What Brings Me to You

by Loralee Abercrombie

  “Jaime, please,” I intercepted, “He’s not my--“

  “You’re NOT letting him off the hook, Charley! He is your step dad! He took your mom back. He agreed to take care of you. He had a responsibility to you and he ignored it. He ignored you. He’s doing it right now,” you turned from me back to Paul. “Look at her,” you screamed, your eyes ferocious. “You fucking look at her! Look at what she is! Look at her, dammit! She is standing despite the fact that you did everything you could to break her! She’s survived living in this God awful place! Do you even care that she was a little girl? She was a little girl who had to raise herself? And she was assaulted! There’s a special place in hell for cowards like you! I’m going to take care of her like you never did. Protect her like you never wanted to. She isn’t going to hurt anymore because of you while she’s with me, you got it! I needed her to hear me tell you that!

  “Charley,” mom chimed in from her crumpled heap on the floor. Her voice was quivering. Her right eye beginning to swell shut. She was having a hard time taking a full breath and I wasn’t sure if it was from the shock of it all or the injury she’d sustained. Either way, I wanted to comfort her. She looked so helpless; so broken. I didn’t want her to know all of this about Adam. I certainly didn’t want anyone to see the evidence, but especially her. It was then I knew why. My mother was just another victim in all of it. I was so bitter that I hadn’t seen it before then. Yes, she made very shitty choices but her choices weren’t necessarily governed by selfishness. They were dictated by survival. You were so caught up in the rage that you couldn’t see it.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ speak to her!” You snapped at her. “You, you’re just as bad!”

  “Jaime!” I tried to scream but it only came out as a faint whisper. Instead, I tried clutching your elbow like mom did to Paul, but unlike Paul, you whirled around and gripped me by my shoulders.

  “No sweetheart, I can’t do it, I can’t let you just let her off the hook.” Still holding me, you whipped your head around to face mom who was sitting on the floor near Paul, but it was as if they were miles apart. “You cannot just waltz into her life, our life and expect a free pass. Not from me. This woman is who she is despite you, not because of you. You didn’t raise her; you birthed her left her to die! Your life, such as it is, is your own fault and I have no sympathy for you. You’re not a victim! You can’t manipulate me into thinking you are and I won’t let you play head games with my wife! You want to talk to her? You go through me.

  “Jaime!”

  “Charley, I won’t let her hurt you, understand? I won’t let it happen. I love you too much.” You took one last look at the shattered remains of my broken childhood and snarled, “If I so much as think that this asshole is within one hundred miles of me and my family, so help me I will murder him in cold blood without any remorse.” I wasn’t sure which “asshole” you were talking about and surely didn’t have time to ask because I was being whisked away. When we reached the shattered glass at the front door, you scooped me into your arms and carried me over the wrecked threshold.

  Once outside you put me back on my feet and for the second time in so many hours I felt my breath become labored. My windpipe felt constricted and I had to slow down.

  “Sweetheart,” you said concerned. I breathed and counted. 1...inhale…2….exhale…3…inhale. “Sweetheart!” you repeated more firmly. I concentrated on your gray-blue eyes which were so similar to my mother’s. I wondered if she stopped dying her hair if it would be as dark brown as yours. “Sweetheart! Nod so I know you’re still with me.”

  I nodded, tamping down the panic and the random thoughts to focus on you.

  “We’re getting out of here,” you clipped dragging me behind you.

  “Jaime!” I said and dug my heels in so you couldn’t drag me as easily. You turned to face me slightly annoyed that I was decelerating our getaway, but I had to know before I got into the car with you.

  “Jaime. What you said back there. You called me your wife.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “You want to…you want to marry me?”

  “Yes. It’s not a secret or anything, Charley. I know I haven’t asked you but --“

  “Well you never really ask me if I want to do anything, you just tell me.” I said, smiling despite the ordeal.

  “Okay. So I’m telling you. We’re getting married.” You quipped as the corners of your mouth tipped upward ever so slightly.

  “Okay. When?” I asked. Your eyes looked wild again, but a piercing, hopeful sort of wild.

  “Now.”

  *****

  That’s when my life turned around. Two days and the cost of a marriage license later, we were married. Nineteen years old and I stood in front of the justice of the peace and swore to love, honor and obey you forever. Honor and obey I already had down, but I still, even on our wedding day, hadn’t actually told you I loved you, something I noticed even though it seemed you didn’t.

  Our first act as a married couple was to go to the mall because you insisted that we each needed a wedding ring. The mall! The last time I was there was with Teddy and I laughed to myself on the irony of it. On our way you reiterated to me how much you hated shopping. I knew this already, but I thought for sure that you’d make an exception to buy your wife (your wife!) a wedding band. Apparently not, because you gave me a budget , told me you didn’t want anything too froofy, then sat on a bench near the food court and read the paper while I picked out both rings. I found one of a dark metal that the clerk described as a substance they make armor piercing rounds out of. “If he ever gets in an accident and they can’t get it off, they’ll have to remove his finger! They can’t even saw through this stuff!” Perfect for you. But when it came to pick out my own I got a little sad. I had no idea what kind of ring I wanted and wished that you would’ve just picked it like a normal fiancée/husband. After an hour of frustrated searching, and with a tear threatening to leak from my eye, I asked the clerk what would look good on me and he chose a simple white gold band with tiny diamonds all around. There was no ceremony in exchanging rings. You didn’t even offer to put mine on my hand. Come to think of it, I don’t think you ever even touched it; not once. I just slipped it on in the food court in front of Chic Fil-A, and never took it off in all the time we were together. Not even to clean it. When I saw it, the tiny diamonds glinting underneath the fluorescents of the mall, I felt a flutter in my chest. I’m married. When I looked at you, you seemed not to be fazed by what we’d just, at the spur of the moment, sans family or friends, decided to do. Your implacability solidified for me that I did the right thing. You were what I needed: a rock. a solid landmass to anchor my emotional crazy-boat to, a shield to protect me from the emotional shitstorm around me. I loved you for being that for me and therefore, concluded that I loved you.

  “Jaime,” I said barely audible above the din of the food court. You locked eyes with me and for a moment I saw the ever present, hard mask of yours soften. That was enough for me. “I love you.” You smiled a tight smile that didn’t touch your eyes, grabbed my hand and took me back to our apartment.

  *****

  We had a blissful six months living the married life. I would look at you on the couch watching ESPN and think, “we’re playing house.” I think you may have been thinking the same thing because for those six months, every now and then, I’d catch you looking at me like you couldn’t believe I was there. I’d catch your eye, you’d smile and I’d smile. We’d kiss, have, unfortunately, ungainly and somewhat painful sex, but we were both content to be together. Other than the physical part, nothing really changed between us those first few months. You were still you: an intense, determined, fiercely competitive, somewhat cold, homebody; and I was still me.

  Things changed after my twentieth birthday. As a belated wedding/birthday present Markus, Brooke and I opened La Marlotte. Thanks to my, I have to say, stellar marketing campaign and Brooke’s hoity-toity friends, we were a success. Like, a huge succe
ss. The reviews in the Trib and the Times were, for lack of a better word, glowing. We were deep in the black our first month which, I’m told, is almost unheard of for a starting concept restaurant like ours. We had wait times up to two hours for a table and reservations being booked for six months in advance after our second month. I was so thrilled when the checks came in and my take home salary was more than yours. You, however, didn’t seemed to thrilled about this. You tried to tell me that you were happy for me and that it didn’t matter who made what because we were a team, and I tried to believe you, but you started taking on more work outside of training on campus and bouncing at the bar. You found some really rich clients not too far from our apartment and held in home training sessions in the evenings. First, it was just once a week, but it wasn’t long before you were gone six nights a week from five until sometimes, close to midnight. “Go big or go home,” is what you’d say to me when I complained about not seeing you. “I’m a man, sweetheart. I need to provide.” I tried to say that you didn’t need to work so hard if the restaurant was doing so well, but every time I did you’d stop speaking to me for hours, sometimes days, so I quit bringing it up. I started to downplay the success of the restaurant, too, hoping that you’d stay home more.

  For my twenty-first birthday I got my degree and Brooke had us over to her place for a little congratulations party wherein she also announced to the entire party that there were some people in New York interested in opening a La Marlotte satellite. There was lots of glass clinking and celebratory back slapping but you sat in the corner that night and didn’t really say much. So as not to be outdone, you took a job in the health and wellness wing of HCI Corporate HQ as the head trainer. Apparently some of your your in home clients put in the good word, because they pursued you. It wasn’t long before the “execs”, as you called them, took notice of you, or maybe you made them take notice of you with your “go big or go home” mentality. Whatever. That’s when you got the brilliant idea to brand yourself (The Jaime Rosen Method) and create a business plan. I thought it was genius, and that I could actually help you since I’d just drawn up a, I’ll say it, very successful business plan for La Marlotte. As a bonus, I thought it was a way for us to connect as husband and wife and get over some of the weirdness between us, but you wouldn’t let me help. You wouldn’t even talk to me about it, really. You said that you’d befriended a board member who was coaching you through the process and that it was better that way as they “knew the lingo” and were “the asses you needed to kiss”. I tried to be understanding, though it nagged at me that you’d shut me out. You just kept repeating that it was your job to provide and protect your kin, and even though you were gone all the time and exhausted when you were home you were also happy. I wanted to believe it was because you were so fulfilled in your job, and maybe that was part of it, but I knew deep down it was because you were making more money.

  I decided that our problem was space. We were both professionals and we were still living in a crappy one bedroom walking distance and, unfortunately earshot, of USF. I convinced myself that we were outgrowing the apartment and not each other. That you were sick of the apartment and not me. I thought that maybe if we had a house and a bedroom that could fit a king sized bed and a spare bedroom we could turn into an office, things between us would be better. Markus, Collette and I drove around the greater Tampa area looking at houses for an entire Saturday when I found it. Spacious but not grand, homey in the way I always pictured my own house to be with a fireplace and an enormous backyard. I could see the dog, then maybe, a few years down the road, a little Rosen. I called you right away to come see it but your voicemail said you were with a client and to leave a message, so I did. When you called back a few hours later it was to tell me no, we couldn’t afford it. I could’ve said that what I was pulling in from La Marlotte alone was enough, and that with what you brought home on top of that we had plenty for a nice down payment. I could’ve said that we could put the thing in my name and I’d be responsible for the payments if you were so worried about it. I could’ve said a lot of things, but didn’t because I didn’t want to fight. “Okay,” I said. Then the line went dead. Then, I poured myself a large glass of wine.

  One day, a week later, you came home with a bottle of champagne, great news, and a present for me.

  “Which do you want first?” You asked bouncing from foot to foot anxiously like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “Um, the good news,” I said feeding off of your rare good mood.

  “They want me!” You cried. You went on to explain that your business plan, which I’d yet to see, was a success with some of the lower tier execs and some board members. They wanted to partner with you on, what you had coined “The Rosen Method for Training” and possibly invest in some HCI backed training facilities. It all sounded very Billy Blanks, Tae Bo-ish to me but you were happy enough to scoop me in your arms and kiss me which, was such a rarity I went along with it.

  “So what’s my present?” I asked. That’s when you pulled the box out of your pocket. The box with the key to the house you’d gone out and bought for us. We popped champagne and I danced around the apartment in my underwear while you watched from the couch, a crooked smile on your face.

  I found my slice of paradise there in the suburbs with you. I had it all at twenty-two: great house, great job, great friends, great husband, Brooke, Markus and I met for one of our weekly business meetings which usually ended in hen style gabbing, gossiping, grubbing and grey-goosing. That’s when she told us the news: she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. Cancer is such a scary word. I nearly passed out when she said it, but Brooke put on the brave face and downplayed it significantly by telling us it was early and her type had a very high rate of survival. USF had the leading cancer research and treatment center in the US so we knew she was in good hands. I hugged her and, though I wanted to, didn’t shed a tear. I just admired her and thought about Teddy for the first time since I got married. I thought about how close he and his mother were. I thought about where he was and if he was planning on coming around to visit her while she went through her treatments. I thought about him in his doctor lab coat looking over his mother’s charts and my heart turned over for him. I hoped, wherever he was, whatever he was doing he was as happy as I was. Actually, I hoped he was happier.

  I was spending more time with work and with Brooke. Since she was recovering I had to take over several of her duties and even stood in for her at some social engagements. I was just so happy I could do something for someone else. Like Collette said, it helped me to focus on other people and I felt useful and needed. I’d go at least twice a week to visit her while she was getting treatment at home, most of the time Mr. Holmes was by her side, reading a book or smiling up at his fragile wife. It was very sweet. We’d talk business but in those times I really got to know her and knew she was a woman I could model my own life after, just like Teddy said. It was hard being in her house, in her bedroom and not think of her son. She spoke of him often, and that’s when I found out he did move back to Tampa to be with her. When I realized that I could’ve seen him at the hospital or anywhere around town. I thought that the idea of it would make me sick or apprehensive, but it actually made me smile. Enough time had passed that I would welcome the sight of him.

  After we moved into the house, we hit another, as Collette called it “rough patch”. I don’t know that it was all that rough. I think I would’ve preferred if we fought or something, but we didn’t. We were just disconnected. I knew something was off with us but I could never really nail it down. Our routine was relatively the same: I’d come home from working at the restaurant or from meetings with investors, you’d come home shortly after. I’d talk about my day: about Brooke’s treatments and, if I’d gone to visit her that day. You’d pour yourself two fingers of Scotch, I’d have half a glass of wine. We’d change into our pajamas, you’d watch ESPN, I’d read a novel trying hard to block out the white noise of sports pundits before giving up
and going to bed. Some nights we’d make love, which was less painful but no less clumsy, but most of the time we’d just lay there until you would roll over with your back to me and fall asleep. I couldn’t understand why the happier I got in my professional life the more you pulled away from me. I couldn’t understand why you seemed to resent me for my success since you were always talking about being the best.

  Collette suggested you were probably really stressed with work and when men get stressed they go inside themselves. Markus suggested I buy sexy lingerie and prance around my house like we were in a Victoria’s Secret commercial. They both suggested that we take a honeymoon, since we never did. That a vacation would be good for us. That we needed to “get away”.

  Our relationship did even out, though we never got to take a vacation or a honeymoon. What we got was so much worse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Teddy

  I’ll tell you when I finally gave her up.

  When I finished my prerequisites at the University of Tampa, I decided it would be best for everyone if I just disappeared for a while. I just couldn’t be around you Lacey, for one thing. I couldn’t look at you and think about what I’d done, what I’d agreed to. I couldn’t be around my dad and not want to beat the shit out of him for cheating on my mother with Claire. I couldn’t look at my mother and not want to tell her what a douche bag dad was and take her out of that house. I couldn’t stand the possibility of running into Charley. The town was too small, she was working with my mother, I would see her, or though I saw her, everywhere and it never got any easier. So I rented a condo in South Beach while I finished med school at University of Miami. Being on the beach was a pathetically nostalgic reminder of Charley that kept me focused on my goal: to make her proud. Mom called to talk to me about the restaurant opening but I told her I couldn’t go because I was so busy, which was a only half true. The truth was, I knew if I saw her I wouldn’t be able to restrain myself and I needed to restrain myself. I’d convinced myself that things were better this way. I couldn’t hurt her if I just stayed away, so I kept an eye on her from a distance. Andy kept me up to date on all the shit with her brothers and mom kept me in the loop about the goings on in the restaurant over the phone, making sure to send me any and all of the press clippings.