The Last Resort

by Marissa Stapley

  Dave’s chin disappeared into his neck when he opened his mouth. He said, “Oh, goodness, I get angry all the time.” His voice, his North Carolina drawl, his gentle laugh, the hardness in his eyes—Johanna had encountered guys like him before, and her revulsion was instant. “The last time I got really angry, I stubbed my toe on a rock in our garden, cut it open, started yelling, caused a fuss. The thing is, in the moment, my anger seems like the only thing there is, you know?”

  Nods from around the circle. “And I know it’s not about the rock. I know when I start yelling at Christine to throw all the goddamn rocks from her goddamn garden—” a few laughs but Johanna could hear the anger rising in his voice and she couldn’t help it, her heart started to pound “—that what I’m really riled up about is maybe something that happened at work or maybe the fact that we’ve got three kids in college and I worry there isn’t going to be enough to go around, you know? I never totally lose it. I don’t hit her, nothin’ like that, I swear, I would never—but the things I say. I’m ashamed of them.”

  Johanna’s palms started to sweat. I’ve lived with a man like you, I saw my mother hurt by a man like you and I hate you, I hate you. Why should anyone believe you, that you don’t hit her?

  “I’m ashamed,” he said again.

  “No, you’re not.” It was her own voice, shaking with anger.

  “Excuse me?”

  Johanna looked straight at him. “I said, no, you’re not. You are not ashamed. You think your wife is your punching bag.”

  “I told you, I don’t hit her!”

  “Maybe. But you know what verbal abuse is.”

  “Who do you think you are, exactly?” The man was shouting, turning to Ruth. “Can’t you do something to shut her up?”

  “Your words had an effect on her and she’s explaining it to you,” Ruth said calmly.

  The room was now silent.

  “Johanna? Perhaps it would be a good time to share your own experience with anger?”

  Johanna shook her head. She was breathing hard, like she’d just run a race.

  “You know what, actually?” A man’s voice. He was sitting across from Johanna, beside Dave, and was probably about her age, with blond hair that thinned pathetically at the top and a pale beard that did not make up for it. “Honestly? That kind of triggered me, you going after Dave like that. It reminded me of my wife, and the way she overreacts—” as the man’s voice wobbled, Johanna could hear it, all at once, the voice of the man who had walked into her office that afternoon, his voice quivering with impotent rage, reverberating with loss of control. She felt it then, the cold metal of it against her jaw, and the shock that it could have happened—even though she and all her colleagues had been making stupid jokes about something like that happening to one of them for years—that it was actually happening to her.

  She stood, intending to leave the room and tell Grace later that she had been wrong, beyond wrong. But halfway to the door, she thought of Cleo. About how Cleo had needed someone to speak up for her and not even Johanna had succeeded, in the end. She turned, she stopped. “Do you all want to know what anger can lead to? All of you? Do you want to know?” She walked to the front of the room and stood beside Ruth, who now looked alarmed. “I’m a social worker and one of my client’s husbands started the way you started, Dave, shouting at her, calling her a dumb cunt when he stubbed his toe on a rock, or whatever. Then it escalated. He started hitting her. Only in places that left bruises where no one could see—but then someone did see, and she felt pretty sure she might end up dead. So I helped her move with their kids to a women’s shelter. I helped her find a subsidized apartment. I helped her find a job. Her life was starting to look up and a hell of a lot brighter. But that asshole went to Walmart, bought himself a rifle, waited for her outside her apartment, shot her dead, left her lying there beside her car, then drove to my office. He had the gun in a gym bag. He walked right in and pressed the gun against my jaw and he told me I was a piece of shit and I should be dead. He didn’t kill me, though. He went out to his car and shot himself. So this is what your fucking anger leads to. This is what you get from it. And I’m not interested. I’m not interested at all. And no one in here should be, either.”

  She was shaking. But she didn’t care. She was glad she’d said it. “Oh, but sorry. Sorry if I triggered you,” she added as she looked at the men’s shocked faces. Then she left the room.

  She went to her bungalow. Her head was aching again, not as bad as the day before, but she knew it could easily get worse. She longed for the oblivion of those pills. Cleo’s pills. She knew it was wrong. Grace had been right. They weren’t for her and they were way too strong—barely even legal, or not legal at all, knowing Cleo. Johanna could see her raised eyebrow, her impetuous smile. Come on, live a little. And you sure can’t live with those damn headaches all the time.

  She felt the embarrassment again of Grace’s gentle admonishment. Those pills had been all she had of Cleo, but what a foolish thing, to bring them with her here. Was it possible she had welcomed it? Had she been subconsciously willing to go so far to avoid coming to this resort that she would have risked a drug charge? She rubbed her forehead. You really do need help.

  It should have been a relief that the drugs were gone, but it wasn’t. Just their presence, just that canister, smooth in her hand, bearing Cleo’s name, had given her courage. Sometimes that was all it took, just to look down at them and remember freedom, or the idea of it. Gone, now.

  For a moment, she imagined the lava rock, and herself telling Grace Markell the truth about everything. She couldn’t. Not yet.

  But maybe she would.

  Shell was walking down the hallway, away from the room that housed the anger management group when she heard Ruth’s voice. “Shell! Wait up.”

  She slowed reluctantly.

  When Ruth caught up, she said, “You didn’t show up this morning for your appointment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To email your daughter and your mother from my office?”

  “Oh. Right. I... Oh, yes. Sorry. I overslept.”

  “I have a moment now. Would you like to come on up?”

  “Oh. Sure. Thanks.”

  Ruth’s high-heeled black pumps clicked against the floor, reminding Shell of the hooves of a horse. They headed down the hall toward a door that Ruth opened to reveal a spiraling staircase. “I’m on the top floor, and there are no elevators,” she said over her shoulder. “Running up and down is how I get my cardio.”

  “Um. Great.”

  Her office was in a cupola, small and close but with windows on all sides. “This view,” Shell found herself saying. “You can see for miles.”

  Ruth indicated the small mahogany desk. “You should be able to open the browser and log in to your email, but let me know if you have any problems.”

  Shell realized Ruth wasn’t going to leave the room. Instead, she sat down in a chair that faced Shell, took out a notebook and started writing. Shell logged in to her email, then hesitated. Eventually, with no other choice, she opened a new email and typed in her mother’s email address.

  Dear Mom,

  I miss you and Zoey so much. I hope the two of you are having fun. What did you do today? Tell me all about it, tell me everything. And please, give Zoey hugs and kisses from Mumma, and tell her I love her to the ends of the earth. Tell her Mumma’s going to go swim in the ocean.

  You always used to say I’d understand what true love meant when I had a child of my own, and I do understand that now, Mom. It breaks the heart, doesn’t it? I’m sorry for all the ways I must have broken yours and disappointed you. I don’t think that’s going to change anytime soon.

  I’ll write again soon. Would you write back? I’d love it if you’d write back.

  Yours,

  Shell

  Shell stood, legs shaky.
>
  “You must miss your daughter a lot,” Ruth said.

  She swallowed hard. “I do.”

  “Don’t worry, it will get easier. It’s only two weeks. It flies by. People don’t want to go home, when the time comes. You’ll probably be one of them.”

  Shell left, feeling unsettled as she walked down the stairs.

  You’re a liar. You’re a bad person. I should kill you. You should be dead. Johanna held the lava rock from their earlier session tight in her hand. Grace had handed it to her just before she sat down and welcomed her back for their enrichment session. She was at the end of the story she had already told earlier, in anger management group. But she couldn’t go on.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Why would you think he said anything?”

  “Johanna.” Gentle reproach in her voice.

  “Isn’t it enough to have a gun pressed to my neck?”

  “Enough for what?”

  The rock felt too small in her hands. She wished for an entire mountain. She put it down on the table in front of her, beside the tissue box.

  “How do you feel when you talk about him and think about him?”

  Johanna could see his face, and she could see Cleo’s face. She felt like screaming. She kept her mouth closed.

  “What is his name?”

  “Was. His name was Chad Von Hahn.”

  “What does he feel like?”

  She closed her eyes, too. “He feels too big. He feels bigger than he was. I can hear him.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  Liar. Bitch. Whore. Dyke. “Nothing.”

  “Johanna?”

  “Yes?”

  “Open your eyes. Stay in here with me. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  Johanna opened her eyes and she did feel better. Grace’s face was becoming familiar already, her presence reassuring. She tried not to think of what she possibly knew about her, after witnessing her solitary swim in the cenote—and she was still grappling with the fact that she felt something like jealousy when she thought of the man on the path, the man Grace had surely been waiting for. But knowing Grace had secrets, too, was making it easier. Or, as easy as reopening an agonizing wound that wouldn’t heal could be.

  “What did he say?”

  Johanna swallowed. “He kept saying it over and over. ‘I should kill you. You—you fucking dyke.’”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “Like I deserved to die.”

  “That man needed help. You understand that, don’t you? He was mentally ill and he needed help and he didn’t get it, and you paid the price for that. The things he said had no bearing on reality—only his own twisted one. You are not a disgusting person who deserves to die. You are innocent, Johanna. This man should not be allowed to have control over you. Get it out, and once it’s out in the open, we can deal with it.”

  Johanna kept her eyes locked on Grace’s. She thought, You are the kindest person. She thought, But you have no idea. She thought, I am many things, but innocent is not one of them. She was able to start speaking again. “Every time he said I was horrible and that I deserved to die, I thought of all the times in my life I really had wanted to die and how long it had taken me to stop saying those exact same things to myself, inside my own head. I wouldn’t say I saw my life flash before my eyes, not exactly, but I saw my life as it could have been. And I didn’t want to die. I wanted to start living. It was only later, after the shock wore off, that I realized I didn’t deserve to be happy.”

  “Why are you so convinced that you don’t deserve to be happy?”

  Johanna just shook her head.

  “What happened next?”

  “I don’t know why he didn’t kill me. I really don’t.”

  “What happened next? Tell me.”

  “The police asked me endless questions. Every time I explained what had happened, I thought maybe there would be a different ending, but there never was. They drove me home and I waited for Ben. I hadn’t let anyone call him. I had lied and said he was in court and couldn’t be reached. He came in and said, ‘Hey, I heard something on the news just now,’ and then he saw my face. And then—I told him we needed to separate. I told him we were over.”

  “Why, on that day, in that moment, did you say that to him?”

  “Because I wasn’t going to be such a coward anymore. I don’t love Ben. Not the way he needs me to. I’ve always wanted to love him, and I’ve been able to imagine what my life would be like if I did love him, but I don’t. I care about him, I admire him, but the way a wife should love a husband? I just don’t.” It felt like hitting water, cool and clear, not the hard, unforgiving ground she had expected. She’d never admitted this to anyone but now it was out.

  “Why do you say that, the way a wife should love a husband?”

  Johanna looked down at her hands. “I don’t know. It just came out that way.”

  “Okay. So now, keep walking me through this day. This terrible, tragic day you had. You came home, and you told Ben what you wanted, and...?”

  “I was in shock, I guess. And so was he. Immediately, he was on the phone with the police, a psychologist, his parents, he was trying to solve it, the way Ben does. It all became a blur.”

  “Try to remember.”

  “A doctor came. He prescribed sedatives. I tried to go back to work a few days later—and I had a breakdown in the parking lot.” Not exactly the truth. Not the truth at all.

  “Can you describe your breakdown?”

  Johanna saw herself sobbing into her co-worker Sandra’s shoulder, crying, I don’t want to go home. Please, no. This can’t be happening. I’m so sorry.

  “Johanna, you’ve allowed this man to convince you that you’re inadequate. But he’s a killer, and he’s mentally ill, and he’s dead, and you have to start living your life.”

  She felt cornered now. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Will you give me the chance to help you see why it is that simple?”

  In Grace’s eyes, Johanna saw such kindness and such hope, such belief in Johanna as a person, such a deep desire to help her. It was familiar, all of it. She knew what it was like to believe in another person the way Grace was believing in her. And suddenly, all Johanna wanted was to make her happy.

  Maybe she could.

  Cleo was dead. Chad had killed her. He was dead, too. No one at this resort knew the whole story, no one but Johanna. And she didn’t have to tell it. There was no one holding a gun to her head, not now.

  “Yes,” Johanna said. “Yes, I will give you the chance to show me how simple it can be.”

  Grace smiled and Johanna felt happy. It was the first time she had felt happy in a long while.

  Day Four

  Her: Everything would be different, he’d still be alive, if he had just chosen me. If he hadn’t insisted on having more.

  Shell picked up the room service menu, then put it down. She wanted nothing. She wasn’t permitted in the restaurant—the rules of the separation had been left on her bedside table: walks and other recreation were permitted; meals had to be ordered from room service and consumed in the bungalow. But she had yet to order anything. What she wanted wasn’t in this room. There was nothing here. No vodka. No more sleeping pills—strong ones her doctor had given her, the year before, offering instant oblivion she had been parceling out for herself. Not even so much as a Tylenol. She wanted to be angry about this, but she only felt defeated.

  As the first fingers of morning’s light reached into the world, she dressed and left her empty bungalow and headed toward the beach. The clouds dotting the horizon were the color of an old bruise, the sky behind them was a band of gold, and every other inch of the sky was dull gray.

  She walked for twenty minutes, until she couldn’t see the resort anymore, until she could pretend
it didn’t exist. There was nothing up ahead but more rocks and more beach. Not a soul in sight. She sat down in the damp sand and stared out at the sea. How much time passed? She had no idea. She was stiff and sore when she finally stood. She was always misplacing tracts of time now. “What did you do today?” Colin would ask her when he got home from work. She never had any answer.

  Mumma’s going to swim in the ocean. She looked down the beach to ensure it was still deserted, then untied the scarf she had been wearing, slid down her linen pants, took off her sleeveless silk shirt, folded them all and placed them on a nearby rock. At the edge of the sea she dipped in a toe. The ocean was as warm as the saltwater pools on the terraces of the bungalows. She began to walk into the water, feeling silken sand, tiny rocks, ribbons of sea grass as she went deeper. Soon, she lifted her legs and began to float. Then she turned on her back for a moment, the ocean holding her. The sun was still climbing and its light was still weak, but she wasn’t afraid. She rolled over and started to swim again, away from shore.

  “Shell!” A voice on the wind. “Shell!” She knew this voice.

  A silhouette on the beach, that voice, her name, for a moment she thought it was her husband, come to find her, but he wouldn’t, he doesn’t care. She was treading water, staring at the shore. It was Miles Markell, and he was wearing running clothes, he was stripping off his shirt and walking into the water. She pedaled her legs slowly, made Vs in the water with her arms, but she didn’t swim toward him because this wasn’t happening, he wasn’t doing this—was he? She watched in detached wonder as he walked through the water. Soon, his face came into focus and she realized he was angry.

  “What are you doing?” he shouted. The water was up to his waist.

  “Swimming,” she shouted back. The ocean water no longer felt bathtub-warm.

  “Come on. Back to shore.”

  “I can swim just fine.”

  “All by yourself, in the ocean, in the dark?”

  “It’s hardly dark. The sun is rising.”