by Tory Jane
She begins weeping. I thought I was a good actress, but I can’t compete. Oddly, she’s able to cry convincingly with no actual tears or snot. That’s talent.
“Officer, you don’t understand. These people, they stole my baby. I’m only trying to see my child. Please, I’m begging you. Please help me.” She is a grieving mother, vulnerable, and helpless.
“Ma’am, Mr. Cliff has shown me the court documents. According to the file, you abandoned your infant when he was three weeks’ old and returned to Italy. The court in Chicago terminated your parental rights. If you dispute this matter, I recommend that you hire legal counsel and handle this through the courts rather than harass these fine people.
Now, please. This is private property, and you are not welcome here. I need to escort you off the premises. Where are you staying?”
“My husband is Signor Rossi. We are here on official business with the Mayor and as his guests. We are sponsors of your Spoleto Festival, patrons of the arts.”
I whip around and face her. “What did you say? You know Cecelia.”
No one is paying attention to me. I try to get Jack’s attention.
Mr. Cliff is on his phone. “Mr. Mayor? I’m so sorry to disturb you. This is Frasier Cliff. Yes, Merry Christmas to you, also. Joe, are you hosting a Signor Rossi? Well, we have a bit of a problem here. Signor Rossi's wife is here harassing my family. She entered the house uninvited. She has been belligerent, cursing and screaming. She spat on my future daughter in law, Annabelle Tucker. She now refuses to leave.
“Yes, sir. Belle and Jack are together again finally. We’re thrilled, thank you.
“Well, it’s a long story, but Jack and Signora Rossi were involved while he was living in Chicago. After her outburst, we called the police. Officer Reynolds is here now. Thank you so much, Joe. I’ll pass along the message.” He pockets his phone, smiling.
“Signora Rossi? Your husband is quite concerned. He’s been trying to reach you. Mr. Mayor has asked that I arrange for Officer Reynolds to transport you to the Mayor’s residence. Immediately.”
Sofia mutters, “Fottuto bastardo.”
Mr. Cliff chuckles. “’Fucking bastard?’ Is that directed to your concerned husband or me?”
He earns himself a withering glare.
“Officer Reynolds? Please let Signor Rossi know that I’ll be contacting him to set up a meeting this week.”
Sofia makes one last desperate plea. She pushes me aside and throws her arms around Jack. “Jack, amore mio, please, you must help me. I cannot go back to him. He is a hateful man. Per favore. Have you forgotten the love, the passion, we shared? Jack, I never stopped loving you. Please, we have a child. We can be a family. Please do not send me back to that man. I fear him. I still love you. I'm sorry for everything.
“I wasn’t lying about the post-partum depression. I didn’t know about your letters or the court proceedings. My family hid everything from me. They put me in hospital and arranged a marriage to that pig, Rossi. Please, I'm begging you.”
She rubs against him, running her hands up his chest. “Jack, I want you.” She presses close to him and rubs herself against his pelvis. “Ah, yes, Jack. I know you still want me.” She cups him with her hand. “I can feel you.”
“Amore mio, remember our passion? I want to know my son and have more children with you. You need a real woman, Jack. A woman who knows what you like and how to please you. I know you remember. You deserve an equal. Not that woman-child. Does she even have breasts?”
I'm standing here watching all of this. The whole group is now on the porch watching her rub up against Jack like a cat in heat.
Then he does something that feels like a knife to my heart. He relaxes and wraps her up in his arms, smooths her hair, tucking a stray hair behind her ear and whispers something to her.
She looks over his shoulder, stares me straight in the eyes, and grins. A triumphant, malicious smile. She presses her whole body against him, draping her arms around his neck. The entire time she is staring at me.
“I knew you still wanted me. Oh, lover, I can feel how much you want me. Your cock could never resist me.” She thrusts her hips into him and grinds. She may be talking to Jack, but she directs her words at me.
Allison and my mother gasp. Good. They see it and hear it, too.
Jack pulls back and studies her. He softens his eyes, “I'm sorry, Sofia. Please leave with Officer Reynolds now. I promise we will talk. Soon.”
She hugs him and kisses him on each cheek. “Amore mio. Grazie. Please tell Charlie his Momma loves him.”
What is he doing? Can’t Jack see this woman is sick? Dangerous? I turn to my mother and plead with my eyes, “help me.” She gazes at me blankly. She looks like her heart is breaking.
Jack does not look at me. He does not notice when I return to the kitchen, grab my pocketbook, and stumble home.
What About Us?
The next morning, I drag myself into the boutique. We open at 10:00 today. A return to normal hours. I feel anything but normal.
I check my phone. Nothing. Jack didn't try to contact me last night. There are no text messages or voice mail messages. From anyone.
It’s a slow morning. I call Cecelia and tell her I don’t need her to come in today. I putter around the shop, straightening up and doing my best to stay busy. In two hours, I have one customer who is demanding, rude, and leaves without buying anything. Tourist.
I call my therapist and leave a message. Again. Still no response. I can’t remember if she’s on vacation this week, but I need her.
At noon, I close the shop for an hour. I can’t breathe. I need to get out of the confines of the shop.
After a gallon of coffee and too many cigarettes, I return to more of the same. The boutique is dead. I have no business. New Years' Eve is in four days, and we're having a post-Christmas sale. Where is everyone?
The next day is a repeat of the day before. A few tourists wander in, but none of my usual clientele. What is going on? All of these beautiful dresses just hanging here.
Two days and I still haven't heard a word from anyone. Cecelia comes in, but the shop is dead, and Cecelia's pouty, bad mood is making things worse. I need her to get away from me. I send her home early.
***
The third day. December twenty-ninth. I have not heard a word from anyone since I left the Cliff’s house on the twenty-sixth. This will be my fourth night alone. The boutique is still dead. I call and text, but cannot reach anyone. I leave voice mail messages and send everyone text messages pleading for information. Asking that someone contact me. Everyone seems to have disappeared.
I call Cecelia from the shop phone and explain that business is still slow, but that I’d like her to come in for a few hours to cover me in the middle of the day.
I can’t stand to be in the boutique by myself any longer. I text my friends, my mother to see if they can get away for lunch. No response. I’m restless and feeling impulsive. I have a plan. As soon as Cecelia arrives, I sprint out.
I run to my hairdresser and demand that she cut off my hair. I need a change. I want to look sophisticated. Please, I beg. I want a smart, chic layered curly bob. She is aghast. She talks me into cutting it in stages but agrees to layers, long bangs, and subtle highlights. I walk out with five fewer inches. My hair is still below my shoulders but styled with soft curls that frame my heart-shaped face. It is pretty, but in no way edgy, or chic. It’s not even boho-chic. It’s ordinary. I wanted to look like the bitch. I look nice.
Next stop, Sephora. They know me well there. I tell them I want a new look. More modern, more polished. I wipe away the heavy eyeliner, take out my nose ring, and let them have their way with me. When they’re finished, I look fresh, natural, and pretty. I look like a nice, suburban wife and mother. So long sexy, exotic Belle. I am Annabelle. Just Annabelle. An ugly bitch.
When I return to the shop, I grab up a soft cashmere sweater with a cowl neck, skinny ankle length pants, and cool Chelsea boots. I
go into the dressing room and rip off my long, flowy dress and suede boots. When I emerge, I barely recognize myself. If it were someone else, I'd think, “She looks pretty.” Pretty plain. Goodbye, free-spirited, twirling girl.
Cecelia stares at me as if I have two heads, but says nothing.
“What do you think?” I ask her.
“It’s different.”
“I needed a change. Time for me to grow the fuck up. Embrace reality. I can’t live in the past forever. I was becoming a pathetic, aging hippie.
“I forgot to tell you. I met your friend from Florence the other night. Sofia. You were right she is gorgeous, elegant, and chic. She carried a Prada pocketbook for which I’d kill. You didn’t mention how delightful and funny she is! When she spat on me and called me brutta puttana we all had a good laugh. You were in Italy. I’m sure you know what that means. An ugly bitch. I guess it’s funnier in Italian.”
I stop and stare straight into Cecelia's eyes. “I can’t imagine how she knew who I am, where Jack lives, or that we’d all be there that night?”
Cecelia shifts her eyes. “What did Jack say?” She looks up and smiles. “I’m sure he called you his Bella Belle and defended you.”
“I’ve never seen Jack so angry. Sofia abandoned Charlie at three weeks' old, never held him, and never touched him. A year and a half later she sneaks into his home, grabs up Charlie and tells him she’s going to take him to Italy. Charlie was so afraid I had to rock him to sleep in my arms. Of course Jack called the police and the Mayor.”
Cecelia gives me that blank, cold stare again. She doesn’t seem surprised or outraged in any way. She turns her head, and I could swear I see the hint of a smile on her face.
“It’s been the oddest week. This craziness with Sofia, no business in the shop, and now something is wrong with my phone. I’m not receiving any calls or messages. Has anyone called here for me?”
Cecelia gathers up her things and walks to the door. “Quite odd. Good-bye, Annabelle.”
Sofia has been Cecelia’s mentor. They are both stone cold bitches.
***
I close the shop an hour early and slink home. I turn out the lights, light candles and a fire, draw the curtains, and lock my door. I sit in front of the fire with a glass of wine, cigarettes, and my iPod and listen to every break-up song ever made. I am angry and hurt. Until I sort out my feelings, I'm not fit for polite society.
I continue to check my phone for messages. Nothing. I am clearly not receiving any messages or calls. It’s unclear whether anyone has heard my numerous pleas. Do they all believe I’ve run? No matter what I do, how hard I fight; they have no faith in me.
My fear is coming true. Despite his declarations of love and vows that we’d spend a lifetime together, he will choose her. He will do what he thinks is right for his son. Apparently, blood is thicker than true love.
Several hours later, through the music, I hear banging on my door. I ignore it. I'm not home. I don't want to hear what Jack has to say. He does not trust me. He will only hurt me.
Removing one earbud, I listen to the sounds at my door. Banging. Knocking. Yelling for me. “Annabelle, I know you're in there. You cannot run from me again. Open the fucking door, Belle.”
Run from him again? When have I ever run from him? Revisionist history. Bullshit. Lies.
I'm angry. Marching to the door, I pull it open and stare Jack down. “Run from you, again? I never ran from you. I waited five long years for you, you lying piece of shit. And now I’ve waited three days and four nights to hear from you after I watched that bitch rub up against you like a cat in heat and grab your dick.” Then I slam the door on his shocked face.
Dammit. I forgot to lock the door. He marches in and stands over me with his hands on his hips. Keeping my earbuds in, I pretend he's not there. He lifts me up off the floor like a rag doll. Do not look. Do not make eye contact. I fold my arms around myself and avert my head.
He pulls out my earbuds, and then runs his fingers through my newly shorn hair. “What are you doing? What have you done? Are you trying to look like her? Are you taking on a new role?” He shakes me. “Look at me, Annabelle. Talk to me. What is going on?”
“You tell me, Jack. The last time I saw you, you were holding that woman, whispering in her ear, and stroking her hair. Want to know what she was doing? She was looking over your shoulder and smirking at the rest of us while she talked about your cock. She was triumphant.
“You never looked at me. You didn’t notice when I left. You let her insult me and you humiliated me. I haven’t heard a fucking word from you since then. You haven’t responded to any of my texts or phone calls.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve been trying to reach you non-stop since that night.”
“Trust me. I am weak. I cannot help but check my phone for messages from you.” I grab up my phone and shove it in his face. “Look. I have tried to contact you repeatedly. I have not received a single response. Not a phone call, not a text. From anyone.”
He grabs it from me and scrolls through my messages and phone log. “Belle, sweetheart. This doesn’t make sense. Do you really think that I would leave you again?”
He pulls out his phone and shows me the messages he’s sent and the number of times he has called.
“I didn’t receive any of those. What is going on? Someone is trying to separate us.
“I guess it worked, because you chose her. I watched you. My biggest fear came to life. You chose the real mother of your child. The woman who called me an ugly bitch and spat on me. She told me she was here because of me. She knew about Bella Belle. I was the bitch you wrote to, dreamed about, and kept you from loving her. She yelled at me. Laughed and said I wasn’t bella. I was an ugly bitch. A woman-child with no breasts.
“If that wasn’t painful enough, I had to listen to her remind you of the passion you shared, how she was able to please you like no other. I watched her wrap her hand around you. Did she make you hard? She said she could ‘feel you’ and that ‘your cock could never resist her.’”
“Annabelle. You think you're the only one who can act? The woman is crazy. It was a hostage negotiation. I was trying to appease her, diffuse the situation. I wanted her out of there. I didn't think you’d run and hide like a child.
“And yes, our mothers made sure I knew she was faking it. They saw her smile. They heard what she said. I knew she was faking it. Who cries and sobs without a single tear? How is that even possible? Your mother is heartbroken. My mother is in shock. We're all trying to make the best out of a horrible situation, and you're hiding in the fucking dark.
“I thought you were ready for this. To stand by my side and support me, no matter what.”
“And I thought you were going to be less selfish and stand by my side and support me. I didn’t run and hide. I went home. I’ve been either here or at the shop for three days, trying to contact everybody.’
“When I called the store for you, it went straight to a message that the shop was closed.”
“What are you talking about? I haven’t had any business in three days. That would explain why. Whose voice was on the recording? Let me guess. Cecelia. I tried to tell you. Cecelia and Sofia know each other.”
“You’ve been at the boutique every day by yourself?”
“Yes! And here every night. Waiting for you.”
He won’t make eye contact. Finally, he mutters, “I don’t know what to think. So much is happening. Maybe you were right. We’ve rushed into this. I’m overwhelmed. I need to think.”
“Get the fuck out of my house, right now. I mean it. Get out,” I scream. “How dare you? Get out.” I start sobbing.
“Belle. Wait. Please let me explain.”
“How do you explain that statement? It sounds clear to me. You wanted this. You begged for it. I tried to slow down. You pushed me. You wanted proof that I was ready for a mature relationship. I proved it to myself and to you in the last three weeks. You let me fall in love with your
kid. You let me think you wanted to marry me and have another child together? I trusted you again and you’re going to leave me with nothing.
“I cannot believe you are doing this to me again? You agreed. No more unilateral decisions. We are a partnership, and we'd discuss everything. Here you are again deciding what's best. Hell, no.”
“Hell, yes. I’m his father. I decide what’s best for him. And I can’t have a woman in his life who runs and hides anytime things get tough.”
“You don’t believe in me? You think I’m lying?” He breaks me. Every negative thought returns to me.
My voice is a jagged edge. “I understand. I’m sorry. Of course, you have to do what’s best for him. You have to protect Charlie.” Every word slashes my throat.
“Goodbye, Jack.”
I walk away from him. I march to my bedroom, head held high, and close the door. I proceed to scream bloody murder. Pain, anger, disappointment, years of grief gush out of me in a howl.
I can hear him at my door, calling to me. I return to the refuge of music. I shove the earbuds into my ears and hit play. I burrow under the covers and try to fall asleep to my refuge.
After an hour, I am still wide-awake. Cried out. Filled with rage. I peek out of my bedroom door. I'm sure Jack is gone.
I slink into the kitchen for water and wine.
He has left me a note on the kitchen counter. No fancy paper this time. He's written it on the back of an envelope he found on the kitchen counter.
Bella Belle ~ I am sorry. I handled that badly. I am in shock. You did nothing wrong. I’m not angry with you. I don’t want to lose you.
Please. We need to talk. As you said, we need to work through this together. I'm scared. I need you. What if Sofia tries to take him from us?
Please. I love you.
Always, Jack
“From us”? That is not what he said. I heard him. He said, “We’re rushing things,” and that he couldn’t have a woman in his child’s life “who runs and hides anytime things get tough.”
