Broken Together

by K. L. Gilchrist

  “Tracey,” Brian called, as he knocked on the door. She heard the door handle jiggle.

  “Go away!” she snapped, wiping her face with the front of her t-shirt.

  “No fighting, I promise.”

  “There’s two other bathrooms in the house.” Tracey tugged her slimy shirt off and tossed it into the wicker hamper.

  “Look, I’m bleeding, okay? I’ll go to our bathroom but I wanted to check on you first.”

  “Check your own self out if you want to check on somebody!”

  “Unlock this door, Tracey. Right now!”

  Listen to him talking to her like she was a child. Like she was the one who couldn’t control her impulses. So her anger escalated and she finally let loose. Any wife would have done the same thing.

  The door handle jiggled again. “Tracey!”

  “All right!” she acquiesced, lunging up and taking three paces to unlock the doorknob. Thank goodness Brianna was still sleeping like a hibernating bear.

  She plopped down on the toilet seat and looked up at him as he walked in. They matched each other. Identical weary looks. Half-dressed. Ruddy skin. Wet faces.

  Brian jerked his thumb toward the hall. “You left some blood on the floor out there. Your feet are cut?”

  She pointed, still trembling. “I’m … I um … bandages.”

  When he turned to reach for the box off the sink, she saw several tiny cuts up and down his shoulders and on his forearms from where he’d shielded his head from the glass. He put the box back in the medicine cabinet, then reached into the other side and grabbed antibacterial spray, gauze, and a roll bandage. He bent down in front of her and sat down hard on the floor. There was a long cut on the back of his neck going down towards his back. Red and oozing.

  She’d hurt him.

  “Your neck,” Tracey said.

  “I know. I felt back there. It doesn’t feel too deep.” Brian guided her foot to rest on his leg. He looked at her cuts, and sprayed antibacterial ointment on them. “Let me take care of you first, all right?”

  “Are your feet cut too?” Tracey asked, her heart softening toward her husband.

  “A little. I’ll be alright.” He said.

  She stopped shaking as he used a light touch and bandaged her wounds. When he was done, he cradled both her feet in his lap, his hands covering her toes.

  Tracey had always loved Brian for the tenderness he showed during the smallest moments in their lives. But how could he show a soft side right after having their worst fight ever? Should she say “thank you”? Maybe. But she couldn’t form the words. Her mind had transformed into an empty, dust-filled room. Particles floating everywhere in stillness.

  “Tracey.”

  “No, not right now.”

  “Now you sound like me.”

  She shrugged as she wiped away tears. “Maybe I should have listened to you.”

  Brian rubbed her feet again and looked like he was going to say something else. She guessed he thought better of it because he put her feet down and left the bathroom. She listened as he moved around. Fifteen minutes passed and he walked past the bathroom in a t-shirt, shorts and sneakers. She kept listening as his footsteps headed down the stairs, through the hall and kitchen, then out the back door. Only then did she get up, walk into their bedroom and fall on the bed.

  Tracey guessed he was on his way to the emergency room to have someone look at the back of his neck. Gotta give him credit for having the sense to let things go for the moment.

  Hours later, Tracey shut the basement door behind her. She clutched her cell phone in her other hand. She stood barefoot on the wooden stairs wearing one of Brian’s t-shirts and sweatpants she’d changed into after she heard him come back in the house at four that morning.

  Tracey started talking as soon as she heard her best friend answer. “I’m leaving Brian.”

  “Tracey?” Monica’s voice was groggy.

  “It’s me.”

  “And what’re ya telling me?”

  “I’m leaving Brian.”

  That last sentence must have jolted Monica into a state of complete wakefulness because she yelled, “What the heck happened?”

  “What didn’t happen, ask me that!”

  “Tracey, I just talked to you Friday afternoon. You said you packed some lingerie to wear in Atlantic City. You told me you were going to dance for him and everything was all good and God had everything under control. You did everything except sing the chorus from ‘You Brought the Sunshine’.”

  Tracey clutched the phone tighter to her ear. “We had a fight and I cut him.”

  “A fight? When?”

  Tracey closed her eyes and blurted everything out. “We were at church. Evening service. Service let out, I went to the parking lot and found Lisette in the back of the church with a baby bump, yelling at him. It was a mess. Then we came back home …”

  “… and you’re telling me all this at … four in the morning? Why didn’t you call me before?”

  “I came in the house all I could see was red. As soon as Brianna was in her room, we had the fight and that’s when I threw our crystal glasses and cut him. He went to the emergency room and I went to sleep. I heard him come back and then I got up to clean up all that glass before Brianna wakes up. So, yes, I’m calling you now.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Monica confessed, disbelief in her voice.

  Tracey rubbed her sore eyes. “Just tell me, what kind of idiot am I?”

  Monica’s voice was soothing. “Maybe the baby’s his, maybe it isn’t.”

  “You know what’s scary? I don’t even care. I’m so tired of all the stupid lies. I’m not even thinking straight anymore. I cut him! What if he decides to press charges against me for assault? I could get arrested!”

  Once she’d snapped, all the verses she’d memorized about self-control slid right down the drain. Even after the fight, hours later while she stood in their bedroom changing clothes, she’d thought about what transpired in the kitchen and had the urge to hurt him again. Sure, he’d bandaged the wounds on her feet. Yeah, he’d tried to stay close to her and talk to her. And some part of her wanted to dive back into that moment and let him nurse her—let him rub away her pain. What a sick mix of love and disgust. This couldn’t be normal.

  “You were angry, okay? You had an angry moment and it’s over now. You need to come over here and chill for a bit. Use your emergency key. Come on,” Monica insisted.

  “Mon, you’ve got a life. You don’t need to be involved in all this.”

  “I’m your BFF; consider me involved since day one. What about staying with your Mom and Jamal for a little while?”

  “Maybe.” Tracey closed her eyes. Goose bumps covered her skin as she stood on the cold basement steps. Her feet throbbed. She envisioned shattered crystal and the long cut on her husband’s neck.

  “Are you there?” Monica asked.

  “I’m here,” Tracey whispered.

  “What are you going to do, sweetie?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Think about this a little longer then,” Monica pleaded. “Leaving is a big deal.”

  True. But so was everything else she’d wondered about in the past few hours. Would they get divorced? Reconcile? How would they tell Brianna? Did Tracey even have the right to be upset about Brian having a child since she was a single mother when they married?

  Tracey winced as she shifted her weight from one foot to another. Pain. Undeniable. “I need a little space to breathe, then maybe I can start thinking again,” she said.

  23

  Pancakes. Scrambled eggs. Turkey bacon. Coffee. Orange juice.

  Delicious smells wafted through the kitchen that morning. Shame Tracey wasn’t going to eat any of it. Her stomach had shut down for good after the fight, but cooking busied her hand
s. It also made things seem normal for Brianna who sat at the kitchen island drawing a picture as she waited for breakfast.

  “Hi.”

  Tracey turned around, an oily spatula in her hands. Brian stood in the middle of the kitchen, cleaned up and newly shaved. The white shirt and crisp gray pants he wore looked like he’d pulled them straight out from under the dry cleaner’s plastic bag. A small clear plastic bandage adorned the bridge of his nose and puffiness resided around his eyes. His long sleeved shirt managed to cover the bandages that protected the cuts on his arms and shoulders. She couldn’t see the back of his neck from where she stood, but she assumed that cut had been bandaged as well.

  “Hi,” She turned back to the stove. “Breakfast is done. I can make you a plate, unless you only want coffee.”

  “I uh … yeah, I’ll take some coffee and eggs and bacon. Thanks.” He dropped his bag on the floor and slid on the stool next to Brianna. “Hey ladybug.”

  “Daddy, what’s that thing on your nose?” Brianna asked.

  “It’s just a bandage. I had an accident. Your braids look great, I forgot to tell you last night,” he said.

  Perfect answer. He’d managed to activate the chatterbox button in Brianna’s head. At least Tracey could count on him not to bring up the fight from the night before. As Tracey served their food and drink, Brianna babbled about how long she’d sat and how her scalp hurt a little bit but not much and how Auntie Char wanted to put in pink hair extensions but she knew mommy would get mad so she told her no.

  As her family chatted and chewed, Tracey scrubbed hard to remove cooked egg residue from the bottom of the frying pan.

  Tracey and Brian. Doing the impossible—making it seem like a typical day. The right smells. The routine sounds. Her husband was going to work. Her daughter talking more than eating. Hurry up Tracey. Get the dishes in the washer and the pots and pans cleaned up before taking Brianna to camp. Water. Soap. Scrub hard. Rinse.

  She suddenly stopped and focused her gaze on the stainless steel pan in her hands. What was the point? Why should she care about some dumb dishes? Seriously. The script had flipped overnight.

  “Trace, you all right?” Brian asked.

  She dropped the pan in the sudsy water. “I’m good—” Liar.

  “Listen, uh, I’ll take Brianna to day camp this morning on my way out,” he offered. “Then you can go back and rest a bit.”

  Tracey twisted around to look at Brianna. Pretty braids cascaded about her small brown head. Missing-front-tooth grin. She bounced up and down on the stool.

  “Can Daddy take me, please?” she pleaded. “I never get to ride with him!”

  That would make things so much easier. If Tracey could stay in the house she’d get some more sleep. After she woke up she could take a long bath and pray. Okay. All right. Maybe eighty-six the whole idea of leaving. Stay in the house. Pray. Rest. Don’t even consider getting in the Volvo.

  Tracey nodded. “Yes.”

  “Yay!” Brianna cheered, swinging her legs around the side of her stool.

  “Finish those eggs first,” Tracey said.

  Brianna turned back to her plate and picked up her fork. Tracey glanced at Brian. He stared back.

  “We … should uh,” he paused and started again, “meet up to talk later.”

  Oh, they’d talk. That was a given. She leaned back against the sink and wrapped her arms around herself. Baby bump. Crashing glass. Smeared blood.

  “Yeah,” she said. That was all she could manage.

  Tracey took Brianna’s bear hug and kissed her on the forehead before watching her take her dad’s hand and walk out the back door. Tracey stood and watched them walk down the stairs and into the perfectly paved driveway. Despite the clear bandage on his nose and the one on the back of his neck, Brian looked fine in the sunshine. Brianna flashed her grin one last time before Brian buckled her into her seat. Brian waved as he slid into the Lexus. Then he backed out of the driveway. Tracey waggled her fingers in a weak goodbye before she shut the door.

  Back in the kitchen, she loaded dishes in the machine. Their crumpled paper napkins were wadded in her hand. She stepped on the lever to open the stainless steel trash can, threw the napkins in, then stared inside. Discarded slimy eggshells sat atop blood-streaked paper towels resting under a nest of broken crystal.

  Tracey had just cooked and served breakfast to a man who, only hours before, angered her to the point of attempting to shred him with their wedding crystal. The definition of crazy—eggshells and coffee grounds mixed in with broken glass and bloody paper towels.

  She backed away and let the trash can lid slam shut.

  Sick. She’d been wounded on the battlefield and now she was officially sick.

  She could either lay on the battlefield and keep getting hit, or she could take the other option.

  Retreat.

  Father, you see me. I know you see me. I know. But. Still …

  Tracey should have been on her knees, or prone with her face to the floor, pleading for wisdom and guidance. She could have gone to the family room to sit in her favorite chair with her Bible open to Psalm 23. But no. Where was she instead? In her bedroom closet murmuring broken prayers as she stood atop a step stool. Rummaging through her purses and bags trying to grab one big enough to hold a few vital things.

  Wallet. Checkbook. Bible. Cell phone and charger. Journal. Sunglasses. Underwear. Jeans. T-shirt. Sandals. A makeup bag. Other personal items just in case. She didn’t need her pilot’s case or suitcase. A suitcase wouldn’t do because then she’d be packing for real. And she wasn’t packing, right? So her big cinnamon-colored Coach bag would do.

  Normal women don’t walk out on their families. But sick people go to the hospital or rehab or somewhere.

  Sneakers on her feet and bag on her shoulder, Tracey walked out of the bedroom and down the hallway. She paused in front of Brianna’s bedroom and peered in. Pale peach-colored walls, multi-colored floor rugs, dolls, and games scattered all over the bookshelves. She stood still and breathed in the scent of powder, Vaseline lotion and hair oil— Brianna’s smell. Without thinking she went in and grabbed a half-dressed, homemade Mohawk-wearing Barbie doll from the group resting beside Brianna’s pillow, and shoved it inside her bag.

  “Pick up Brianna today please,” Tracey instructed Brian as she drove toward the expressway.

  “Wait,” Brian paused a moment. “Okay. I can do that. My schedule’s clear.”

  “You need to get her by six at the latest.”

  “I know.”

  “Im not cooking today, so grab some food for her before you bring her home.”

  “Where are you going to be?”

  She guided the car steadily and chose her words carefully. “I don’t feel good.”

  It took him a long time to answer back. She guessed he was rewinding the tape in his head. Perhaps he saw the same thing she kept seeing. Baby bump. Broken glass. Smeared blood. Tears.

  “I understand. Listen, I have to go now. I’ll make sure Brianna is taken care of, all right?”

  “I know you will.” She clicked off the call and tossed the phone in the back seat.

  For most of the morning she drove around, stopping at unplanned places to let her mind wander or to eat or use the rest room. She considered driving by Brianna’s camp, but turned around instead. All the while she hoped God would provide some sort of sign or emergency that would make her stay.

  Tracey returned home for a nap where she lay down for two hours. She woke up hot, thirsty, confused, and still seeing unwanted images.

  She left the house again.

  “Monica?” Tracey breathed.

  “What did you decide? Where are you?” Monica said.

  “Driving.” Tracey gripped the steering wheel. “I’m on my way to your condo. I can’t stay here anymore.”

  “Where
’s Brianna?”

  “Day camp. I asked Brian to pick her up this evening. I gotta stop thinking about him for a while. I’m going nuts.”

  “All right, do you remember the security code? And you have your key?” Monica asked.

  Tracey sniffed. “Yes … I uh … yeah.”

  “Well get over there and take a hot bath or something and calm down because you don’t sound good. You know where everything is. I love you. You’ll get through this.”

  “Thank you,” Tracey whispered, her voice breaking on the last word.

  “Now don’t get me all teary. I have one more meeting today. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  The drive into Center City should have been simple. Routine. Tracey had driven to Monica’s condo a million times. But this time when she drove the expressway she grew confused. The glaring sunshine increased her headache. She stayed in the wrong lane a few seconds too long and ended up missing Exit 344. She kept driving. No thoughts. Just driving, until she saw signs where she finally needed to make a choice.

  I-95 North or I-95 South?

  24

  This is psychotic. You are a fool. Turn back now.

  Tracey made her way down I-95 South. Why south? In her delirium it seemed like the car was guiding itself. By the time she’d cruised into the Delmarva area, her head throbbed like someone had hit it with a hammer. Water began to fall from the dark gray sky in fat drops—a sign of the heat wave finally breaking. Intermittent streaks of lightning flashed across the sky. She clicked on the windshield wipers and drove on. The swish-thud sound of the blades seemed to mirror her heart.

  You will lose everything. Nothing good can come from this.

  Tracey looked straight ahead, keeping the air conditioner on full blast and the radio silent. Don’t replay last night’s scene behind the church. Don’t think about the fight. Don’t keep track of how far you’re driving or even think about where you’ll end up.