The Peace Maker

by Michele Chynoweth

  Before Chessa had had a chance to protest, the phone rang. It was Dorothy Richards, asking her when she would be available to go shopping. “Darren explained how you don’t especially like this sort of thing and you may need help, dear, so I promise it will be quick and painless, and maybe even fun!” her mother-in-law had said.

  Like going to get my wisdom teeth pulled, Chessa thought, swallowing down her misgivings and picking a date. Let’s just get it over with.

  Dorothy must have warned the women at Bergdorf Goodman’s, because their shopping spree there really was, if not quick, fairly painless. The experience was a far cry from the shopping trips she had taken with her own mother, rummaging through racks and stacks of mismatched, wrong-sized clearance items to find the best bargains.

  Chessa hardly had to lift a finger as stunning outfits; dresses, coats, and even swimwear were brought to her one by one for her approval. Once Chessa, with her mother-in-law’s expert guidance, weeded the selection down to about a dozen items, she tried them on in the huge fitting room, assisted as needed by ladies–in-waiting.

  I feel like Cinderella again, she secretly admitted to herself, as she twirled around in a gorgeous tea-length dress that whirled around her in soft layers of pale apricot chiffon. “Like a princess,” she said softly out loud.

  “Like a First Lady,” her mother-in-law corrected.

  Once they were finished, a waiting limousine picked them up outside the store to take them to the Café du Suisse for lunch. Their bags would be delivered.

  Chessa was famished but completely lost her appetite once she saw the next surprise waiting for her in the restaurant. Darren’s sister, Deborah, sat at one of the tables, waving and smiling at them as they entered.

  Well, the trip had been relatively painless up until now. Chessa did her best to smile as they sat down across from her.

  “I called Deborah to join us. I thought it would be another nice surprise,” Dorothy said in all seriousness.

  “So how did you do? I would have been there, but I couldn’t get out of work earlier.” Deborah directed her question and comment to her mother, as if Chessa was just a child who was meant to be seen but not heard.

  Chessa marveled at how the two of them were so alike. Deborah looked like a younger version of her mother; both of them were blonde (although probably not natural, Chessa would guess) with the same piercing blue eyes as her husband’s, and had pale, perfect skin (they abhorred getting too much sun). Both were almost anorexic they were so thin.

  In their presence, Chessa felt like a plump teenager. She only felt worse when it came time to order. The waitress took her order first; after she asked for the restaurant’s daily special, a filet mignon sandwich with sautéed onions on a baguette, she felt immediately humiliated when both of the other women ordered Cobb salads with light dressing.

  “We found some fabulous outfits and dresses that fit perfectly,” Dorothy said, pausing to gaze at Chessa as she took a bite of her sandwich.

  “Better start watching those calories; television adds about ten pounds,” Deborah said directly to Chessa this time, making her feel like Cinderella before she was visited by the fairy godmother and had to put up with her evil stepmother and stepsisters. “I’m so jealous. I wish I could find someone like Darren. Never a bride or a bridesmaid.”

  Chessa realized it was a direct dig aimed at her for not selecting her sister-in-law to be in the wedding. “About the wedding, Deborah, I’m sorry—”

  “I’m just joking; all is forgiven,” Deborah said magnanimously. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me one day. Besides, at least I’ll get to buy a new wardrobe to come to all those White House parties and balls. And really, I don’t envy you after all. I wouldn’t want to have to put up with all the stress that comes along with your position, although I’m sure you’ll do fine with it.”

  Dorothy had ordered three glasses of champagne and raised her glass to toast her son’s presidential candidacy. Not a bottle, just a glass each, which they all sipped during lunch. No alcoholics among the women, Chessa thought.

  Her mother-in-law did ask if she wanted a refill, but Chessa declined.

  “It’s okay, dear, you’re not driving,” Dorothy said with a little laugh.

  “I know, I’m just not much for the taste,” Chessa replied.

  “So your family, they aren’t big drinkers?” Dorothy asked, although it came out more like a statement than a question.

  Time to color the truth a little bit, Chessa decided. If they had known her father, they would have known he drank. A lot.

  When she was young, Chessa recalled her mother trying to keep up with him, then giving up in disgust. It was part of the reason they had divorced. But Chessa remembered her dad as a happy drunk. She hadn’t experienced, like her mom, the complete irresponsibility and selfishness that went along with his drunken gaiety.

  Now, a little bit older and wiser, Chessa was beginning to realize that her mother had been forced to pick up the pieces time and again, barely paying the bills to keep a roof over their heads every time Stephen got fired from another job, or spent his paycheck at the bar, or had to get bailed out of jail.

  She had always just known her dad as the ‘fun guy,’ and as a young girl would become angry when her mother would berate or nag him. Only now, through her own experience, was Chessa finally starting to see how difficult it must have been for Theresa Reynolds to live with an alcoholic.

  “They like to drink once in a while,” Chessa conceded.

  “Hmmm. That’s funny. I heard you went to one of those alcoholic basher meetings,” Deborah said. “I thought you must be religiously against drinking or something, being Methodist and all.”

  “They’re called Al-Anon, and my being Methodist has nothing to do with any of it.” Me thinks me doth protest too much, Chessa scolded herself.

  “I just think you need to be cautious that it may give off, shall we say, the wrong meaning.” Dorothy cleared her throat for emphasis. “From what Stephanie has said, those people in Al-Anon don’t seem to mean any harm, but I’m sure you can’t trust them. And now that you’re in the public eye, I would say it’s a good idea not to join any such controversial groups that may attract negative attention. Moderation is a virtue.”

  Tell that to your son, Chessa wanted to shout, but remained silent. It won’t do any good to argue with her anyway. You can’t talk to a drunk – or a control freak who is in denial for that matter.

  “From what I’ve heard, they just seem like a bunch of meddlers and complainers anyway, wanting other people to share their misery. Please tell me you won’t be going back there,” Dorothy said, sounding more like she was making a demand rather than a request.

  “Okay,” Chessa said lamely, trying to force down the last of her sandwich without gagging.

  Dorothy softened her tone. “Like Deborah said, you and Darren will probably both be under a lot of stress for the next several months. I’m sure he’ll be working lots of late hours with the campaign…”

  He already does, Chessa thought. This won’t be any different.

  “And I know my son only drinks some to alleviate the pressure he’s under. Like his father, I’m sure he’ll also be wanting you to help take his mind off it all in the bedroom, if you know what I mean.” Dorothy winked. “The Richards men have always had big goals, big desires, and big needs. Darren must have seen in you that you could fulfill those needs.”

  Along with a few other women maybe, Chessa felt like saying, but kept silent. And this is none of your business, she felt like adding.

  “Well, I say who cares if your husband wants you to help relieve his stress once in a while, so long as you get to buy all these new clothes, go to fabulous dinner parties and are the center of attention. You may even get to see the world!” Deborah sighed with envy. “And it’s not like Darren’s not good-looking. I think you should consider yourself the luckiest girl alive.”

  Chessa didn’t feel very grateful, but she forced anot
her smile.

  Dorothy must have seen right through it. “If you ever need anyone to talk to, you can always call me.”

  “Or me,” Deborah offered cheerfully.

  Yeah, right. You two will be the last women I call. Then Chessa immediately felt guilty for her mean-spirited thoughts. “Thank you both,” she said aloud.

  Ever since she was a toddler, Chessa had always wanted a sister. But her intuition told her she couldn’t trust Deborah. She’s not even my friend, much less a sister.

  And in that moment, as Deborah and Dorothy chatted merrily with the waiter who came to deliver their bill, Chessa felt like the loneliest person in the world.

  Feeling too uncomfortable to drag Stephanie into her problems anymore under threat by her husband, not to mention her “agreement” to abide by the wishes of her mother-in-law, Chessa went home and called Amy.

  She told her everything that had transpired, from Darren’s drinking and late nights away from home to her lunch with her “evil” mother-in-law and sister-in-law. She did, however, withhold the fact that her husband had hit her. Amy worked at the Chicago Tribune now, but Chessa knew if she told Amy about the incident her friend would show up in New York or Washington DC—wherever Darren happened to be—and start a brawl with him. And Amy would probably win, Chessa smiled to herself. Of course, we would all lose in the long run. She was learning little by little that some things were better left unsaid.

  “Wow, you really are like Cinderella,” Amy said, trying to lighten her friend’s mood. “I’m afraid I don’t have any fairy godmother magic powers, though, girlfriend.”

  “Go ahead. I know you’re dying to tell me ‘I told you so.’ ”

  “Nah, you don’t need that right now. I’m just giving you a hug through the phone.”

  Chessa started to cry. “Thank you. You’re the only person I can talk to. I just feel trapped. I should have never married Darren in the first place, and now that I did, I don’t see a way out.”

  “Have you thought about seeing a counselor?”

  “No, Darren blew a fuse when he caught wind that I went to one Al-Anon meeting. He would kill me if he found out I was talking to someone else about all of this. And since all of our money is in joint accounts, he’ll see the checks going out to a therapist. Or an attorney, for that matter. Besides, I still—”

  “You still love him?” Chessa didn’t miss the incredulity in her friend’s voice.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. I still want to be his wife. And not just because I’m a senator’s wife or because I might become the First Lady. I fell in love with who he is, or who I thought he was, not for what he might become. I just don’t know who he is anymore. I swore when my parents got divorced that I would never get married unless I planned to stay in that marriage forever, no matter what.”

  “Yeah, yeah, for better or worse, sickness and health and all that.”

  “Well, according to the Twelve-Step program he is sick. They say ‘hate the disease, not the person.’ I just need a way to cope with all of this.”

  “Well, you know I’m not super religious or anything but I guess there’s always prayer. And you can talk to me whenever you want. I’ll always listen. Maybe I can be your fairy god-sister.”

  Chessa laughed through fresh tears. “That’s a deal. And you’re right—one of the things I heard at the Al-Anon meeting was the three Cs: You didn’t cause the disease, you can’t cure it, and you can’t control it. I just need to lean on a Higher Power. I feel like I lost God somewhere along the way and I need to reconnect.”

  “I’ll pray for you too. ’Cause you know I got connections girl!”

  “Thank you, Sister!” Chessa laughed, appreciative of her friend’s humor.

  “Amen, Sister!”

  She always knows how to make me feel better.

  ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

  But once again Chessa’s hopes that her husband would change and things would get better were quickly dashed.

  Darren was tipsy but not full-blown drunk when he arrived home a little after seven the night after his big announcement. He had gone to celebrate with his campaign staff and a few political cronies.

  Chessa got up to give him a hug and kiss, telling him she had a casserole warming in the oven.

  “I’m not hungry for anything but you,” he said with a slight slur. His breath smelled of mint and just a hint of bourbon. He held her tighter and started kissing her neck, and then her mouth.

  Chessa was caught off guard and tried to catch her breath, trying to push him away for a moment.

  “What’s a matter, baby, aren’t you hungry too?” Not giving her a chance to respond, he pulled her close and clutched her hair in his hand, drawing her face to his, kissing her hard. Before she knew it, he was scooping her up and laying her down on the living room couch and unzipping his pants.

  Caught completely off-guard, Chessa’s mind reeled. This is not what I want, she realized. I’m not ready. But it didn’t matter.

  “Darren, I’m not…” The protest formed in her head and got stuck in her throat and those were the only words that escaped as Darren ignored her, silencing her with his mouth, his body holding her down. I’m not in the mood. A battle played out in her mind.

  He’s your husband.

  Yes, and you’re his wife, not his plaything.

  You should please him.

  Yes, but what about me?

  It was over in a matter of minutes. Chessa had just succumbed, silencing her thoughts, stuffing down her feelings. Now she felt used and ashamed. And angry at Darren and especially at herself. He should have stopped. He should have noticed what I wanted and what I didn’t want. But he didn’t care. All he cared about was himself and what he wanted. Still, this is all my fault. I should have stopped him.

  She lay there and drew up a blanket to cover herself. But no amount of blankets could take away the chill nor cover up how naked she felt.

  Darren merely stood up and wordlessly zipped his pants, straightened his shirt and smoothed his hair. “Now I could go for that casserole,” he said, and turned to walk into the kitchen.

  Chessa tried hard not to think about what happened as she made follow-up phone calls the next day at work to the women who had called into Safe Horizon to get an appointment with a counselor or join a support group.

  These women have real problems, she kept telling herself, focusing on each caller as if she were a personal friend or relative asking for help.

  Every once in a while she would think of the poor women and young girls in Africa or in the Middle East. Some of them were being traded as slaves, held hostage, married off way too young, gang-raped by soldiers, brutally beaten, maimed, or mutilated. It didn’t make Chessa feel any better about her own situation; it just took her mind off of it. And it helped keep her focused on why she wanted—needed—to become First Lady. She could make a real difference that way. It’s my calling. No one said it would be easy.

  One of the calls that came in surprised her. It was Stephanie, calling to see how she was doing.

  Chessa explained to her cousin-in-law that she wouldn’t be attending any more meetings. “I’ll be super busy helping Darren with his campaign, on top of my work here,” she told her.

  “But you need to take care of you,” Stephanie argued. “This is because Darren found out and asked you not to come anymore, right?”

  Chessa was silent.

  “Well, you tell that egomaniac that you’re an adult and he’s not your boss. Or better yet, don’t tell him anything at all. They have noon meetings just down the road from where you work. We could go on your lunch break. He’ll never know.”

  “Yeah, but Dorothy or Deborah might find out.”

  “Oh, so those two are on your case about it too, huh? I should have known. They need the program more than you, but they’ll never admit that. Chessa, please don’t let them drag you down into their sickness. I promise you none of them will ever find out, even if I have to kill somebody.”

/>   Chessa didn’t laugh.

  “That’s a joke. Seriously, though, we’ve all been in your shoes; we all understand. That’s why it’s called an ‘anonymous’ program. You never need to mention any names. You can come in disguise if you want and just sit and listen.”

  “But everyone knows who I am now that my husband is running for president. Eventually, even if I wore a bag over my head, people would find out.”

  “Okay, at the very least, please keep talking to me. I know what you’re dealing with. If you keep it all bottled up, you’re going to explode, and what good will that do anyone? We can work the steps together over the phone.”

  Chessa realized she was right. I can trust her. She’s on my side.

  “Okay, I’ll call you on my lunch break tomorrow,” Chessa agreed. “We have a few rooms there where we can talk confidentially. Domestic violence victims often meet with therapists in them because they’re afraid their husbands might find out and come after them.”

  The irony of what she just said struck her like a lead pipe between the eyes.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll find peace and happiness again whether you stay with him or not. Just remember, keep detaching with love. And don’t let him cross your boundaries.”

  I don’t even have any boundaries, Chessa realized. I never had any to begin with. That wasn’t something they taught you in school. Or something I learned at home.

  “Okay, I’m throwing too much at you all at once,” Stephanie said softly in response to Chessa’s silence. “We’ll get there. Just remember, one day at a time, and easy does it. I love you.”

  Chessa said good-bye and hung up before the tears of guilt and grief that stung her eyes started to fall.

  CHAPTER 8

  Leif

  Leif Mitchell had become a frequent flier to Washington DC, visiting President Greene and his daughter Wendy usually once every two or three weeks after their Christmas get-together.