A Tortured Soul

by L. A. Detwiler

  He can take care of himself. He is a strong, able-bodied man. No one will be concerned that any harm has come to him. And after everything that’s happened, after all these years, I really shouldn’t worry, either. In fact, the emptiness of the house, the relative quietude is a relief to my weary soul. I walk with my head a little higher, with confidence that I can do this. I can make it through this. It’s crazy that it’s taken Richard being gone for me to understand that important reality—he is not the source of strength here. Not at all.

  I shouldn’t worry—but that doesn’t mean I don’t. It’s just my anxieties are not really of the wifely type, something that makes me feel unabashedly guilty. Shouldn’t I be feeling a bit intrepid for him? Shouldn’t I wonder if he’s okay after all that happened the night before he disappeared?

  The icy terror shredding my chest isn’t fear for Richard’s wellbeing. It’s perhaps the opposite. My unwavering, uncontrollable fear is that at any moment, he’ll be here, standing right here, knowing exactly what I’ve done. I close my eyes and I can see him on top of me, choking me, Gideon so close yet so far away. I shudder at the horrific memory, and the fear surges again. I shake my head.

  No. No. No. Stop it, Crystal, I tell myself. That’s enough. It doesn’t do to dwell on the all the paths that brought things here, right here.

  I saunter into the living room, staring out the window. I lean against the cold glass, the bad memories flooding me no matter how hard I try to push them away. Looking out the dingy glass—I still need to wash the windows this week—I can’t help but see the rage, the lack of understanding, the reckoning for sins. I feel it deep within, the same feeling I’d felt so many years under my parents’ roof.

  Just as they promised me, I know I’ll pay for my sins, the ultimate price. But, until then, there’s so much to do. So much to prepare. Because if he shows up at the wrong time, at the wrong moment, I’ll pay with my life. That much I know. I need to get myself together, to think. I need to sort it all out and figure out what comes next.

  Deep breath. Don’t even think about it. Deep breath. Don’t even think about it. I inwardly chant the words that have become my mantra, telling myself to stay calm. It wouldn’t do to go crazy now. I have to keep it together. I’m, in truth, a terrible liar. I have plenty to fear. Still, I know this is no time to break.

  Growing up in Forkhill, I know that everyone here has always seen me as the weak one. Maybe I am. Maybe I really am just Crystal Holt, the weak, and now Crystal Connor, the weaker. Maybe I’m just a fragile, flimsy housewife with no real direction or purpose. One moment of fortitude does not a strong woman make—does it?

  But right now, I know I have to find some strength and some courage if I’m going to survive this. I know I have to be ready for when he is standing before me. Because he will come, I know it. Richard has ways of influencing, of impacting, and of seeing everything even when he isn’t around. I know he’ll make sure I pay for everything I’ve done. And with that awareness, my hands shaking, I finally allow myself to sink to the ground and sob, the reality of the desperate situation sinking in.

  There is no getting out of this unscathed—in reality, I’ve already been marred over and over again these past days I’ve spent in hell. The best I can hope for now is to get out with some semblance of myself. That will be my mission, I promise myself, wiping away the countless tears after a long moment, the banging at the door startling me into action.

  Chapter Four

  I stumble to the door, leaning heavily on the walls. When am I going to be okay again? Will this pain ever go away? I’m exhausted, but even my tired mind knows this isn’t just about physical pain. This is about the emotional wreckage that’s been left in the aftermath of the hell I’ve been through.

  Every step feels like a marathon as I drag myself to the screen door, wondering who it is. A piece of me fears it’s Richard, that the door will open and reveal his ragged, angered face and this will all be over. I’ll be worse off than before, and my single moment of freedom will be lost forever. He’ll never let me live this down. But the thought is ridiculous. Richard would never knock. Who could it be?

  I’m not feeling up to visitors, that’s for sure. Not that Richard ever lets me have visitors, anyway. He says he is all I need in my life. He doesn’t think I need distractions from my wifely duties. I was never very good at making friends. I was always the aloof one, the shunned one, the different one. Maybe that was why when Richard looked my way, I didn’t hesitate to look back.

  I make it to the door, wiping the hair from my eyes before pulling it open. Henry barks wildly outside as he yanks on his rope. It’ll be okay, Henry, I think. There, there.

  When I open the door, I’m surprised to see Michael Finnigan at the door, his baggy jeans and T-shirt wrinkled like he’s slept in them. I haven’t seen him in months, although he often brings cars to Richard to fix. I look at his receding hairline. That man really should wear a hat. I’m not sure why that comes to mind, but it does. He spits out some tobacco on the porch, and I shudder at the sight of the dark splatter on the tan, splintered boards. I’ll have to mop that now. Richard would be mad.

  ‘Where’s Richard?’ Michael asks, the lump of dip in his mouth skewing his words, watering them down.

  ‘Not home,’ I say, wiping my hands on my pants, looking at Michael as I do.

  ‘What? Where the fuck is he? He’s got a job to do. Told me last week he could fit me in. Shit.’

  I shrug. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘He’s gone. Truck was missing this morning.’

  ‘Asshole. Figures he’d take off. Did he say anything about when he’ll be back?’

  I shake my head. ‘He never does.’

  ‘Better not be like last time, when I had that 76’ to work on. Asshole up and left for what, like four days? I can’t wait that long. You tell Richard when you see him that Big Mike is looking for him and ain’t too happy. You hear me?’

  ‘I’ll tell him. But I don’t know when he’ll be back.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be surprised, Missus. Should be used to Richard leaving. Always was a dick, even in high school.’

  Michael kicks the porch, his worn-out boot stomping into the board. I lean on the door, breathing in and out, my side aching. Michael, apparently deciding I’m telling the truth, emits another expletive before turning on his heel and heading back to the truck, dented and rusty. He jumps in, slamming the door as Henry continues to bark on his rope. The truck starts with a clunking sound, and Michael peels out, down the secluded lane back into town.

  I sigh. He’s gone. But he won’t be gone for long. He’ll be back, and there’s no telling what will happen if he returns and Richard’s not here. Of course, he’s not the return I fear the most.

  It hits me then that Michael won’t be the only one looking for Richard. True, it’s not like Richard has that many friends. But he does have a sufficient number of customers. And when they come for their brakes or tire alignments or whatever else they need done, they won’t be happy to find Richard gone. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking about how bad this could be this time around.

  I’m not strong enough for this. Too much has happened. Too much has broken. I can’t do this again. The bills will be piling up, and the food stamps never go far. True, it’s just me right now, and I don’t have much of an appetite. But there’s so much to take care of, and I just don’t know if I have the strength. The day’s business has already left me worn. Everything leaves me worn these days, though. I walk onto the porch, heading down the steps to go pet Henry, to sit with him a while. I think about letting him in the house, consider how nice it would be to cuddle up to him in the living room, sitting with a cup of tea and washing away all of the sorrow.

  But I know I can’t. He could be here any time. It wouldn’t do to have Henry inside. It just won’t do. Where would I hide him, after all? How would I stop him from doing what I know he’ll do?

  ‘Hi, buddy,’ I say, walking to the dog, my only real companion these days. I
sit in the dirt again beside him. My dress is covered in dust, but I’ll take care of that tomorrow. It’s laundry day tomorrow. No use in breaking the routine.

  My eyes actually ache from a lack of sleep, and my hands hurt from the day’s messy chores. The bedroom is still untidy, but I don’t think my fatigued hand muscles can even hold a broom. I lean against the dog, who is happy for my company. He rests against me, unmoved by everything, untroubled by the demons that plague me. I rock back and forth, staring at the house that has in many ways become a prison. All of the worst moments of my life happened in and around that house. Who knows, however, how many more terrible moments are to come?

  I think about how easy it would be to burn it down, to create an inferno out of the shack that’s abandoned me in so many ways. It would be a relief to see it engulfed, a hellfire of truth and innocence going up in smoke. Instead, I clutch Henry tightly and ponder everything that’s gone wrong. All those years of praying, of thinking faith could save me. Now, I don’t know. I was good. I was. And where did that get me?

  Guilt assaults me. I can’t believe I’m even thinking like this. I need to pray. I need to atone. I need to be forgiven. I kiss the dog’s head before standing and trekking back into the house. My feet follow the familiar path to the bedroom. I want to sleep, to tuck myself in like I have so many times and just fall into a senseless slumber. It’s easier to ignore the world’s realities.

  I don’t, though. I know what I need to do. I pull the Bible from the nightstand, flipping to the page I’m seeking. I find refuge in the pages, at least for a few moments. I read the words that I practically memorized in my teenage years. All those days spent worshipping in that little church. All those evenings kneeling before the Blessed Mother in the room in my parents’ house. I know my way around the Bible. I just don’t know if it knows its way around me, anymore. I focus for as long as I can, asking for forgiveness and strength. I don’t know if I deserve it. God may be merciful, but he isn’t blind. He knows what’s happened. And so do I.

  So will he.

  I lean back against the headrest, thinking, remembering. I want so badly to forget, but I also don’t want to forget. I want to remember what it felt like, that sweet body in my arms, that angelic face tainted by stillness. I rock back and forth, thinking about the baby and all of the hopes that died with him. I think about how, if only he had taken that first breath, things might have been different. It wouldn’t have just been Gideon that was saved. It would’ve been me, too.

  But it’s too late for what ifs. Life is an unhampered train that just keeps chugging. It’ll run you over if you don’t get out of the way. I have no choice but to duck, take cover, and get ready for the next phase. I don’t know how this story will end. I know where it started, though. And I know that it’s not over yet. It’s nowhere near being over just yet.

  I ROCKED BACK AND FORTH in the chair, clinging to the soft yellow blanket I’d crocheted only three months earlier. It should’ve been pink. I should’ve made it pink. I held the blanket to my face, wishing it smelled of newborn. Instead, it smelled of stale yarn. It smelled of death. It smelled of all the things I’d never hold, never have.

  I rocked, tears falling and falling like they’d never cease. It’d been three days since my life had ended with the cramping, the blood, and the free clinic doctor’s use of a single word I’d never thought I’d hear: miscarriage.

  How could it happen? How? I’d prayed night after night for our baby, Richard and mine. From the moment I realized I’d been pregnant, I’d prayed it would be a girl. A healthy girl. I saw so much in that girl even though I didn’t know her. I saw my purpose, my life, my escape.

  Mama and Daddy, of course, had been livid when they’d learned the news. The one-night rendezvous with Richard had turned out to be a lifetime commitment. When I’d first realized that climbing into the back of the truck that night in his shop had led to my pregnancy, I was mortified, terrified, and sorry. I’d committed the greatest of sins. I’d gone against Mama and Daddy’s wishes. I’d gone against the will of God.

  Still, when I’d let Richard pull me into the back of that truck and peel my shirt off, I hadn’t wanted to stop. The connection, the sensation of his rough hands moving over my smooth, untouched skin—it was what I craved. I felt needed and wanted. I felt special. I wasn’t just Crystal Holt, the girl everyone looked over. With Richard, I was somebody.

  My confession of my pregnancy to Richard hadn’t gone quite as expected. He’d sworn instead of smiling. I’d naively thought maybe he’d be happy. His conversation turned quickly to money and how he was going to afford a mouth to feed. He’d tossed a wrench to the ground and grabbed a bottle of liquor from his toolbox. I’d sat in tears, staring at the ground.

  Telling Mama and Daddy, though, that had been worse. I’d ended up sobbing, begging for atonement from God, from them, from the Blessed Mother. I’d spent the entire night on my knees, repenting for being a slut in Mama’s words. I’d listened to Daddy slap Mama, blaming her for teaching me to be a whore. I’d cried so hard, I thought for sure I’d drown in my own tears.

  Weeks passed. I hadn’t heard from Richard. But eventually, Daddy dragged him into the house to tell me the news. He’d be marrying me that weekend.

  ‘Won’t have the town thinking my daughter’s a slut,’ Daddy had said as Richard stood in our living room, hands in his pockets. He refused to make eye contact with me.

  I stared at my Daddy, at Richard. Nerves fluttered in my stomach. I hadn’t expected to get married so young. I hadn’t expected to get married to a man I barely knew other than having sex with in the back of a truck in a dirty garage. Still, this was my ticket out. Things had to be better, right? I’d be out from under my parents’ roof. I’d be away from Daddy, from Mama. I’d be in my own family. And I’d have a baby to raise right. Richard would come to love me, wouldn’t he? We’d be okay. We’d find our way. I’d make sure of it. I didn’t know how Daddy convinced Richard to marry me, and I didn’t want to know. I was just grateful he had.

  Our wedding was official and nothing more. Richard said his vows with some enthusiasm thanks to whiskey courage. I’d worn a dingy white dress splotched with stains that Mama had found at the local thrift store. We’d said our vows at the courthouse in front of an audience of exactly two—Mama and Daddy. There was no fanfare. There was no loving first kiss. There was Richard roughly grabbing my face, kissing me sloppily, and then dragging me back to what was my new house.

  And the first month had been—okay. I’d learned quickly that Richard had similarities to my father. I’d learned how to be a good wife, mostly from making so many mistakes. I’d learned that growing up and moving out wasn’t as glorious as I’d thought. I learned that the secluded tranquility of Peacot Drive was as far from heaven as you could get, perhaps even further than the trailer park. I’d learned that my life would never be the thing of dreams, the life of independence my teachers at school had tried to get me to strive for. But I was okay with that. I had the baby growing inside of me. I had a chance to make things right.

  But with that one word, ‘miscarriage, all that was gone. The soul-crushing word floated in the air.

  I’d needed Richard to lean on. But he wasn’t there. He’d spewed a few phrases to me about the goddamn expense of the crib I’d insisted on purchasing and how it had been my fault for eating unhealthy foods. He’d blamed me for the loss of his baby, but that had been it. There was no sorrow. There was no empathy. There was just Richard swearing about being tied to a goddamn deadweight. There was talk of how he’d have never married me if he’d have known child support wouldn’t have ever been an issue. There was talk that he should just throw me back to my parents, make me their problem again.

  The tears fell as all of the terrors that had become my life whirled about. I wasn’t crying because Richard might leave me. True, it was unlikely my parents would take me back. They’d refused to talk to me since I’d moved out, claiming I wasn’t their problem anymore.
Claiming I had my own life now to worry about. I hadn’t even seen them in the three months since I’d gotten married, even though they lived a mere ten miles away.

  I wasn’t terrified of Richard leaving me. I knew at that point he liked having me around, if nothing more than to feel in control. His relationship with me was about power, through and through. Without the baby in the picture, that didn’t change.

  My tears were for the baby I’d never know. They were for the life I’d wanted so badly that had slipped away. They were me mourning the baby I’d never got to meet. But they were also selfish tears for the girl I could no longer be and the woman I would never become. They were tears for the life I was trapped in and the hopelessness of a life without purpose.

  That night, I swore to devote myself to my faith, to God, to anything that could make all of it better. I swore I’d be more pious, adhere to my wifely duties, and pray more often. If only he’d make it all right.

  If only he’d bring me back my baby.

  If only he’d help me find purpose.

  If only I’d get pregnant again.

  IT DOESN’T DO TO DWELL on the past. It doesn’t. I know this. You don’t need an expensive therapist to recognize this truth.

  I peel myself out of bed, putting down the good book. I need to keep busy. Work is good for the soul and mind. I need to be occupied. Plus, when he comes, I want to look like it’s a normal day. I don’t want him being suspicious of me. I don’t want him wondering what’s going on. I head to the kitchen, staring out the window at the overcast day. I walk to the screen door, deciding to head out and clean the porch. As I do, the familiar screech comes back, and the handle jiggles. It’s been broken for some time. It needs oil. Richard said he’d get to it. But Richard’s not here. Maybe I could do it myself.