His face! He never let me touch his face. Could be the abuse from that fucking babysitter, and if I ever got my hands on the woman, I would douse her with gasoline and burn her alive.
Or it could be the abuse from his grandparents.
Physical, mental, and emotional abuse.
Bile filled my throat, pushing and squeezing and demanding to be released. Unable to hold it back, I stumbled into the bathroom and vomited. Pressing down the handle, I mutely watched my breakfast of tea and toast flush down the commode.
How did I not know?
The dull light in the basement bathroom flickered like a D-list horror flick. I caught my reflection in the mirror and stared at the brokenhearted phantom. Looking away, I grabbed a paper towel and wet it under the faucet. After wringing it out, I pressed it against my neck and cheek.
Coldness seeped into my bones, so deep, I shivered.
How do I do this? How can I help? Should I tell him I know?
Eyes bloodshot, hair swooped into a tangled bun, the phantom blinked back at me and gave me no answers.
I mindlessly climbed the steps and drifted back to my window seat.
Staring, rocking, waiting. I sat there for I don’t know how long, but then I heard the soft purr of Darren’s Camaro. A spark of hope ignited in my core as I imagined Darren dashing through the house, confiding in me about his past.
He opened the door and I held my breath, waiting for this droid that had replaced my husband to disappear.
Straight away, he strode to the fridge, grabbed a few cookies he’d baked, and clomped downstairs to his man cave.
My heart sank so low, it dragged me like a moored anchor. “I can’t believe this,” my scratchy voice whispered as I blinked away tears.
My attention snapped to the wedding album on the coffee table, and I reached for it. On the front cover, was a picture of us. A young, handsome Darren smiled from ear to ear. I was looking up at him, adoration clear in my eyes.
I don’t even know if I love my wife, or if I ever did.
I squeezed my eyes shut, burying the emotions. Maybe he didn’t know how he felt, but this was beyond my feelings. Someone violated him as a child, something he’d never addressed until I forced him to go to counseling.
Fresh tears welled in my eyes, and my hand stilled on my husband’s face. It was my fault. I did this. Pressure seized my chest, a million pounds pressing down, cracking me open.
It was only fair. I’d cracked him open, too.
And all the good and bad bits of our relationship seeped out.
The way he’d instantly go to the shower after we made love and then fully clothe himself, socks included.
I’d thought it was quirky, but maybe he was hurting or coping?
My attention zeroed in on the wedding picture. Darren’s sweet, shy smile when he told me that he hoped our daughter had my eyes. “You’re the love of my life, Kara.”
Am I? Maybe he just wanted to be loved. I squeezed my fist, waiting for the anger to surge. Waiting for the feelings of betrayal. I knew it was selfish, and I could be self-centered at times. My husband had been raped and I didn’t know how to help him.
But...
But. I would allow myself this moment. Just one moment. Then I could figure out a way to be good partner. A better friend. And somehow, push aside my feelings and be a great wife, at least until he healed.
The pressure moved on from my chest and settled deeper, somewhere that couldn’t be touched.
It was dark clouds and torrential rains. It was stomach-clawing starvation and a dry, unquenchable thirst. It was never-ending cold.
The cold turned to ice and shattered. Not for myself. For my husband. For the men and women who’d been betrayed. For those who struggled to make sense out of a senseless world.
God’s handiwork. He let this happen: Death. Death of a dream, death of innocence. Why did he allow this evil?
Why, why, why?
A stampede coming from the basement caught my attention. “You read it.”
“What?” I jumped guiltily from the couch, wiping my tears with the back of my hand.
He stalked closer, backing me into a wall. He grabbed my shoulders, his grip squeezing my body like an angry anaconda.
“Why?” he asked, his voice furious.
I shook my head, unable to look him in the eyes. He gripped the underside of my jaw; I had no choice but to focus on his ravaged expression. “Why, Kara?”
“I don’t know—”
“Why? Kara!”
“I don’t kn—”
“You do know. Why did you snoop? Why didn’t you let me figure this shit out?” The volume of his voice increased with each question asked.
“B-because . . .” I drew a deep breath.
“Why. In the hell. Would you do that?” He loosened his grip.
“Because you don’t talk to me!” I wrenched away from his body. This time, I escaped. “Do you know what today is?”
His hands cradled his head as he shook it from side to side.
“Mama.”
He jerked his head, his eyes grew wide. “Shit, Kara, I—”
“I was missing Mama and I . . . I needed her advice and I talked to her. Like really talked to her today and I pretended that she was holding me. I asked her to help me and then it hit me, really hit me, that she wasn’t ever gonna answer me. So I looked for my own answers. I knew about the letter and, yes, I violated your trust. I’m sorry but . . . why?” I whispered the question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I pointed to my chest. “About her? About your g-grandparents?”
Darren stared at me, his eyes bloodshot. He walked to the couch and slumped in his seat. “I thought I was over it. I took a few therapy sessions in college, got it off my chest, and I thought I was cured. But . . .” He clenched and unclenched his hands. “I’m not. The doc got into my head, asked a bunch of questions about my childhood, and the dam that I’d been holding back just broke.”
He sighed and leaned back. “Now I have all this shit out in the open, scrambled so much I don’t know what is right or wrong, up or down. I’m like Humpty fucking Dumpty, and I can’t find the pieces to glue my shit back together.”
That made sense. He was a droid. He didn’t talk, didn’t touch me. Maybe because everything had risen to the surface.
“Is he helping?”
“Is who helping?”
“Dr. Fuc—I mean Dr. Harrison. Is he helping you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t feel good. I’m trying to keep myself tight at work, but by the time I get home, I feel like I’m going to burst. I’m confused about a lot of things, and that letter was just a way to figure them out.”
“Do you love me? Have you ever loved me?”
Shoulders slouched and shaking with emotion, he whispered, “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”
“How can you not know?” I sighed. “I get that you’re confused, but I love you so, so much, and it hurts that you don’t feel the same way.”
“I. Don’t. Know. I honestly don’t know.” His voice broke.
Tears slipped down his face. He cradled his head, covering his face.
I lowered myself on my knees to kneel before him. I wanted to touch his face, but I knew he’d flinch.
“What can I do to help? Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”