by Grace Greene
“Tell me,” Mom said. “Tell me about Trent. Tell me what he did. Tell me why.”
“He . . . he’s always watching me, judging me. He has a mean streak, Mom.”
“He’s controlling. You knew that. If you didn’t know it at first, you certainly did by the time you divorced. So what’s new? What is it this time?”
Sandra felt cornered. “It’s hard to explain. I feel like a prisoner in my own home. Trent . . .” How could she tell it so her mother would understand? “When he’s there, I have to watch what I do and say. He sets traps, little traps, and then watches. He waits for me to make a mistake so he can lecture me.”
“Has he hit you?”
“No, but . . . he takes things. My things. They disappear if I don’t put them away quickly enough or if I leave something out that I’m working on. He doesn’t admit it, but it’s what happens. Sometimes they show back up later. Sometimes not. He locks me out of the house if I’m away too long. And when he isn’t there, Leo is. Leo is like an extension of him.”
“His dog?”
Sandra looked away. “I know how it sounds.” She slapped the counter lightly. “Leo. He snapped at me. I didn’t mean to surprise him, but he’s always hiding around corners. He’s like a stand-in for Trent when Trent’s not there, watching me all the time. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Leo snapped? Were you bitten?”
“No, Mom. That’s not the point anyway. The point is there’s no peace whether Trent is there or not.” The words almost choked her. They tore her up inside, but when she said them aloud, they sounded so petty and inane. “I can’t do anything right. When I told Trent that Leo snapped at me, he kicked him.”
“Trent kicked him? Was Leo hurt?”
Now she’d gotten her mother’s attention. Over a dog. Sandra regretted mentioning the incident.
“He’s fine. You never liked dogs anyway. Why do you care?”
“No one, not even an animal, deserves to be mistreated.”
“That should also include me, shouldn’t it?”
Mom sighed and rubbed her temples. “I don’t understand, Sandra. Tell me what’s different this time. What’s different from the first time you married and then left him?”
Her mother’s expression said so much, Sandra felt defeated. She let it drop.
She could’ve made stuff up, exaggerated, but she wouldn’t. She might be a failure and a spineless coward, but she wasn’t a liar. How does one prove what hasn’t been witnessed?
You shouldn’t have to prove it, not to the people who love you.
When Sandra didn’t respond, her mother threw up her hands and turned away. “We helped you with the first divorce. This time you’re on your own. I already have enough on my plate. Too much.” Mom spoke with her back turned as she wrapped the cooking pans in paper. “You make your choices, you live with the results or remedy them, but it’s on you. You’re an adult, Sandra. You have to take care of this yourself.”
Sandra took her coffee but left the bread half-eaten on the counter. There was so much she wanted to tell her mother, almost too many words and emotions to sort them into coherent thought. She would’ve tried harder, though, if she’d thought her mother would understand.
Bottom line: what she needed right now was a divorce.
Trent had managed the money. He’d given her an allowance out of which she paid for food and small things. She’d tried to squirrel away a dollar here and there, but it wasn’t much and certainly wouldn’t pay the legal fees for a divorce. Over the last few weeks, she’d smuggled clothing and personal items out of the house and stashed them in brown plastic lawn and leaf bags. Disappearing suitcases might be noticed; Trent was very sharp that way. He wasn’t likely to miss a few plastic bags from the large boxed roll in the garage. She hid the bags in the trunk of her car. Trent never used her car, so he wouldn’t see what she was up to. But cash was the problem, and to get some real cash, enough to fund a divorce and to support herself, she needed a job. That was her primary goal, and coming home to Richmond was the first step toward it.
Thus far, the plan wasn’t going well. This morning, she’d emptied the car, carrying the plastic bags up to her room while her mom wasn’t looking. Sandra didn’t need any sharp remarks; she needed space to lay out the clothing and miscellaneous items and make plans. She’d have it all sorted and packed away again shortly. Here in her old bedroom, despite many of the knickknacks and personal items already being gone, some of her old clothing was still in the drawers and closet. She put together an outfit that would serve for job hunting, then set aside pajamas, a couple of pairs of jeans, and a few shirts. The rest would go back in the car. But first she went to the room with the open boxes and found Dad’s Poe anthology. She took the book from the box and returned to her room.
Dad didn’t remember the book. Mom didn’t want or care about it. If she had, she would’ve put it into a taped box. The typeset letters inside formed poems and stories, but the book represented memories to Sandra—specific memories of her father that belonged to the two of them and now, apparently, only to her.
She sat on the edge of the bed and opened the cover, not specifically intending to go to their poem, but after years of use, the pages parted naturally at “A Dream Within a Dream.” They were Poe’s words, but for her, they were inextricably linked to the sound of her father’s voice reading them aloud:
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream.
The poem continued, but her memories suddenly hurt, especially in view of her father’s condition. She closed the book.
Sandra found waterproof bags in the pantry. She wrapped the book carefully, along with the two framed photos her mom had left on the dresser. The package was too large to add to her keepsake box, so for extra protection, she worked it carefully into the middle of one of the clothing bags.
She stowed the bags safely in her trunk, leaving nothing of value in the bedroom except for a few clothing items in the dresser drawer, nothing to disturb or distract realtors or buyers. Her mother would have no reason to complain.
She started the job search the next day, targeting temp agencies, and the interviews seemed promising, but she hadn’t completed a college degree and had little practical job experience. The few jobs she’d had since leaving college hadn’t lasted. Now here she was, thirty and almost back to where she’d started. As her mother had said the last time Sandra was in this position—one couldn’t reap what one had never sown.
Drained but not discouraged, Sandra walked into the house and closed the front door softly. She slipped off her shoes and walked barefoot to the stairs.
Her mother spoke from the dining room. “Did you find a job?”
Sandra stopped in the wide doorway. Mom was boxing up documents and papers. Over her head, all eighteen bulbs in the crystal chandelier glowed. Those lights reflected in the beveled glass front panels of the china cabinet. The cabinet shelves were now empty of bone china and crystal. Small boxes marked in big red letters as fragile were stacked on the floor beside it.
“Where are you going, Mom? I mean, where in Florida?”
“We bought a condo outside of Tampa. Not a mansion, but big enough.”
“Do you have pictures of it? I’d love to see where you’ll be living.”
“Of course. I’ll show you this afternoon. I go over them every day with your father. But be careful what you say. I don’t want him getting worried about not coming back here. The new place will be home soon enough. He’ll adjust.”
Land mines. A lot of land mines were laying there, in wait, for Sandra to stumble over. To upset Dad. To disappoint Mom.
“After we’re settled, and you’re all settled with your life, you can come down and visit.” Her mother added, “Speaking of getting settled, how’d it go with the job hunt today?”
“Nothi
ng for sure yet, but it looks promising.”
“I see.”
Sandra felt dismissed. “I have an interview tomorrow.” It was a lie. She was sorry she’d said it even as the words slipped from her lips.
“Good. I hope it will come to something.” Mom crossed her arms. “I left some things on your bed. Amazing what one finds when going through things for packing.”
Quietly, Sandra went to her room to change. Mom had left a manila envelope on the bed. Sandra tipped the contents onto the coverlet. Photos spilled out. Wedding photos. The sort that friends and family take at the reception and give to you later. These were from the first wedding almost ten years ago. The second wedding had been very different, with the two of them at the courthouse, each with a friend as a witness, and not one minute of it had felt right. But at this first one, there were so many smiling faces, including the bride and groom. Her parents looked happy, too, as they leaned in to a group photo with Aunt Barbara and Uncle Cliff.
Trent was handsome, no question about that. A wholesome, good-humored face. Strong blue eyes. Broad shoulders. Short, sandy hair. He wore the tux well. And she looked good, too, in white lace and satin. So much younger then and so naive it had exuded from her. What had Trent called her? A blank canvas, primed and ready, and he wanted to be with her for every brushstroke. She’d heard what she wanted to hear, and to her, at nineteen, his words had sounded romantic and loaded with promise. The wedding was like a fairy tale, and the reception had lots of food, laughter, music, and dancing. Life was perfect . . . until the party stopped and their married life began.
Trent didn’t call her cell phone because she’d left it behind. He called the house phone instead, and her father answered.
“Sandra? Who is . . . ? Oh, I see. Uh-huh.” He called out, “Cassandra?”
Dad was standing in the kitchen looking confused. He held the phone away from him but didn’t cover the speaker.
“Cassandra, there’s a man asking for you. He said his name is Trent. He’s saying things like you’re lost, that you hurt him. He talks like he knows me, but I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t, did I? Sometimes I get confused, but . . .”
She took the phone from his hand. “I’ve got it, Dad. No worries. It’s someone playing a trick. A bad joke.” She pressed the mouthpiece against her shoulder and gently pushed his arm. “You go help Mom clean the house, OK? I saw her in the bedroom.” She waited until he was halfway down the hall before she put the receiver to her ear and said, “Trent?”
Nothing. The call had ended.
She hadn’t heard the phone ring. It didn’t matter. Dad’s dementia hadn’t yet involved imagining phone calls, much less from Trent. Trent had accomplished what he intended, she guessed. He might not have set out to upset her father, but having done so, he probably considered it a job well done. People were as weak as their weakest links, he liked to say. Their vulnerabilities. Trent was right. Anything that hurt her father hurt her. Trent knew that. Sandra put the receiver back on the hook.
When her mother had fussed at Dad over the years, it had hurt Sandra. She felt protective. She’d try to sympathize with her father, but he would always say, “Be patient with your mother. She is a wonderful woman. She has many fine qualities, but she’s not a dreamer, Cassandra. My head is always stuck in books. Without your mom, who’d make sure the electric bill was paid or food was stocked? She’s efficient and no-nonsense.” He ruffled his daughter’s hair. “Without Mom to handle the business, we wouldn’t have the latitude to dream, would we?”
She’d been Cassandra then. By the time she’d finished middle school, no one called her that anymore. By that time, she’d decided she wasn’t a dreamer. She didn’t know what she was. She was lost somewhere between her parents and fit in nowhere. Luckily, she didn’t have to worry about it much because Mom knew everything and made all the decisions. Sandra went along. Mom was usually right, and life was simpler that way. Truly, it wasn’t a bad life. Not at all. Compromise was the early approach she’d taken in her own marriage. She’d thought she and Trent would work out their differences and make a solid marriage like that of her parents. After many wasted years, she’d learned that compromise worked only if both people were playing by the same rules. Sandra’s rules were the ones she’d learned from her parents. Trent’s rules . . . well, he’d gotten them mostly from his father but put his own spin on them. He called them points of failure. And never the twain would meet.
She was a slow learner. When she’d agreed to marry him a second time, she still believed she could help him. She believed his promises. But his promises meant nothing. They’d only ever been a means to an end. His end. His goal.
So he’d called her parents’ house and found her here. No surprise there. In times of trouble, where else would she go but home?
Sandra came down the next morning to resume her job hunt. Again today, she was dressed like a woman in search of a professional gig, aside from her bare feet. She carried her heels and stopped at the door to put on her sandals.
Her mother nodded. “You look very nice. Except for the shoes.”
“Yes, I’ll change them before meeting with the agencies.” She pointed to the heel tips. “I’m protecting the floor.”
“Good luck,” Mom said.
Sandra grabbed her purse and keys and went outside. It was a perfect spring day. The sky was blue, and the sun was bright but gentle. When she reached the driveway, she froze in disbelief.
The trunk was open. Empty.
Dumbfounded, she tried to process what she was seeing. Someone had raided her car. The box in the backseat with her personal items and keepsakes was gone. The glove box had been rifled through, as well as the center console. A blouse, a slip, and some lingerie were strewn about, abandoned on the driveway and in the bushes, but for the most part, her stuff was gone. The bags in the trunk, including the one with the photos and her dad’s book, were gone.
Everything, except what was on her person and upstairs in the bedroom, was gone.
All gone.
CHAPTER TWO
She dashed up the front steps and into the house, running straight to the kitchen to the house phone. Mom was on the line, the receiver to her ear, chatting.
Sandra waved to interrupt her. “I need the phone.”
Her mother frowned and mouthed, What’s wrong?
“My car was broken into. Someone stole my stuff. I have to call the police.”
Mom held up her hand. “One second.” She spoke into the phone. “Barbara, I’ll have to call you back. See you soon.” She hung up and turned to her daughter. “Did you leave the car unlocked?”
“No, of course not.”
“Did they break a window or what?”
“No, the car isn’t damaged.” Sandra sat at the table, her hand on her face, deflated. “Trent has a key.”
Her mother stared. “You think your husband drove all the way here to harass you? Well, I suppose he might have . . . but to steal your clothing? Really? I can believe he’d want to see you, but surely he’d come to the door.” She paused as if waiting for a rebuttal. None came. “You probably left the car unlocked. Someone took advantage, hoping to find something worth keeping or selling. They do that, you know, in every neighborhood. Opportunists check the cars to see if they’re locked.”
Sandra called the local police, but doubt and frustration had crept into her anger and taken its heat. They said they’d send an officer to take a report, and Sandra was surprised when they actually did. The police were busy these days. Old clothing stolen from a car, but with no actual damage done to the car, didn’t rate high as a crime. Still, this was a respectable neighborhood, so the police cruiser drove up and parked at the curb. She went out to speak with the officer. He examined the exterior of the car and then inside.
“No sign of tampering or force. Are you sure you locked it?”
“I am.”
“Any valuables missing?”
“Clothing. Toiletries and personal thi
ngs.” Her eyes burned, the tears welling at the thought of her father’s Poe anthology. “They weren’t worth a lot, maybe, but they were important to me.”
“If you didn’t leave it unlocked, then is there someone with a key who might’ve interfered with the car and the contents?”
There was. She didn’t want to say his name aloud, nor acknowledge the fact of him. She pushed out the words. “My husband. Ex-husband. He has a key, but he lives in Martinsville. Hours away.”
“Which is he? Husband or ex?”
“Technically still my husband.”
“He has a key, you said?”
“Yes.”
His expression remained impassive, but she sensed the change in his overall demeanor. She tried to read his face but couldn’t.
“Domestic.” He seemed to consider the situation for a moment before speaking. “I’ll write this up so you’ll have a report, but there’s really nothing here for me to investigate. If you believe this was done by your husband, consider keeping a record of events and encounters, harassments, in case you need the information for litigation or otherwise.” He then asked, his eyes wearing a kinder look, “Ma’am, has he been violent? Any cause for concern for your safety or physical well-being?”
“No.” Trent played games with her mind, but he’d never been physically threatening. It might have been easier if he had been. She was sure she was wrong to think that, but at least she’d have something to point to. And physical violence would surely have forced her to leave him sooner the first time and stay away instead of giving him that ill-advised second chance. Perhaps that was one of those choices her mother was talking about. Maybe this was the price she had to pay for choosing Trent twice.
After the officer drove away, she turned toward the house. Her mother was at the door waiting.
“No help,” Sandra said. “Probably Trent. Domestic.”
Mom nodded as they stepped inside. “He wrote a report, I see. I have a hard time believing your husband would come all this way and not ring the doorbell. There hasn’t been so much as a telephone call, not since the one your father answered. But instead Trent steals your clothing from the car?” She raised her hand. “But stranger things have happened.”
