by Kim Holden
She takes it and presses it to her cheek, wincing against the pain.
I sit on the bed next to her. She seems relaxed, but not in a peaceful way. It’s more like all of the energy has been drained out of her. “So. This is the part where I ask questions and if I’m lucky, you answer them.”
She nods.
“When did you meet fucking Michael?”
“Fucking Michael?” she questions, though it also sounds like agreement. One hundred percent agreement.
“Yeah, that’s what I call him in my head. Seems especially fitting tonight.” I’m trying to hold back my anger, but it’s proving difficult.
She takes a deep breath and heaves it out, and just when I think she’s going to keep quiet she says, “I met him a little over two years ago. I was at a coffee shop near my subway stop, killing some time. There was a storm outside. He came in, bought some coffee, and asked if he could sit with me because every other chair in the place was taken. Against my better judgment, I said yes. I thought he would just sit there and ignore me, because that’s what people usually do. They don’t want to stare at my scars, so they pretend I’m not there.”
“But he didn’t ignore you?”
She shakes her head sadly. “No. He talked to me. About normal stuff. It was small talk, I guess, but it didn’t feel small to me. We talked for over an hour, and in that hour I never once felt ugly or broken.” She’s talking quietly, but her voice carries so much emotion. And it’s the kind of emotion that could flip at any moment only you don’t know which way it’s going to go. Sad. Mad. Defeated. Vengeful.
“You’re not ugly. Or broken.”
Her eyes find mine, but there’s no agreement in them and she continues without acknowledging my comment. “He asked for my phone number when I had to leave to catch my train.” She shrugs. “And I gave it to him. He was handsome. And he was interesting. And he had on a nice suit. And he was charming. And I didn’t think he’d actually call. No one had ever asked for my number before. I was sure he’d throw it in the trash on his way out the door.”
She stops there, so I prompt her to continue. “But he did call?”
She nods and exhales a long, slow breath. “He did. He called a month later. He lived in Florida and traveled to New York for a few days every month for his business. He took me out to dinner that night.” A faint smile crosses her lips, but instead of joyful, it looks disgusted. “I remember how nervous and happy I was.”
“Did you sleep with him that night?” I don’t know why I just asked that, but the thought of fucking Michael taking her virginity from her makes me sick.
She shakes her head. “We didn’t have sex until his third visit. He took me to his hotel. Over the next few months his visits were a combination of dinner and sex. After that it was just sex.”
“But, you loved him?”
When she nods this time, her expression darkens. “I did. And I was fool enough to think he loved me, too. He talked about us being together and getting married someday.” She looks at me and the look on her face is heartbreaking. Fucking Michael played her for years. “He talked about it all the time, Gus. I was so fucking stupid that I believed him.”
“You’re not stupid, Impatient. You trusted him. He’s a fucking bastard.” Hearing her belittle herself because of this prick makes me want to throttle him.
She shakes her head and stares straight ahead out the window on the other side of the room. It’s a blank stare. “And then I got pregnant.” Her voice has lost all of the anger; the only thing pouring in now is sadness.
What? I try to let the shock pass quickly and I keep my mouth shut.
She’s quiet, just staring out the window lost in it all, until her face drops and tears pool in her eyes. “It happened on New Year’s Eve. I found out mid-February.” She sniffs trying to hold back the tears, but they break free and start rolling silently down her cheeks.
I want to hug her but I’m scared she’ll quit talking, so I take her hand in mine and squeeze so she knows I’m with her. That she’s not alone.
When she starts talking again the emotions drain away, even though the tears are flowing. It’s the face of shock and devastation, the kind of devastation that leaves you hollow. “I called him to tell him the news, because even though I was scared, I was happy, too.” She shrugs. “I never thought I’d have kids. That anyone would want to have kids with me. So, to me the accidental pregnancy was miraculous. A gift.” She pauses and sniffs again. “He didn’t feel the same way. That’s when he told me he was married. And my world fell apart.” She wipes the tears from her face with her free hand. Defeat is creeping back in on her. Like she’s living it all over again and it’s so painful she’s shutting down. She shakes her head. “I didn’t know …. All that time … I didn’t know.” It’s like she’s pleading with me to believe her.
I nod to let her know I believe her.
“I think every bad feeling known to man hit me during that conversation. I felt sad. I felt betrayed. I felt angry. So angry. I felt like an idiot. And I felt I deserved every single one of those emotions, because most of all, I felt guilty. So fucking guilty. Because I’d been with someone’s husband for two years and I had no idea. The guilt was unbearable. Marriage, relationships, should be honored … and I’d been having sex with a married man. I felt dirty and used, but I also felt like it was my fault. Like I should’ve somehow known. I ran back through all of the conversations we’d had, and every time we’d met, looking for clues. And I didn’t find any. The days that followed were lonely. I had no one to talk to about it.”
“What about your aunt? Couldn’t you talk to her?”
She shakes her head. “Not that I would’ve wanted to put my problems on her anyway, but February was brutal for my aunt. My whole family. Jane tried to commit suicide in early February. She was held under psychiatric evaluation for a couple of weeks after that.” She loves and worries about her aunt, you can hear it in her voice.
Huh, that’s why Hitler had to leave the tour. I feel bad for the dude now.
She continues. “Anyway, after a few days of drowning in the guilt, I realized that I was better off without him. I could raise a child on my own. I’d love the baby enough for both of us ... I already did.” Her voice brightens when she mentions the baby and my stomach drops because I don’t know how I know, but I know she lost the baby. She’s staring at me now and the smile she’s wearing is slowly torn apart by agony until it’s nothing but grief. Her voice is only a whisper through the tears she’s fighting. “I loved that baby so much. I would’ve been a good mom, Gustov.”
I swallow back the lump in my throat before I agree. “You would’ve been a good mom.” She would’ve been. She’s one of the most focused, responsible, intensely passionate people I’ve ever met.
She attempts a smile at my confirmation, but rests her head on my shoulder instead. It’s heavy, like her heart. She’s letting herself lean on me now. “I miscarried on March twenty-ninth. That’s the day I discovered what loss really felt like. Losing Michael was nothing compared to losing the baby. You know that saying, ‘everything happens for a reason’?”
I nod. She can’t see me, but she can feel me.
“I wonder if the person who said it had ever lost someone.” It’s not a question.
I find my voice and answer anyway. “Probably not. Loss fucking sucks.”
“Yeah. It does. I still feel guilty. Like I did something wrong, you know. The doctor’s said there was nothing I could’ve done differently, but I still feel like it’s my fault, the miscarriage.”
I squeeze her hand again. “Miscarriages happen a lot. It’s not your fault. How did fucking Michael take the news?”
“I texted him the next day and told him because I thought he deserved to know. It was the first contact I’d had with him since our split. It was from a new phone number he didn’t have. He called me back within minutes and left message after message telling me how sorry he was. That his wife found out about the affai
r and left him, which I doubted was true. He told me how much he loved me. How much he wanted to see me again. That went on for a week. I changed my number again and never heard from him until he showed up here a few weeks ago.”
“And you went with him this time.”
She sniffs again. “I did. I’m not proud about that. I think I just needed closure. To everything. I wanted to end it on my terms once and for all. That, and despite it all, a little piece of me still loved him.”
“How’d that go? The closure?”
She squeezes my hand like she’d rather do that than talk. “Same as always. I got fucked and fucked over.”
I’m seething now. “That sonofabitch.”
“No. It’s my own fault. When I left his hotel room, I knew without a doubt in my mind it was over. That whatever old feelings I’d had for him, it wasn’t love. It was more like habit, if that makes sense. It was something I’d done so many times that I’d associated it with love, when that’s not what it was at all. It may have started out that way in the beginning, at least for me, but it morphed into something else entirely. So, when he came by earlier today, I met him only to tell him it was over. Because for me it finally was. Obviously … he didn’t take the news very well.”
I drop her hand, because now I’m fucking raging. I need a physical release for this fury and I don’t want to be anywhere near her when it happens, so I leap from the bed. My hands are clenched into fists and I want to hit something so fucking bad, preferably fucking Michael’s face. “Motherfucker. He did that to you, didn’t he?” I’m pointing to the bruises on her face.
She nods and the tears are in her eyes again.
I’m pacing the room. “What kind of sick sonofabitch hits a woman?” And then I turn back toward her. “You need to get a restraining order. He was just here looking for you.”
She looks terrified. I hate that she looks terrified. “What? He was here?”
I nod. “When I went to get the ice, he was banging on the front door. Drunk off his ass, looking for you. I told him to leave you alone or I’d fuck him up. I should’ve beat his ass.”
She doesn’t say anything this time. Her eyes are as big as saucers.
And now I’m scanning her room. “Where’s your phone?”
She looks to her nightstand first. That’s where she always charges it. It’s not there. “I think it’s in my purse.” She crawls off the bed and picks up her purse off the floor by the bathroom door and rifles through it. When she finds her phone she types in her passcode and she hands it to me.
She has thirty-two missed calls and fifty-three text messages. I start scrolling though the texts. They’re all from him. I swear the dude is psycho. Over the past few hours he’s ping-ponged back and forth between threatening her, to declaring his love, to telling her to fuck off, to groveling. Again. And again. Throw in the random dick pic, too. This guy is sick.
I open up the missed calls and recognize his number. All thirty-two calls. I nod to the phone. “Restraining order should’ve happened yesterday with this dude. He’s certifiable. Put your shoes on. We’re going to the police station. After we stop at the ER.”
She shakes her head. “Police station, no ER.”
She files a report for the physical abuse first. They record her statement and take photos. After that she fills out the necessary paperwork for a restraining order.
It’s three-thirty in the morning by the time we get home.
He will never touch her again. I promise.
Sunday, November 5
(Scout)
When I open my bedroom door at noon there’s a plate of peanut butter saltines and a glass of grape juice on the floor. The sticky note from Gustov on my door reads, Let me know if you need anything.
I pick up the food and set it on my nightstand before writing him a note. Thanks. For everything. I stick it to his closed bedroom door before I return to my bedroom, close the door, and eat the most thoughtful meal I’ve ever eaten.
Thursday, November 9
(Gus)
Impatient’s been quiet all week. The bruises are fading, but her spirit is the thing I’m most worried about. She already had a lot on her emotional plate. What happened to her was trauma: physical, emotional, and psychological. I can’t erase it. I wish I could, but I can’t. So, I’ll be here for her, even if she doesn’t want me to. She’s not pushing friendship away when she needs it most.
I leave a note on her bedroom door before I go to sleep. Mancala. Pizza. Tonight. Be there or Spare Ribs and I will hunt you down and force you to play with us. That would take the fun out of it. So, how about we keep this easy and you just meet us in the living room at 7:00?
Friday, November 10
(Scout)
Mancala and pizza was just what I needed. Gustov, Audrey, Paxton, and I all took turns playing in a Mancala cutthroat tournament. We stayed up late. I smiled for the first time all week. I didn’t think about Michael. I didn’t think about anything. I just had fun. It was the first time in my life I felt like I could just be me, surrounded by people who don’t and won’t judge me. People who don’t see my scars, but who see everything else. It was freeing in a way I can’t explain.
After I brush my teeth I leave a sticky note on Gustov’s door. A taunt to make him smile; like he made me smile tonight. You still suck at Mancala. Thanks for the pizza.
Monday, November 13
(Gus)
More and more I find myself looking forward to waking up in the morning just so I can open my door and see if there’s a little piece of her on the other side in the form of a sticky note. The first time she left a note for me on the bus I thought, Well, this is fucking childish and irritating. Looking back, hindsight is twenty-twenty. I was a train wreck; I wouldn’t have wanted to deal with me either. I didn’t want to deal with me, obviously; it’s the reason I was drunk all the time.
I’m already grinning when I catch sight of the square-shaped yellow note on my door as it swings open.
The grin is short lived when I read her words. Car accident = fire = burns = peoples’ stares = embarrassment + anger + introversion + sadness
Shit.
This is as real as she’s ever been with me. I want to grab my keys and go to her. Find her at work and pull her away from everything she’s doing and just hold her. I want to take away the pain that she’s been through, both because of the accident and the insensitive assholes who’ve made her feel anything less than the perfect human being she is.
Instead, I grab my marker and sticky notes and I write a note of my own, like I always do. I don’t know if she’ll answer or if she’ll shut me out, but I have to try. I keep it short because Impatient’s all about the details in life, unless the details belong to her. The ones she doesn’t share. How old were you when it happened?
Tuesday, November 14
(Scout)
11. My dad was drunk. That’s why I lived with my aunt and uncle.
Wednesday, November 15
(Gus)
Was your hearing affected by the accident?
Thursday, November 16
(Scout)
That was part of the birth lottery. It’s no big deal.
Friday, November 17
(Gus)
That one made me smile. I think the solemn tennis match is at an end for now, so I respond, Kinda like my awesome sense of humor? I won the motherfucking birth lottery with that.
Saturday, November 18
(Scout)
Keep telling yourself that.
(Gus)
And just like that, I know we’re good. When a conversation ends in sarcasm with her, I know she’s satisfied, at ease. And at ease is the only place I ever want her to be. Especially around me.
Sunday, November 19
(Gus)
“Ma, who’s the old lady with the walker standing in our driveway in her nightgown, filching our newspaper?” I’m watching an old woman with silvery-lavender hair, in a pink and purple flowered housecoat, steal our
daily news in slow motion outside our kitchen window.
Ma walks over and stands next to me, her smile wide. “Oh, that’s Mrs. Randolph. Her daughter, Francine, moved in next door last month. Mrs. Randolph is visiting for a few weeks for Thanksgiving. She’s feisty. You’ll like her.”
“Feisty? She’s a goddamn thief. She just stole your newspaper. I think I’m in love with her.” This Mrs. Randolph is a character, I can tell already.
Ma laughs. “You two will get along great. And she always brings it back after lunch and puts it right where she found it, so it’s not really stealing. She’s just borrowing it for the morning.”
I’m outside smoking a cigarette when Mrs. Randolph comes creeping back over to return our newspaper. Her walker is loud and squeaky as it rolls over the concrete. I call out a greeting, “Hello, Mrs. Randolph.”
She starts at my words and the newspaper slips from her grasp. She brings her hand to her chest and eyes me with irritation. “God lord, boy, don’t go sneakin’ up on me like that.”
I could easily argue that I’m standing in my own driveway, not ten feet from her, and she’s the sneaky one here, but I don’t. Instead I approach her and introduce myself. “I’m Gus Hawthorne.” I motion with my thumb over my shoulder. “I live here with my mom, Audrey.”
She’s eyeballing my cigarette and just when I think she’s going to scold me about smoking, she says, “You got another cigarette?” She glances up at me and I notice that her eyes are cloudy. Cataracts I’m guessing. She squints at me. “What did you say your name was, boy?”
