He went from being a local celebrity to the disgraced outcast.
Yet, Derek never left Cannon Beach. I always wondered why he didn't go somewhere else once he had served his time; make a fresh start somewhere where no one knew him. Staying in Cannon Beach almost seemed to fill a need to be punished for what he had done, as though the sentence the court handed down wasn't enough. Most of the locals, who once hailed him as the golden boy, now shunned him.
Still, Derek didn't leave.
He went to work for his dad's construction company, and continued to punish himself much more harshly than anyone ever could have.
Over the years, I came up with my own theories as to why my husband stayed in Cannon Beach.
He didn't leave because he couldn't move past what he'd done — killing innocent children, a mother, his own girlfriend, and ruining his life. The crime and the punishment were inextricably and tragically linked.
Derek was always pretty mean in high school — more like full of himself and entitled. Now the hatred and pain that consumed him was something entirely different. As a nerd in high school, I’d been the victim of some of his bullying, but now as his wife, I’d become the outlet for all his rage that he refused to direct at himself.
Usually the worst days were when Derek crossed paths with Joseph Peterson, the man whose wife and daughters were killed in the accident. Whenever Joseph and Derek did run into each other, they never spoke, they didn't yell, and they didn't fight.
They could barely stand to look at each other.
I supposed Joseph couldn't let go of the tragedy either. I can't imagine the pain that comes with losing a wife and children. When I saw him at the funeral, the only thing I remembered about him was the anguish in his eyes. As though the world would never hold hope again. Joseph stood with his hand on his only surviving child’s shoulder, a son who had thankfully been at a sleepover, as he buried his wife and daughters.
Hannah used to ask at least twice a week why I married Derek. My answer to her and anyone else who asked, was always the same: I thought I could help him.
I thought if I loved him enough and showed him that someone cared, in spite of what he had done, that he might be able to forgive himself and find the courage to make a real change in his life. Over the years, instead of changing for the better, he became a bitter alcoholic and I became the punching bag for all his rage and disappointment.
It was almost as though he couldn't bear to know that I cared about him, and he has been trying to, quite literally, knock some sense into me.
Now the question I got most was… why I don't leave him. To that, I have no answer...except to say that, I don't know how. It’s difficult to understand, even for me, why I would stay and allow myself to be hurt, both physically and emotionally, by the man who had promised to honor me. Why did I allow him to control me?
Derek has always told me, since nearly the beginning of our marriage, that no one else would ever want me, that no one ever did.
“Who would ever come near that big fat ass of yours except for me?” he would sneer. “And that’s only because I’m legally required to be here. Besides, on your own, you’d fall apart. You’re nothing — nothing without me!”
At first, I didn’t believe him.
Then I didn’t want to believe him.
Now? I can’t help but believe.
Nobody gets married wanting to go through what I’ve endured. Every day, I hoped he would change. Every day, I still hope for that.
I planted myself in a dry place in the sand, crossing my legs and looking out over the water. I took in a ragged breath as I thought about my mother. It was moments like these, when I was confused and lonely, that I needed her the most. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure her in my mind. I missed her so much.
"Tell me, Mama, what should I do?"
But there would be no answers for me on this particular day. All I felt was confusion and despair as I pondered the consequences of my actions. Any solution I came up with only seem to drag me down deeper.
I was gone for almost an hour when I finally stood up and began retracing my steps back toward the bookstore. My heart was heavy in my chest. For all my thinking and being near my mom and the fresh ocean air, I hadn't come to any clarity. As much as I was loath to admit it, Hannah was right about Landon and how much of a risk it was hiring him — in many ways.
First and foremost, there was Derek's reaction.
And second? I seemed to be letting my hormones get the best of me. My life was far too complicated to add a crush on a much younger man into the mix. One that could have no other interest in me than a paycheck. Derek always told me that I was dumb; however, even I wasn’t that dumb. Yet, I wasn't entirely convinced that my feelings for Landon weren't simply envy of a life full of roads not yet taken.
Regardless of what happened with Landon, the truth was, I needed help around the bookstore. I couldn't have any more issues come up again like the one I had yesterday If Hannah had been more reliable, then I wouldn’t have needed the boy. I couldn't deny that Landon was much more dependable than my sister was. Already.
I had to put the bookstore and my marriage above all else. Derek would understand my need to hire summer help. He and his father hired additional workers all the time when things got too busy for his regular crew to handle. What was so different about my hiring Landon? I just had to find the right time and a way to break the news to him.
By the time Turning Point came into view, I’d made some decisions. I resolved to be professional with Landon — a boss, nothing more — my hormones would be kept under lock and key. Landon was cute, but he certainly wasn't that cute — not totally irresistible, right?
I found Hannah sitting at her table. Mark Reynolds, the real estate agent from next-door, planted on a chair in front of her, his hand resting gently in her lap as she studied his palm and he studied my sister's boobs. The effect Hannah had on men was nothing short of amazing and I laughed to myself as she pretended not to notice Mark's gaze.
Hannah eyed me suspiciously, most likely expecting me to apologize for storming out on her earlier. I ignored her, looking away.
Only to find Landon standing behind the cash register. He pretended not to notice me, but I didn’t miss the look of concern on his face as he proceeded to wipe down an already immaculate counter.
"Everything okay?" He asked, not glancing up again from his work.
"Sure. Never better." Lying had become second nature. I lied to everyone who asked me the infinite question, “How are you doing?” They didn't actually want to know the truth.
Somehow, Landon seemed genuinely concerned and it made me feel guilty
"I took a walk down to the beach," I added when he didn't say anything.
"I do that too," he said. "Especially when I need to think."
I glanced over my shoulder at Hannah, who rolled her eyes at me. I turned back to Landon. "Listen Landon, I would like to offer you a job working here for the summer. What do you say?"
"Really?" he asked, shocked.
"Really."
"Yes...absolutely. We’ll need to do some paperwork, but that can wait for now."
Before I could stop him, he came around the counter and had wrapped his arms around me in a tight embrace.
Oh God, he smelled amazing.
I placed my hands almost on his shoulders, not actually making contact with him, too afraid of my reaction. He held me for several long moments before releasing me and stepping back.
"Thank you," he said, smiling.
"You're welcome Landon, but I should really be thanking you. I think I didn't want to admit how much I needed some decent help around here."
The last comment was for Hannah's benefit. She let out a fake cough behind me and I whirled around to face her.
"Do you have something to say, Hannah?"
"No, of course not. I am with a client," she said and then muttered under her breath just loud enough for me to hear,
"It's your funeral."
I was going to say something else, something perfectly snippy and sarcastic, when the phone rang. I turned and looked at the cordless phone lying on the counter. I knew who was calling.
I looked at Landon, standing directly between the phone and me. He was closer than I was, but I knew what would happen if he answered Derek’s call. My heart stopped as Landon turned toward the noise.
Everything in the room seemed to slow down; like in a dream when I needed to run but my feet were stuck in quicksand.
But when Landon reached for the phone, I broke free of my immobility, diving for the counter at the same time and snatched it roughly out of his hand just as he was about to hit talk.
"Hello?" I said breathlessly and looked up at Landon, who was obviously confused.
"Get your ass home now!" Derek spat into the phone and hung up.
Chapter Five
As I sped through the streets, I searched my mind for some clue to Derek's mood. He was pissed off at me. That much I had deduced from the five venom-filled words on the phone.
What had I done?
I’d been at work all day. I wasn't late. I wasn't expected to be home for another two hours. Was he mad because I let him sleep on the couch last night?
No — that couldn’t be it. During the course of our marriage, he’d passed out and slept on the sofa many times, preferring the sofa to our bed of course. In fact, he’d actually gotten mad at me for the few times that I had the audacity to try to wake him.
As I peeled into our neighborhood and pulled up in front of our house, I still had no logical explanation to my husband’s behavior.
Then it hit me. Could Derek know about Landon?
All the possible scenarios began circling my mind.
Perhaps, while I was out on my walk, Hannah had called my husband just to make small talk and in the course of their conversation, she’d casually mentioned the bookstore's newest addition. That didn't make sense either. Hannah and Derek wouldn't even trade insults over the phone, let alone, have a conversation.
Could it have been Theresa somehow? No. Landon specifically said he hadn’t told her about the job, so I knew that couldn’t be it.
Alright, so maybe Derek had driven by Turning Point, seen Landon through the window and called the store. Landon would have told Derek who he was, without knowing the ramifications of divulging such sensitive information
That had to be it.
I made a brief list of excuses and explanations for hiring Landon as I got out of the car and ran up the stairs of the back porch.
I flew through the back door, and the familiar odor of alcohol hit me the moment I crossed the threshold into the kitchen. Another day of my husband being drunk by only three in the afternoon. His record was one week straight. I hoped I would never see that record broken.
Derek must have heard my car pull up because he was waiting for me.
"There you are, stupid bitch!” His bloodshot eyes were angry and his jaw clenched. When he was really mad, Derek had this muscle at the back of his jaw that twitched. I could see it from where I stood, twitching uncontrollably.
This was not good.
What had I done to set him off? I’d been gone all day.
"I've been waitin’, for over an hour, for your fat ass to get home," he slurred.
"Derek, it’s only ten minutes ago that you called the store. I got home as quick as I possibly could. What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" He yelled in my face.
"Yes, Derek. Please, tell me what's wrong."
"What's wrong?" He repeated, even angrier, if that were possible. "Don't play stupid with me!” He grabbed me by the back of the neck and marched me over to the kitchen table. He shoved my face down into the dirty cereal bowl.
"What the fuck’s that?"
He let go of me and I jumped back, wiping sour milk from my nose and mouth as he picked up the bowl and coffee cup off the kitchen table, holding them up as if they were evidence in a murder investigation. The dark, cold liquid from the cup sloshed out onto the floor.
"I asked’ya goddamn question. What th’ hell’s this?"
I was horrified. His rage had nothing at all to do with Landon.
Just — dirty dishes.
I walked over to grab a paper towel to wipe my face and looked at the counter. My heart went cold when I saw the full, cold cup of coffee I had forgotten to take with me. I didn’t think Derek had seen it yet. Silently, I prayed he wouldn’t find it before I had the chance to clean it up.
How could I have been so stupid?
"I'm sorry, Derek," I began, turning back to him, hoping he would accept my apology and let this slip-up go without turning it into a federal case. "I overslept and I was running late. I'll clean them up now."
I took a step toward him, reaching out to take the dishes from him, but he held up the hand holding the mug to stop me.
"Oh, now you want to clean up?"
"Yes, I want to clean up." I nodded desperately. "Please, let me clean this up. It’ll only take five minutes."
"Now that you've decided t‘ stop bein’ a lazy, fat ass, you wanna clean up? What th‘ fuck do I care what’ya want? You don't care ‘bout what I want. What I wanted was t‘come home t‘a clean house...not a pig sty!"
"Derek, I do care about what you want. I said I was sorry."
"Sorry don’t mean shit, Fanny."
"What else can I say to make this better? I was running late this morning. I meant to clean up the dishes, but I forgot."
"I don't want t‘hear yer stupid excuses!" He roared so loudly that it hurt my ears.
"I'm sorry. I promise it won't happen again," I responded, timidly.
God, you’re such a fuckin’ idiot. How ya keep that dumb bookstore open’s beyond me!”
“Derek, I’m sorry.” I put extra emphasis on each word hoping he would calm down.
“Maybe I’ll finally make ya sell that bookstore. What d’ya think ‘bout that? It’s part mine anyway, ‘cause we’re married. Ya can’t keep the house clean, but you can go to work? Fuckin’ bullshit.”
“Please, Derek, don’t. It was my mother’s,” I whispered, emotion in my voice.
When Derek didn't say anything, I drew in a deep breath and took a couple of hesitant steps toward him, my hands shaking but outstretched, wanting to get the dishes away safely. No such luck.
He threw the cup at my head with considerable accuracy. It struck me hard, right above my left ear, then fell and shattered on the kitchen floor. I immediately grabbed my temple as the pain shot through my skull. Panic swirled inside me when I pulled my hand back and saw it covered in my blood. Shit! I pressed it back firmly on the gash in hopes of stopping the bleeding before it got worse.
"Now look at whatcha made me do, you dumb bitch!" Derek bellowed, seemingly unfazed by the blood seeping through my fingers and running down my hand. "That was my favorite mug!"
I barely made out his words through the ringing in my ears. Don't cry...don't cry...don't cry! When I cried, it always made the beatings worse. “I'm sorry, Derek," I squeaked out, but nothing I could say or do would prevent the inevitable. My only focus, my only concern, was not to say or do anything to make things worse.
Derek began to mimic the sound of my voice, "I'm sorry, Derek. I'm a lazy, fat bitch who can't get my butt out o’bed t’clean up the dishes."
Then, to my horror, one rogue tear slipped out and crawled down my cheek as I stared up at him, holding my head in agony. One tear was all it took.
"Stop your stupid crying!"
Derek threw the bowl to the ground and came for me. He grabbed me by the arms and slammed me up against the counter again...and again...and again — so many times that I lost track. I tried to start over, counting from the beginning, one...two...three.
Counting the hits, the slaps, and the punches were a distraction from the pain. Pain caused tears. There would be time for tears later, but not in front of my husband — not in the middle of the beating
.
The sharp edge of the granite cut into my ribs and back as I smashed into the countertop while Derek screamed obscenities at me. He was so close to my face that as he yelled at me, he showered my face with his spittle.
After he had grown bored of slamming me up against the counter, he picked up my full coffee mug and came at me again.
"Y‘think I didn't see this too? Y‘think that I'm stupid?"
"No, Derek. I don't think you're stupid. Please!"
But my pleas did little; in fact, they only made things worse. Derek pummeled me with the mug as the tepid liquid splattered into my clothes. In a futile attempt, I threw my arms up in defense against the blows.
Closing my eyes, I slid down the cabinet doors and onto the floor. I did only what I knew how to do, travel to a peaceful place inside my mind, the safe place I went to during the beatings.
Where my mom cradled me in her arms, singing me a lullaby, as the punches, kicks and slaps assaulted me. After awhile, my whole body went numb, and it almost didn’t seem to hurt anymore.
When it was finally over, I was nothing but a heap on the floor as my husband stumbled around the kitchen. I listened for his keys to jingle and the back door to slam before I opened my eyes and confirmed he had left.
Motionless, I lay on the floor, waiting a few extra minutes to make sure he wouldn't return. I was also in too much pain to move right away. This episode wasn't the worst I had ever been through, though. Not at all.
On my own personal beating scale of one to ten — one being equal to that first slap he ever gave me, which didn't genuinely hurt, and ten being equal to the time Derek pinned me to the floor, trying to strangle me and pounding my head into the tile — this was about a four and a half. Although, I had to acknowledge the he had never beaten me with a coffee mug before. That was new, even for him.
Once I was able to move again, I crawled across the floor on my hands and knees to pick up the broken pieces of glass that used to be Derek's favorite mug. I used the counter to pull myself up and walked, hunched over with one hand holding my stomach, to fetch the broom. Then I suffered in silence as I swept up the remaining bits of glass. The garbage can would hide all the evidence where Derek wouldn’t see it when he came back home. The kitchen counter supported me as I picked up the cereal bowl off the floor, quickly washed it along with my coffee mug. After cleaning up the milk and coffee from the floor, cabinet doors and countertop, I took an extra minute to wipe down all the kitchen and dining room surfaces, even if they were already clean. At this point, I couldn't be too safe.
Turning Point Page 7
