaps his name, given to him by third-generation Italian parents, required that he be an expert on all things European. He introduced me to wine and cheese and making love at all hours of the day. We talked world politics and read Descartes and Kafka to each other and congratulated ourselves on our forward thinking and progressive attitudes and open hearts.
Dante knew me better than anyone. He held up a mirror and made me look at myself. It ended badly, like most things. It wasn’t just his cheating. Sometimes I didn’t want to look in the mirror.
I was at the end of my undergraduate studies when he left me. Occasionally I wonder what happened to him. If I had disposable time, I could join Facebook and look him up. If he’s still alive, I’m certain he uses social media. Facebook and Twitter would appeal to his pathologically overabundant ego. But I have neither the time nor the inclination to find him. Despite our unfortunate end, Dante remains one of my few precious and treasured memories. The possibility of now-Dante, fat and balding and cursing his bloodthirsty ex-wives and delinquent children, doesn’t interest me.
I light a cigarette and inhale deeply. No coughing fit ensues, like in the movies. Perhaps, after what just happened to me, I am hardened to the smoke. Despite the warmth of the July night, I’m shivering. My hand shakes as I lift the glass to my lips. The vodka slides down my throat, and almost immediately the knot in my stomach begins to uncoil.
I don’t drink often. I would if I could, but I can’t. Not when doom always lurks on the outer edges of my life, threate
ning to close in on me. If there were an emergency, as there have been countless times over the last fifteen years, I must be sober, in control, ready to take charge. But tonight I need alcohol. I need the protective layer of ambivalence alcohol provides. Josh is safe at home with two responsible people caring for him. So I will drink this vodka and another. I will order a basket of fries and force myself to eat them, even though the thought of food makes me sick. I will get behind the wheel only when I am sober enough and I will go home to a darkened house and steal into my bed and pray that the swelling on my cheek will have gone down by morning.
A bag of ice lands on the table with a thud. Startled, I look up to see the bartender standing beside me. He is tall and heavily muscled, with a tattoo of a large-breasted woman snaking up his biceps. His eyes are kind. He says nothing, just stares at me for a moment. Then he turns and walks back into the bar.
Tears blur my vision. I crush my cigarette into the ashtray, then pick up the bag of ice and press it to my cheek.
My plan goes smoothly. The house is dark when I pull into the driveway. As the garage door creaks open, I breathe in through my nostrils. Richard’s stink clings to me. I cannot possibly slide into bed next to my husband unless I bathe. Another complication.
I ease into the garage and alight from the car, then make my way into the house, pressing the button to close the garage door on my way in. I stand for a moment and listen, but there is only quiet. No late-night dishes being done, no television at low volume, and, of course, no barking dog from next door. I remind myself that there never was a barking dog next door as I shuffle into the laundry alcove off the kitchen.
I remove my shoes, skirt, and blouse, and every movement of my arms, my torso, my legs produces varying degrees of pain. My clothing goes directly into the trash bin. I make a mental note to dump the contents of the bin into the barrel outside first thing in the morning. I grab a pair of sweats and a T-shirt from the basket of clean, unfolded laundry then pad to the half bathroom down the hall. I spend a few minutes sponging myself from head to toe, gently in most places, but aggressively where there are no injuries. I realize, as I scrub at my underarms, my calves, my stomach, that I am furious. Not with Richard, not with myself. With God.
So what if I invite suffering into my life? You don’t have to accept my invitation. What have I ever done to inspire Your rage?
My fury is short-lived. Because I know I won’t get any answers. And I probably wouldn’t like them if I did.
The second floor holds the hushed cadence of slumber. At the far end of the hall, Katie’s door is closed. Josh’s door is open, as always. I can hear his deep, labored breathing from where I stand, and the slight, gravelly snore that indicates he is sleeping soundly. I feel the pull of him, my own need to go into his room and sit beside him and stroke his hair and whisper those loving motherly words. But I resist. I can’t take the chance that Colin will hear me. My husband sleeps soundly, but any anomalous noise from Josh’s room might wake him.
I tiptoe into the master bedroom and head to the bathroom, passing the monitor and the amplified sound of Josh’s snores. I close the door behind me and move to the sink. A night-light flickers from the socket on the wall, offering enough illumination for me to brush my teeth but not enough for me to see my reflection. I don’t need to see it. My cheek, eye, and forehead throb in high definition. I grab the Motrin PM from the medicine cabinet and shake three onto my palm. Two is the dosage.
As I pull the door open, my husband calls to me, and I start. “You can turn the light on if you need to.”
“That’s okay.” Normal voice. Calm, relaxed. Everything’s-just-fine voice. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t, really,” he mumbles. He is half-asleep. I exhale, relieved. “I was having a dream about Josh. He was walking.”
My heart shifts painfully in my chest. I’ve had that dream, too.
“Love you, Em.”
“Go back to sleep,” I tell him as I make my way to the bed and gently turn back the covers on my side.
He says something without moving his mouth. The next second, he is breathing deeply.
I ease myself down onto the bed and wince. Pain bursts up from my core and spreads through my limbs. My eyelids are suddenly leaden. The Motrin might have been a bad idea. I need to wake up early in order to camouflage my shame. Concealer, yes. And I’ll need to feather my hair around my face. Surely Richard won’t mind me wearing my hair down in order to keep his sins a secret.
Richard. How can I face him tomorrow? How can I continue to work for that hideous man?
How can I raise a son with cerebral palsy? How can I nurture a daughter who despises me? How can I spend my life with a man who doesn’t even strive for mediocrity?
I can because I do. Because I must. Because this is my life.
I fumble for the bedside clock and, with great effort, set the alarm. I’m not certain I’ve set it correctly, but I don’t care. I’m asleep by the time I lie down.
EIGHT
Friday, July 8
I sense it before I open my eyes, before the alarm sounds. That not-right feeling.
I bolt up to a seated position, anticipating and dreading the pain that will accompany such an action. I’m shocked when I experience no discomfort whatsoever. I gingerly scoot to the edge of the bed and swing my legs over the side. The bright barbs of agony I expect don’t materialize.
The master bedroom is shrouded in shadows. Colin sleeps soundly. Josh’s breathing echoes throughout the room from the monitor.
I shut the alarm off, then stand and hurry to the bathroom. Safely hidden behind the closed door, I turn on the light and behold myself in the mirror. I reach up and touch my cheek with my fingertips. My hands are shaking again, not with cold, but with incredulity. The skin beneath my fingernails is neither purple nor ravaged. It is unblemished and pink. The cut on my forehead is gone. I lean into the glass, not trusting my fortysomething eyes. No marks of any kind are evident anywhere on my face.
I look down at my body and immediately scrabble out of my sweatpants. I sit on the lid of the toilet and explore my inner thighs. The bright blossom of bruising that was so apparent last night has vanished. But how? I can still feel Richard’s salient fingers thrusting into me, his sharp, rigid tool breaking me apart.
I contract my vaginal muscles. Even the most sedate lovemaking with Colin leaves me sore and chafed, but I am neither. There is not the slightest shred of evidence of Richard’s offense.
I should be elated. God has granted me a reprieve. He has healed me expeditiously so that I won’t have to offer my husband and son an inane explanation for my wounds. But beneath my gratitude is suspicion. Because I know God doesn’t give a whit about me.
What is going on?
I push myself up from the toilet and gaze at my reflection again. Disbelief floods through my system, coupled with anger. Yesterday I was raped, beaten, humiliated. This morning I have nothing to show for it. Last night I took small comfort in knowing that when I faced Richard today, he would be chastened by the irrefutable proof of his handiwork. Now, without my shattered cheek, he can look at me as he always does. With condescension and animosity.
But how . . . how can this be? I’m not a comic book hero with superhealing powers. I am me—housewife, mother, executive assistant. I’ve heard, read, seen on TV stories of people who effect impossible results to futile situations solely with the power of their minds, like the woman who lifted a car off her toddler, and the man who walked away from a parachute malfunction with nary a scratch, and the girl who cured her leukemia with prayer. But those people are extraordinary. I am ordinary, average. The only superpower I possess is the ability to convince myself daily that my life is worth living.
The explanation doesn’t matter.
I wash my (unbruised) face, and when I lift the toothbrush from the holder, I remember the tattered clothing I discarded in the laundry alcove. After scrubbing my teeth, I sneak through the master bedroom and quie
tly descend the stairs. Dawn’s precursor colors the first floor charcoal, and I make my way to the laundry alcove by sense rather than sight. I feel for the switch by the washing machine, and the sudden illumination from the overhead LED bulb blinds me. I take a breath, then approach the trash bin. My heart pounds inexplicably. Because a part of me already knows what I will find.
Nothing.
The actuality crashes against the expectation. My mind fractures.
I see myself placing my ruined blouse and navy skirt in the bin last night.
The bin is empty.
Several years ago, my appendix burst and Colin rushed me to the hospital, a place with which I am familiar due to Josh’s circumstances. But it looked different from the perspective of a patient. The explosive pain in my gut rendered me nearly incoherent, and I was immediately sent to the OR, where a green-scrubbed doctor administered opiates and general anesthesia. As instructed, I counted back from one hundred, only reaching ninety-eight before I was swept away. When consciousness returned, over an hour later, it came with maximum distortion. When I opened my eyes, in response to a strident command from an overly enthusiastic nurse, the world around me was slanted, warped. The lights were too bright, the room too white; the nurse’s face wavered and morphed above my head as I struggled to take in my surroundings.
Now, as I gaze into the empty waste bin, I experience a similar permutation of reality.
This cannot be, this cannot be. But it is.
I brace myself against the dryer and spend a full sixty seconds breathing, trying to gain my bearings. When the world around me stops swaying, I race to the stairs and climb them two at a time.
Just as I reach the second floor, I hear my son call to me.
“Maah?”
I need to go to my closet; I need to see, to check, to understand, to know, but Joshua’s plaintive cry stops me. I go to him, as I always do.
