by Tina Martin
I look at her in shock. I didn’t realize she knew that. How embarrassing...
“What? You didn’t think Ms. Bea knew. I pretty much knows ‘bout er’thang that goes on in this here house. So back to them papers...it say if he ends the marriage, you know, by kicking you out or leaving you, he’s cut clean out of his parent’s will, and you know they rich peoples. Now, if you end the marriage, it say you forfeit the money Mrs. Padma gave you. But forgetting about the money for a second, you can’t continue to put up with Mister’s abuse, Mrs. Gabrielle. Now, if you don’t say nothing to Mrs. Padma, I will.”
“Beatrice, no. Dilvan would kill me.”
“How he gon’ know? Think ‘bout it...he’s leaving for California tomorrow and he won’t be back ‘til Sunday. You could be looong gone by then, honey.”
She was absolutely right. Surely, Padma would understand me when I told her how badly Dilvan had been treating me and that I’d been enduring his mental torture for six months. I could be packed and out of here and it would be perfect to do this while Dilvan was on a different coast.
I hear the front door open and cringe. I immediately pull my plate back in front of me while Beatrice hurries up out of the chair she was sitting in and disappears off into the kitchen. I quickly glance up and back down again because Dilvan is standing there, with black shades on, looking in my direction.
“You couldn’t wait for me, huh?” he says.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what time you were going to be home, My Lord.”
“Where’s Tyson?”
“He went to buy some supplies, My Lord.”
I hate feeling so scared all the time. I was hoping Dilvan would forego dinner and continue to his room, but he pulls out the chair in front of me, takes a seat then set his sunglasses on the table.
“So what did you and my Mother talk about this morning?”
“She wanted...to know...if...I...would...”
“Spit it out, girl!”
“She wanted to know if I would help her with a community garden.”
“What else?”
“That was all.”
“So my name didn’t come up at all?”
“It did, My Lord, but I told her everything was fine and that we were happily married.”
“Good girl,” he says, like I’m a puppy. “You were starting to piss me off at breakfast this morning, actin’ like you were sick and all.”
I wasn’t feeling good this morning. As a matter of fact, I’d been feeling sick for the last week. This morning was Dilvan’s first time hearing about it because he could care less about the way I feel. He wouldn’t even inquire about my well being.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intent to upset you,” I tell him.
“Don’t let it happen again, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, My Lord.”
“Perfect. I’m going to go upstairs...need to make sure I got all of my things together.” He stands up, then says, “Beatrice, I won’t be eating anything. I had a bite to eat already.”
“Okay, Suh,” she yells from the kitchen.
* * *
It’s a little after nine and I’m standing in the shower, thinking like I usually do. For the first ten minutes, I’m usually in a trance, letting the water run on me as I stand as still as a statue. I’m numb, the life has been sucked out of me for the last six months of my life and now I’m seriously contemplating taking Beatrice’s advice and letting Padma know what’s really been going on in this house. I have to.
There comes a point in a bad relationship when you just have to let go. I haven’t been happy since I’ve been here. Even though everything is readily available for me and I have more shoes, clothes and everything else that I could possibly need, I’m not happy. I was much happier living with my Father and sisters, broke and all. We didn’t have money, but we had each other. I have no one here.
My thoughts are interrupted when I look through the foggy shower door and see the outline of someone standing there, motionless. I froze. I knew it was Dilvan, but why was he here? Had Beatrice told him something about our conversation earlier?
I saw his figure get closer, then he reached for the handle, opening the glass door by sliding it to the side, and now, I’m standing here exposed, wet and naked and he’s standing there like he’s about to get in with me, his arms crossed, staring while holding my bath towel.
I suddenly feel a chill strike me. I have goose bumps all over my body. He doesn’t say a word, just watches me, torturing me with his intense stares and unwelcomed presence.
“How long have you been in there?” he asks, his voice blending with the rushing shower water.
“About twenty-five minutes.”
“Time for you to get out, don’t you think?”
“Yes, My Lord,” I respond with chattering teeth. I turn off the water and step out of the shower, reaching to take my towel from his hand.
He moves back, not allowing me to take it from his grasp.
So I stand there, in front of him, wet and naked, beads of water coating my skin. I cross my arms to cover my breasts, then in the nicest, most respectful voice I can muster, I ask, “May I please have my towel, My Lord?”
“Not yet,” he says. “Do you know I’ve never really seen you completely naked?”
My lips tremble. I close my eyes, feeling tears well up in them, and shake my head.
“Relax your arms so I can see you,” he instructs.
I do as he asks, even though I don’t want to. I feel cheaper than a truck-stop hooker right now with him staring at me like I’m a piece of meat. I thought I’d be free and clear of him tonight since he’s already satisfied himself this morning but looks like he’ll take advantage of me once again tonight.
I stare down at my toes. The thought of him touching me makes me want to puke. Just the way he’s looking at me is enough to make me queasy. I can’t help but think about his thoughts – what he thinks of me this precise moment, looking at my flesh. If I’m so ugly, why is he staring so hard?
“Turn around,” he tells me, tauntingly.
I swallow hard and close my eyes. I don’t want to turn around for him. I’m afraid of what he might do to me. For the first time, since I’ve been Mrs. Alexander, I consider telling him no. It’s on the tip of my tongue, and really, what’s the worst he can do to me that he hasn’t done already? Hit me?
“I said turn around, Gabrielle,” he erupts in a harsh, authoritative tone.
“No,” I say, before I was even aware of it. On one hand, I felt proud of myself for finally standing up to him. But on the other hand, I knew my punishment was coming when he tossed my towel across the room, grabbed my right arm and physically turned me around, pushing me towards a wall.
A few seconds later, I feel him penetrating me, thrusting harder than he’s ever taken me before and after minutes of this, he withdraws from my body. Grabbing my arm and forcing me to face him this time, he wraps his large hand around my neck, squeezing with the force of an anaconda and says through clenched teeth, “Don’t you ever tell me no.”
Tears roll out of my eyes as I struggle to catch a breath. With the little air I can collect, I cry out, “Why do you hate me?”
“Because I didn’t ask for you. I don’t want you!”
“That doesn’t stop you from sleeping with me.”
A sly grin touched his lips. “I might as well take advantage of you while you’re here...that’s all you’re good for.”
His chests puffs in and out quickly and his hand is still tight around my throat.
“Let me go!” I yell.
He frowns and pushes me to the floor with force. “There. You’re let go.”
He walks out of the bathroom finally, leaving me on the floor in tears. No matter how much I tell myself to get up, I can’t move, and that’s how I know I’m at my breaking point. I can’t stop myself from crying as I think about telling Padma that I have to leave. I’ve n
ever been a quitter – a failure – but I’m tired of being a stereotype, the picture of an abused woman. Ms. Beatrice was right...God doesn’t want me to be anyone’s fool.
CHAPTER 5
Dilvan
- - -
Dilvan got up around five this morning, took a shower then left the house without saying goodbye to anyone. He was anxious about this photo shoot, because he would see Isabella there. He wouldn’t leave Santa Monica without officially meeting and getting to know her. He’d use what he knew about her already to get close to her. He’d heard, through a few of the guys, that she used to date a football player. After that, she dated on and off, men who had money, influence, power or all three. She had no kids, loved to be in the social scene and liked nice things.
Dilvan figured he had a shot at her. He wasn’t a football player, but he had muscles like one. He definitely had money, and another bonus for him was that they shared the same profession.
Boy was she beautiful...
Dilvan couldn’t recall ever seeing a woman so gorgeous, so enchanting. She was the Kim K. of the modeling world, had curves in all the right places and was a dream to watch. He couldn’t wait to finally see her again.
CHAPTER 6
Gabrielle
- - -
“Gabrielle, are you okay?”
I hear the deep, male voice ask me that question, but I don’t know how to answer it. My eyes are closed, I’m cold and I feel woozy. One thing is certain – I know this voice doesn’t belong to Dilvan, because he doesn’t care how I am. Therefore, he would never ask.
“Gabrielle, you’re bleeding. You need a doctor. Can you tell me what happened?”
When I open my eyes, I realize I’m where Dilvan left me last night – on the bathroom floor, naked. I never made it to bed, didn’t have the strength to get up from the area of the floor where he pushed me. I look at my surroundings and remember what happened in here. I was taking a shower and Dilvan had come in, interrupted me and assaulted me.
“Gabrielle, can you hear me?”
I blink quickly then look over at Tyson. I don’t even know what he’s doing upstairs because he’s staying in the guest bedroom downstairs. However, he’s at my side, on his knees, his warm hand on my shoulder. I don’t even scramble to cover my nakedness. I’m numb. I don’t care.
Confused, I look at him. “I can hear you.”
“You need a doctor,” he tells me.
“No I don’t. I’m fine,” I say, trying to force a smile to my face.
“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”
Bleeding? I look down at the floor where I’m sitting and I see dried-up blood all around me. Now I’m really confused. I didn’t cut myself. I have no abrasions on my skin. So where is the blood coming from. Then it dawns on me...it’s happening again. I’m having another miscarriage.
The first one happened four months ago. I was lying in bed and had a sensation like an urge to urinate. But when I got out of bed, blood oozed down my legs. In the middle of the night, I snuck off to the hospital where the emergency room physician told me I was having a miscarriage, which I thought was impossible because you have to be pregnant to have a miscarriage. I told him I wasn’t pregnant, and that he needed to tell me why I was bleeding. I couldn’t be having a miscarriage...
But I was.
That night in the hospital, I broke down, screamed so loud, I probably woke up all the patients on every floor. I was distraught, having life forming inside of me just die. Even worse, the doctor explained that he had to do a procedure called a D & C, dilation and curettage, where they’d put me to sleep and the contents of my uterus would be removed.
Through this process, I was alone. In a cold hospital, on a cold bed, alone. I didn’t want anyone to know. I was ashamed. The abuse, the stress and anxiety I suffered at Dilvan’s hands was the reason I’d lost my baby.
* * *
“I’ve called an ambulance,” Tyson says. “They should be here at any moment now.”
Tyson gets up and walks over to get my robe that’s hanging on a hook on the bathroom door. He wraps it around me. “Hey, can you stand?”
“I don’t know,” I say, tears falling from my eyes at the thought of losing another baby. And it’s not like I wanted to have Dilvan’s children. Truth be told, I didn’t want any attachments to him. But children are innocent; even unborn children. Even embryos. To me, this felt like another form of abuse by him, treating me badly, pushing me to the floor, forcing himself on me and damaging my body, killing my babies.
Tyson sighs. He’s overwhelmed, I can tell. He didn’t come here for this. He was only doing Padma a favor. Now, he’s smack dab in the middle of the drama that’s been going on in this house – things no one knows about, well besides Beatrice.
“Let me call Dilvan and tell him what’s going on.”
“No,” I say quickly. “He’s on a plane anyway.”
He frowns. “You don’t want me to call your husband?”
“No. Just let the paramedics take me to the hospital.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
“No,” I tell him, because I don’t want him to know what’s going on with me.
“Yes. I can’t have you going to the hospital by yourself.”
I hear the faint sounds of the ambulance getting close. Tyson runs downstairs, as I sit here, on the bathroom floor, asking myself why this had to happen to me yet again.
Moments later, I hear a bunch of ruckus and then see two paramedics with a stretcher. Tyson comes in behind them.
He tells them he came in the bathroom this morning and saw me sitting here like this, in a mess of blood. The paramedics ask me what happened. I tell them I think I may be having a miscarriage, but I can’t be sure.
They scoop me up and on the stretcher, carefully descending the stairs. I see Beatrice standing there, near the base of the stairs, her hands covering her mouth while she wails.
“I’m okay, Beatrice,” I say faintly to her and the paramedics continue rolling me the rest of the way to the ambulance.
“I’m going to follow the ambulance, okay,” Tyson says.
I nod with my eyes closed, telling myself that this is a bad dream, but the reality is, the last six months of my life has been one hellacious nightmare.
* * *
At the hospital, the doctor confirms what I feared – I’m having a miscarriage and I break down in tears once again.
Tyson is there, standing by the door like he doesn’t belong in the room while the doctors give me this news. I want to ask him to leave, but know it would be rude after he’s taken the time out of his day to come here with me, not wanting me to be alone.
The D & C surgery is a quick one. Since I had one not too long ago, I already knew what to expect. Now, I’m in recovery, watching The King of Queens and eating ice chips.
“How do you feel?” Tyson asks.
“I’m okay.” I say it like I’m chipper, as if all is right with the world. I’m good at pretending.
Tyson looks at the TV for a moment. “You know what I hate about shows like this?”
“What’s that?” I ask him.
“They portray men as being stupid and weak creatures.”
I laugh at him and he says, “Have you ever noticed that?”
“I don’t watch much TV.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Then what on earth do you do all day, up in your room?”
“I sleep. Write. I read. I love to read.”
“Let me ask you something, Gabrielle. Why were you on the bathroom floor naked this morning?”
I shrug. “Nothing...just slipped and fell I guess...must’ve hit my head and blacked out or something.”
“That, or maybe he pushed you. Did Dilvan hurt you, Gabrielle?”
For some reason, I find myself putting up walls and going into defense mode. What right does he have to ask me about my marriage and what’s going on in a house which he doesn’t even live
in? He’s only a guest, a nosy one at that, and I owe him no explanation on anything that goes on in my home. I don’t trust him. As a matter of fact, the only man I do trust is my Father.
“No,” I respond. “I told you...I fell...”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Well, that’s what happened so...”
“And what happened at breakfast Tuesday morning?”
“What do you mean?” I ask him, while staring at the TV, because I don’t believe in having eye-to-eye contact with a man, thanks to Dilvan.
“I mean, Dilvan answers questions for you, he kicks you underneath the table and you won’t even make eye contact with him, the same way you won’t look at me...like you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then look at me, Gabrielle.”
I don’t want to look at him. In fact, everything inside of me is telling me not to look this man in the eyes. It’s been engrained in me, that I’m not worthy, not important enough to look people in their eyes. In some cultures, it’s disrespectful to do so. Back in the day, some women were afraid to look their husbands in the eyes. Maybe it was a self-esteem issue, or it could’ve been a way of showing respect to their men.
However, I live in a modern America. Not looking someone in the eyes is a sign of low self-esteem, a sure indication of a lack of confidence. Before I was married, I used to look people in the eyes. Now, I feel like Miss Celie from The Color Purple, afraid of my master, which in turn has made me afraid of other people.
“Gabrielle,” Tyson says. “Look at me.”
I feel my head turning towards the chair he’s sitting in, but I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. When my eyes make contact with his, he smiles. So do I. Tyson is handsome, a brown-skinned man with adorable, copper eyes, a chiseled face and a nice haircut. It amazes me how my eyes roam his face to enjoy every aspect of him, from the thin mustache above his top lip to the bone structure that makes him appear so manly and strong.
