He walks me into the bathroom and sits me on the toilet as he begins to run a hot bath. He pours in salts and soaking oil until the room is full of fragrance and warmth. Honeysuckle and Freesia.
I do not even have it in me to hate the smells.
“Here, this will make you feel better. You love baths.” He gently removes my clothing. Despite the warm steam filling the bathroom, I am chilled, and goose bumps sprout on my skin.
Like a robot, I follow his commands until my body is resting in the sudsy water. Truman has even pinned my hair up so that I do not need to worry about drying it before bed. Thoughtful.
Thoughtful because of the bruise forming on my face. I can feel it spreading across my cheekbone and upwards toward my brow line. It will be a painting of purples, blues, and blacks. Maybe it isn’t broken after all, but it hurts like it should be. And it is almost a disappointment—that it might not be broken. If it is not broken, then I have only given up for a bruise. How weak am I?
Numb to the pain now, I rest my head against the back of the tub and close my eyes so that I can block out the sight of Truman, who is leaning against the sink watching me. I will need to see a doctor; I am sure of that. But I am numb.
So very numb.
Truman leaves the bathroom, but only for a moment. When he returns, he is holding my pale pink negligee. I’ve not even washed myself, but he decides my time in the tub is up. He is smart to monitor me tonight. More than ever, I want to sink into the water and stay there, never come up.
We are in bed now. Truman is already asleep. I know I will not sleep at all tonight. I also know, when the numbness wears off, that my face will be a mottled reflection of my feelings. And I will hurt. So very much.
Chapter 23
Baggage
“I don’t think you should go anywhere today, Lena.”
He is acting like nothing is the matter, like there is no large mark on my face. It hurts like hell today. I was right. The numbness has receded and I was right.
“All right, Tru.”
“I’ll make you an appointment to get that eye looked at.”
“My doctor?”
“No, mine I think. He’s better anyways.”
Better at accepting money to be quiet, you mean.
“That sounds fine.”
When he nods, his expression is pleased. He thinks I am back to his docile Lena. This is a new side of Truman—that he can see me broken in front of him and think that’s how things should be. This is an entirely new level of control. And I am beginning to think that a future with him, now that he has gotten a taste of physical control as well as emotional, would be littered with bruises and doctors turning a blind eye.
“I’ll be back early. I only have morning and early afternoon meetings. I might even drop in for lunch. How does that sound?”
“Fine, Tru.”
When he leaves, I begin racing throughout the apartment, throwing everything that is mine into a suitcase. I realize quickly that there is nothing that is actually mine—clothes, jewelry, toiletries, all bought with his money. Still, I pack those things into the largest Louis Vuitton bag, because I have earned them in my own way.
When I am almost finished, I pick up my cell phone to call the one person I know will help me without conditions—no beautiful opal ring, no waiting forever if necessary. I need pure friendship, not a friendly lover.
Her home line rings five times before she finally picks up, and I choke on a breath that I didn’t realize I was holding. “Hello?”
“Vera, thank God. I’m so glad you answered and that you’re home.”
“Ocean Eyes, that you? What a nice surprise! I was just thinking about you. I had the best time yesterday. We need to meet up again soon for—”
“Vera, please listen. I need your help.”
The voice on the other line instantly transforms from friendly and chatty to serious. “What is it?”
“I tried to end it, Vera. I did. I left. He… he…” I do not want to admit that a man has hit me. What sort of world do we live in where a victim is ashamed of being victimized?
“Ocean Eyes, did he hit you?” There is a heat in Vera’s voice. It gives me confidence and chisels away some of the shame.
“Yes.”
“Give me your address. I don’t have it written down.” It is an order, but in this case I don’t mind being bossed about.
I blurt out the condo’s location quickly.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I need to take Anderson to school first and stop by the hospital to get someone to cover my shift.”
“He’s gone. He said he might come home for lunch, but he never has before.”
“Okay, Lena. Don’t you worry. Not one damn bit.”
In the background, I hear a young voice yell “Grandma, you said damn!” when Vera curses. She must hold the phone away from her face, because Vera’s next words are much quieter. “Now, boy, you listen to me. Cursing is the devil’s language, and just ’cause you heard me use it, I better not hear it outta your mouth or I will preach you into next Sunday.”
I can’t hear her grandchild’s response.
“You hang in there, Ocean Eyes.”
Our goodbye is a furtive thing, as if we both know that this marks a true change in my life. I also know it means that Vera, even though we’ve known each other only a short time, will be my friend forever.
After the echoes of my conversation with Vera fade from my head, I feel the need to call Connor—not to help also, but to tell him what I wanted to tell him last night: that I have decided. As I search the address book in my phone, I realize I do not have his number. Truman keeps a phone book in his office. He brought it out two weeks ago to look someone up from his work. I never go into his office, though. It’s his room.
It feels like I am walking into somewhere forbidden and dangerous as I turn the knob to his office and push the door inward. But it is just a room, completely innocuous with tasteful furnishings and blue-gray walls decorated with modern art. There’s nothing private on display and I am so confused. Why have I never been in this room then?
Then it hits me that Truman has never actually told me to stay out of his office. I have just done it on my own accord, because I have no need for an office, no reason to enter and sit at the large desk and use his large computer. Now that I am in the room, I feel like ransacking it, seeing if there is actually something hidden in the shadows that Truman would not want me to see.
There are three files on the navy blue tooled leather top of the mahogany desk. Each file is labeled. Printed block letters yell at me. L.M.M.—INSURANCE POLICY. L.M.M.—HOSPITAL RECORDS. T.G.K.—STOCK PORTFOLIO.
They’re just sitting there innocently. I didn’t even know I had an insurance policy. Flipping all three files open one after another, my eyes begin to rove the white papers printed with black text. The policy is ten million dollars. If I weren’t involved with a man like Truman, the amount might make me swallow my tongue. But the Kents are old money; even Truman’s father recovered after losing everything. Peggy never went back to him, though. She is far too happy with her divorce settlement (she was court-awarded every asset that wasn’t lost after Gaynor’s company went belly up).
What I don’t understand is the date the insurance policy was taken out—the day after I was admitted to the hospital. That doesn’t make sense… most policies would be voided if the person committed suicide. Wouldn’t they? And I thought we had to be married for him to take out a policy on me? He’s listed “common-law partner” under the relationship status. And I suppose that is true. We have been together since high school; we’ve been living together since college. No… doesn’t it have to be seven years at least?
The second file—my hospital records—is next, and each line I read causes my eyes to open ever wider, until it is painful to keep them so wide, but I cannot close them; I am too astonished by what I am reading. My eyes begin to water and rivulets of salty tears trail out of the corners of them and move slowly down m
y face. These have been altered. Every report—the EMTs, the admitting nurses, the attending doctors. Even Dr. Lenderman’s documents are incomplete.
They only say I am sane.
According to the file, I had some sort of unexplained seizure in the bathtub and nearly drowned. I now have a clean bill of health. The hospital was unable to find any physical cause for the anomaly. But they have assured the medical insurance company and the policy company that the incident was not psychological and that it is highly unlikely that anything like that will ever ail me again.
It’s all lies.
The last file makes the puzzle pieces fit together. Like his father, Truman has lost everything in the stock market. He gambled on the “next big” software company and it has failed. He has nothing. Is this what he was talking to Peggy about while I dozed in my hospital bed? Is this why he needed me?
He wants me to die. He followed me to that café because if I leave him, I ruin his plans.
Ten million dollars. Ten million.
More than enough for Truman to rebuild his fortune.
My mind is reeling and I want to shut down again, crumple into a ball like I did last night and wait for someone to pick me up and carry me “home.”
Taking the phone book off the bottom shelf on the right side of the built-ins, I back out of the office, not bothering to fix the files. Let Truman come home later, let him see that all of my things are gone and I have discovered his sickening plan. He wants to kill me. I thought a morsel of him still loved me, even in a way that was convenient to his future. But it’s not true. He loves his finances more. He loves the green of money more. A golden idol over a woman’s flesh and companionship and… and… love.
Love is beginning to taste like a dirty word, even unspoken in my mouth. It slithers down my throat, works its way to my stomach to rot with all the other wonderful things that have been ruined by the truth and human reality.
Deacon’s Place is listed between a Dairy Queen on Augusta Road and Deana’s Restaurant on West Broughton. The morning rush should be over and I pray he answers. But the phone keeps ringing. I don’t hang up; I refuse to give in. Finally, after what seems an interminable length of time, Deacon’s voice travels to me from across town.
“Deacon’s Place. Pick-up or delivery?”
“I didn’t know you delivered.”
“A few months now, actually. Only a five-mile radius, though, as a trial.”
“Oh…” I trail off, saddened, because he doesn’t recognize my voice. He should, shouldn’t he? If he is really in love with me, as he says, he should instantly know it is me.
“Lena? Did you need something?”
My heart lifts and the word love—which has finally reached my stomach—pulls itself out of the acidic juices that have already started to eat away at it and moves a few inches upwards and back into my throat. It feels uncomfortable there, but I know the truth now.
Love is often uncomfortable.
And that realization really does make me sane.
Yet I want to truly be the daydreamer also.
Can sanity and daydreams coexist? Even when a person is actually insane…
“Um… Lena?”
I start and let out a small gasp. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m a little lost this morning, I guess.”
“Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know… maybe. I think it will be soon.”
“What does that mean?” I can hear a rumble of sound that increases quickly. Customers have entered the store. “Hold on a sec, Lena. Pete, you got this?”
Pete must nod, because I do not hear his response and soon the buzz of coffee-craving patrons is completely gone.
“Sorry about that.”
“You’re working. I understand.”
“What’s going on?”
“I came to the café last night. You weren’t there.” God, I sound like I did with Vera in the hospital—upset with her for having a life outside of taking care of me.
“What time? I didn’t even lock up until eleven.”
I’d just missed him last night. We’d passed, like ships in the night. And what did that mean? Was he supposed to be gone? Was that fate? “I just missed you then. It was nearly midnight.”
“I’m sorry, Lena. I was going to stay in the apartment, but my mom couldn’t remember the code to set the alarm. We changed it a few nights ago after a break-in down the street. Mom got nervous.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Connor. You have a life.”
“If I’d known you were coming—”
I cut him off. “It’s fine, really.”
“Why did you come over?”
“I left him.”
Silence follows my three words. I wonder if they have as much impact on Connor as they have on me. I wonder if they are as powerful as I love you.
“You left him.” It isn’t a question; he is repeating me, as if he doesn’t believe what I am saying. As if all his words about waiting were true, but that he never expected I could be his. I can understand that—the wanting something so much, but never believing you can actually have it.
“Where are you now?”
“I’m at the condo.”
“But I thought you left him.” I can hear it in Connor’s voice, like I am purposely lying to him and toying with his emotions.
“I did. He followed me to the café and when you weren’t there…”
“God, Lena. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. Why did you go back? Why didn’t you just go to a hotel?”
“I wasn’t physically able to, Connor.”
He mutters on the other end; the only word I can make out is bastard. “What the hell did he do?” It is a quiet rage that floats through the phone line to my ears. I remember how it feels, to have that hatred pumping through me. I also remember how it feels to have the hatred literally punched out of me. Thinking about it brings the bruise on my face into my acute awareness. Now that the pain is in my conscious mind, the injury throbs and aches.
“He hit me. I fell and… Connor, I couldn’t get up. It’s my fault. I could have gotten up and left, but I just… I just gave up.” Admitting the weakness stings.
“It is not your fault, Lena.”
“It is. In a way.”
“I’m coming to get you.”
“No, please don’t, Connor. Vera is coming.”
“The woman who was here with you?”
“Yes.”
“You trust her.”
“I do.”
“When will she be there?”
“Soon, I hope.”
“I think you need to get out of there now, Lena. I don’t think you should wait. Let me come.”
“I’ll be okay. I promise.”
Silence again. “I know where you live, Lena. Let me come.”
“That’s a bit stalker-ish, Connor.” I laugh softly, because I know Connor is the least likely person I know to turn actual stalker. Laughing, though—God, it makes my face hurt even more.
“Oh, no, Lena. I’ve just seen your ID in your wallet so many times when you pay here.”
“I was kidding, Connor.”
A pause. “Please, Lena, let me come.”
A change of subject, that’s what we need. “Connor, do you remember what you said? That you’d wait as long as I need?”
So much silence. “Sorry.” Connor laughs, embarrassed, and I imagine he is blushing. “I forgot you can’t see me nodding.”
“I will need time—time before I get involved with you. I don’t want you to be a rebound. I want to love you with everything that I have left, and I can’t do that yet. Is that okay?”
“Will you still come here for coffee?”
The smile that spreads my lips cannot be stopped. “Every day.”
“Then it’s okay.”
“See you soon then?”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You always have a place here. Maybe rent the apartment, open
the café for me in the morning, earn your keep. It doesn’t have to come with any conditions, Lena.”
I know he means it, but I also know that living above Deacon’s Place will absolutely come with conditions, spoken or unspoken. I will feel that pressure to move forward sooner than I possibly should, because I will smell him on that blanket draped over the couch, because I will see him smiling at customers, because Connor will be Connor.
No, I need to be myself for a while. “Thank you, Connor. You’re wonderful. Truly wonderful.”
“You are too, Lena. Please remember that. And if you need me, I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”
We don’t say a goodbye. After his last word, I press the bright red end button. I don’t want a goodbye with him, because it isn’t a goodbye; we are only beginning, and nowhere near ending.
I gather the last of my things, which only takes a few minutes.
There’s nothing left to pack.
***
It is nearly eleven. Vera has called again and she has been delayed at the hospital. Her relief is arriving at eleven thirty. She’ll be here soon. And then this chapter in my life will be finally closed.
Looking around the apartment, I realize that I will not miss it, for the most part. It has never been my home, with my tastes fully on display. This has always been Truman’s condo. Even Peggy has a bigger claim on it than me. Walking around, I trace my fingers across the smooth wood of the sideboard, the shiny surface of the kitchen counter, the rough texture of the painting Truman bought at a gallery in New York.
I have never noticed before, but if I stand on the other side of the apartment, the painting nearly looks like a figure floating across flourishes of navy blue, turquoise, and bright white. As the light changes in the condo minutely, shadows change across the painting. It seems to undulate like the ocean.
Water is so central to life. We are made of it; our planet is made of it. Life would not exist without it. As I turn, taking in the room from every angle, thinking about the importance of water, I see something shiny obscured by the base of the coat tree to the left of the condo door.
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