I wasn't ready but I had to be.
The doctor was calm, cool and efficient and I instantly felt at ease. She didn't bother with a lot of niceties. She got right down to business. She poked, pressed and prodded. She gave me an ultrasound. The exam wasn't anything out of the usual and I tried to force myself to relax. I lay there with my feet in the stirrups and stared up at the rounded light fixture until the brightness hurt my eyes. Then I counted the ceiling tiles and tried to focus on everything else but what the doctor was doing. She made a little noise, a little noise of concern, and my attention was instantly focused on her.
“What? What is it?” I asked, digging my manicured nails into my palms.
“Just something out of the ordinary,” the doctor said, glancing up at me over the purple frames of her glasses. “Nothing to concern yourself about.” I blinked and set my head back against the vinyl of the table, but I didn't feel comfort. Instead my stomach twisted again. I pressed my palms against my flat stomach, wondering what she was feeling. I wondered what wasn't ordinary about me. I wondered what was different about me. It was hidden deep inside, but maybe she could see it. Maybe the ugliness was making its way out.
Finally, she sighed and pushed back on her wheeled stool. She patted my knee and stood. “You can sit up now, Joan,” she said. I did as she requested, pressing my knees together and setting my hands on top of them because I didn't know what else to do with them.
“What is it?” I asked, because I could see there was something bothering her. I could see it on her face. She pulled off her gloves and tossed them in the bin beside the sink. Then she took of her glasses and folded them up. She slid them in her pocket and then, finally, looked at me.
“I'm going to ask a sensitive question, but I want you to know that everything in here is privileged.” Her eyes softened and I could've sworn there was pity behind them. I didn't like that look. I didn't like it at all. “No one is going to know.”
“Of course,” I said, impatient. I knew it wasn't good. I had known it all along.
“Have you ever been raped, Joan?” she said, matter-of-factly. I let out the breath I'd been holding and it felt like my whole body deflated.
“Why,” I asked.
“Scar tissue,” she said. “You have a build up of scar tissue on your cervix and uterus. Most likely from trauma.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that getting pregnant is going to be extremely difficult.” She set her hand on the countertop. “Everything else seems to be fine. Your ovaries are fine. You're producing eggs regularly, just like you should be. This is definitely a setback, but this isn't the end of your journey. Pregnancy's not impossible but a natural pregnancy is unlikely. We could come up with a plan for you, for procedures and hormones. A surrogate might also be an option.” With every word she said, I was feeling more and more cold. It started in my chest first and spread down my legs. I knew she was just trying to make me feel better. She was trying to make me feel like their was hope. But it was artificial.
I was ruined.
He'd finally succeeded in doing what he'd started all those years ago.
He was still haunting me, no matter how much I'd tried to forget him and leave him behind. He was inside of me now, clawing his way out. He was still intent on destroying anything I could build with another man. He didn't want me to be with anyone else. He didn't want me to live. He didn't want me to have any baby that wasn't his.
I was still his slave, whether I wanted to be or not.
There was no cure for that. There was no injection or shot or diet that would change it. I was his. I always had been and I always was. There was no use pretending otherwise. There was no use denying it. There was nothing else.
Just me and him, a dead man.
That night, as my husband lay sleeping in bed, I went in the bathroom and shut the door. I didn't cry; I couldn't. Crying was pointless. It wouldn't change anything. But something had to be done to get the evil out. I had to take action or else it would consume me. I could feel him inside of me. I could hear his voice in my ear. I could feel his fingers on my neck. I pulled myself up on the stone counter beside the sink, facing away from the mirror. I found one of Mitch's replacement razors and the bottle of rubbing alcohol. I disinfected the blade and then the spot on the inside of my thigh. It was a clean spot, a smooth spot. A spot that had never been damaged before. I felt the need to ruin it, to slice it open. To make a new scar, a new reminder.
And so I did.
Chapter Fourteen
So that's it. That's my story.
Three years, two dead men, one wedding, and no baby.
For someone who's not even thirty yet, I'm tired. I can't sleep at night. I lay awake and stare at the windows, looking for an exit. I have a big house to get lost in but I spend time driving around the city. I love my car, but it's a one-sided affair. When I'm home, I feel like a robot. I smile on command, laugh on command, fuck on command. My body gains a new scar every other day, but the pain and the blood doesn't bring me any closer to enlightenment. It doesn't bring me any closer to ending it, either. The time came for more drastic action.
It took me a long time, but I've finally come looking for him.
It's colder than I imagined it would be, maybe because I couldn't have imagined cold this pervasive. I'm chilled all the way down to the marrow of my bones. I haven't been this cold ever in my life. But I don't stop. I make my way across the rocky cliff toward the overlook, taking my time so I don't trip on the jagged stones with my heeled boots. The sea stretches out in front of me, darkening to black at the edges of the horizon. It's so vast I can barely comprehend it. I can see the fishing ships, so far out that they're only little black figures, no bigger than a fingernail. Theres a thin railing that runs the length of the cliff and I grab ahold of it, clutching it like a lifeline.
This is where Elliot spent his last days.
This little town in Alaska, on the edge of the world and in the middle of nowhere, was where he'd lived. I'd driven past the shitty apartment building where he'd lived. It was rented out to someone else now, another man who worked on the ships, so I didn't even get to go inside and see where he'd slept and showered and eaten. This is all I get. The vast sea where he died is all that's left of him. It's the only grave I have to visit.
I have no doubt that he hated it here. The thought gives me some comfort as I stare down below at frothy waves crashing against the rocks. I came here to be with him but the joke is on him, really. He would've hated to be stuck here. He was a southern boy from the top of his head to the tip of his boots. He lived and breathed the dry heat. He hated Seattle and I know for a fact he hated this piece of shit town, with its two bars and one main road. The work on the fishing boat was probably the only thing that kept him sane. His idle hands were most definitely devil's play things. It was better for him to keep his mind focused on work.
No one in town seems to know him, beyond his picture. They don't know who his friends were or if he was fucking somebody or whether or not he liked football or hockey. The only thing they could tell was that he preferred Miller lite over Coors, and I could've told them that. He was smart about it, I'll grant him that. He kept to himself and didn't make trouble. He'd evaded capture for so long, it was almost commendable. I don't think either of us thought he would make it that long. I was starry-eyed and foolish when it came to him, but I wasn't a complete idiot. I knew it was going to end badly, I just didn't want to accept it because I was too obsessed with him.
I'm still obsessed.
The waves below are so loud I can barely focus on anything else. It's like they're calling me. It's not until that moment that I realize what I really came here for. The wind whips my hair around and it's almost like I can hear him whisper to me. The voice taunts me. It urges me forward. The salt-rusted metal rail isn't a deterrent. There's nothing stopping me. I could climb over it easily and walk to the edge. I could jump and let the wind would carry me to him and then my
body would break on the rocks below. At least then it would all be over. The universe is angry with me for disturbing the flow of things. It's punishing me. He's punishing me. I know I've made mistakes and fucked up and I know that Elliot deserved what he got, but that doesn't make it easier. I want to know what I deserve. I want to hear him say it. I want to know how much more I have to suffer.
Jump, the voice whispers again.
The bastard is insistent.
*****
“How was the trip?” he asked, not even bothering to glance up from his iPad. His bare feet are propped up on the coffee table in the living room. There's a dirty plate beside his crossed ankles and a half-empty coffee cup. He looks comfortable.
“Lovely,” I say, not bothering to stop on my way up to the bedroom. No kiss hello. No hug. Not even a look exchanged.
I tell myself I'll be better tomorrow.
Turns out I've just gotten better at lying to myself.
Chapter Fifteen
I hate how time passes without my permission.
I wished it could've stopped a long time ago, but I haven't pinpointed the exact time in which I want to be suspended. I used to wish that I'd never met him, so I dreamed of being back at that last blissfully ignorant moment in the Blue Mermaid right before he ruined everything. I was having such a good night with friends. I felt sexy and young and like the world was at my fingertips. I was free. That used to seemed like the perfect moment in time, forever golden in my memory.
Now I wasn't so sure when was I truly happiest. Now it felt suspiciously like the stolen moments in my old condo, where we lay in bed all day in each other's arms and staring into each other's eyes and rarely speaking, were the best times in my life. I know that's crazy and my brain and my heart fight are at war all the time. But I can't help it. I hate him and love him and miss him more than anyone else that I've ever met. There's only one person who can inspire such conflicting feelings in me, even from beyond the grave. And I can't let the memory of him go.
I should've jumped. I should've let the sea have me.
I think about it everyday and there's been many days since I got back from Alaska. Forty-eight to be exact.
I pull into the garage and watch the automated door slowly close behind me in the rearview, the darkness of the night being shut out inch by inch. I sit there for a minute in the running car, my hands on the leather steering wheel. Part of me wants to pull back out again and leave but I force myself to sit still until the desire passes. This is my struggle every night. Every night I come home from work and question myself. I question the routine every morning too, when I wake up. Why am I still here? Why am I still going through the motions? Since I got back from Alaska, I've been feeling directionless. Despite the temptation, I have no idea where I'd go. I thought Alaska would've been the answer, but it wasn't. I'm still alive and I'm not sure why, but Alaska still looms heavy in my memory. I've been cold ever since. I can't get warm.
Part of me knows I should've done it. I was a coward, though. If I'd been strong, I wouldn't be here, right now, rehashing a million old thoughts in my mind. I should've known that I'll never be free. But what's done is done. Now, I just have to learn how to manage myself. If I can't kill myself, I have to figure out how to cope with this life. I know I have to start acting normal again. Mitch deserves that much at least. He deserves the woman he married to come back. I don't know if I can keep up the act though. Everyday, the facade cracks more and more. I feel like all the death and darkness inside of me is starting to spill out. Pretty soon, it'll take over everything, like a big black ocean that is too powerful and too vast to contain.
I turn the key in the ignition, and the low, comforting purr of the engine cuts off abruptly. I catch my eyes in the rearview mirror and lift an eyebrow. A challenge, I tell myself. I'm going to go inside my beautiful home. I'm going to make my husband a perfect meal. I'm going to serve him a full plate as I nibble on vegetables in order to maintain my perfect waistline. Then I'm going to fuck him in the middle of our big bed, good enough that he'll know that I'm not going anywhere. Good enough that he'll know I'm back to normal and I love him just as much as I ever did. And then we'll go to sleep and do it all over again tomorrow. Someday it won't be work. Someday it will just be normal. And I will love it.
This is my nightly pep talk.
Someday I won't need it, I tell myself as I grab my purse and briefcase off the passenger seat. Someday it'll be as natural again as it was in the beginning. And the quiet, never-ending ache at the pit of my soul will go away. Or, at the very least, I'll get better at ignoring it. I slide out of the car, my heels clicking loudly in the vast emptiness of the garage. Mitch's SUV is parked next to my coupe, but there's still room for a third car in the big garage. Maybe this weekend we'll go looking for that sports car he's been wanting. I'll even go on a test ride with him and let him put the top down, despite the fact it'll ruin my hair. As I slam the car door shut, I make a mental note to mention it during dinner. I've long since given up my restrictive diet and there's two steaks in the fridge, I remind myself. And enough vegetables for a good salad. There should be a lot of red wine as well. That's the most important part.
I make my steaks bloody, so it shouldn't take too long. I turn my wrist to check my watch. It's eight. We should be in bed by ten. Blowjob by 10:15, pussy by 10:20. He'll be asleep by eleven. He'll drift off to sleep with a smile on his face and he'll have good dreams, I bet. I jingle my keys in my hand as I walk to the door that leads to the hallway off the kitchen. I feel calmer already, knowing that I have a game plan. I'm going to be a good wife tonight, I tell myself. I'll be the wife my mother always wanted me to be.
The house is quiet and dark, which is odd. I can't hear the television and the hall light isn't on. He might be back in his office, I tell myself, as I hang my keys and bag on the hooks against the wall. I kick off my shoes on the mat and shrug off my blazer. I toss it on one of the brown leather bar stools that surround the massive granite kitchen island. I flick on lights as I go, turning on the hall light and then the kitchen light. I see Mitch's keys on top of the microwave, along with his wallet. Without thinking, I grab it and open the slim leather billfold, checking the pocket. He has fifty in cash, a receipt for gas, and a lottery ticket, folded in half. I can't help but chuckle. The man still buys a lottery ticket every time he goes to fill up. He's richer than my father, and yet, he still can't help himself. He still has to play the odds. I think it's a waste of money, but I suppose it could be worse. Spending five bucks on a lottery ticket is low on the list of offenses a husband could commit.
There's an open bottle of red on the counter and it's calling my name. I don't bother finding a glass. I take a swig directly from the bottle and close my eyes as the sweet but sour liquid hits my tongue. I needed the drink more than I thought. I swallow and drink more, being sloppy about it. I feel the drop as it escapes out of the corner of my mouth, but I can't stop it before it drips onto my cream silk blouse, right above my left tit. “Fuck,” I murmur, setting the bottle back on the counter. That's what I get, I tell myself, as I stare down at the crimson stain as it seeps into the expensive fabric like its laughing at me. I grab a paper towel and dab at it, but I know it's useless. It's an easy fix; I could send it to the cleaners and they'd deal with it. But I'm pissed about it. I run my fingertip over the round stain, like that will make it magically appear. I eye the knives in the chopping block beside the stove. Part of me wants to rip the blouse off and slice it up into a million jagged strips of fabric. I could throw it away – ball it up and shove it to the bottom of the trash bin – before Mitch ever saw it.
It's been one of those days.
A thumping sound from upstairs draws my attention away from the knives. I glance up at the ceiling, wondering what Mitch is up to. Our master bedroom is directly over the kitchen and breakfast nook, so I know he's in there. Maybe he's changing his clothes. He sometimes goes to the gym after work and likes to shower when he gets home. Another thump and the
blown glass pendant lights over the kitchen island sway slightly, back and forth. I step out into the foyer in my stockinged feet and glance up the staircase. The foyer is dark and I reach over and search for the light switch on the wall. The chandelier above me sparks to life, showering me and the staircase with light.
“Baby?” I call up the stairs. “I'm home.” I glance in the big gilded mirror on the opposite wall. I run my hand through my hair and arrange it prettily on my shoulder. I curled it this morning, and some of the curls are still springy. Mitch likes it when I curl my hair. It reminds him of our wedding day, when I let my hair hang down my back in a dark cascade of glossy ringlets. That was when I was the most beautiful girl in the world to him because I was all his. He likes that fantastical version of me. I can't blame him. I like her, too. She's prettier than me, she's simpler than me, and she doesn't have the disgusting and violent thoughts that I have. She's an empty shell, but she's pleasant and lovable. She's a good wife. I can be that for him. The more I try, the easier it'll be. It'll be like slipping on an old dress, like the ones that still hang in my old bedroom closet in my parents' house.
“I'll make you dinner,” I call out, my eyes still on myself in the mirror. I cover the stain in my blouse with my hair. It's always so easy to cover up flaws. Too easy. “Does that sound good?” I run my thumb over my lower lip, wondering if I should reapply my lipstick. It's faded a bit but still visible. After a moment of studying myself, I realize that Mitch hasn't answered. I set my hand on the polished wood of the bannister and place my foot on the bottom step, ready to go up and find him. But then I freeze as our bedroom door opens and light spills out onto the top step. I raise my head to catch his eyes, a smile already forming on my lips without me even having to think about it.
Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) Page 17
