by Laura Wolfe
Raising myself up, I wandered back into the kitchen where the workbook on the counter caught my eye and reminded me what I’d been doing before Beth had knocked. Ethan. Beth was the one who suggested I call him and invite him for a visit. Her stinging words replayed in my mind, “If I had a son, I wouldn’t lose touch with him for any reason.”
I’d been foolish to lose Ethan in the first place. Just because he hadn’t turned out exactly according to my vision, I’d snubbed him, more worried about causing a fuss with the women at Bible study than protecting my only son. Heaven knew I wasn’t perfect, either. I recalled the pain in Ethan’s eyes when he’d discovered the pamphlet, the way the spoon had dropped from his hand. The horrible clatter of the metal utensil against the porcelain dish had never stopped ringing in my ears. In the weeks and months and years since that agonizing moment, I’d realized the obvious—the Bible didn’t approve of hurting others, especially my own kin. My actions toward my son hadn’t been Christian at all. If I ever went back to Bible study, I’d be sure to point that out.
I stumbled toward my phone, shaking my head at my weak effort to reconnect with Ethan. Beth had lost her husband so young. Maybe she’d never get remarried or have children, and here I was wasting my good fortune. I scrolled through the address book, forgetting about the whispers of the ladies at church and the unknown time difference between Michigan and California, and I pressed Ethan’s number.
Ten
Elizabeth
Before
Concealed inside of our double garage, I turned off the ignition and emerged from the car, catlike. Hopefully Jason hadn’t heard the metal door clamoring open and closed. I wanted my early return home to be a complete surprise. My trip to Vermont had been cut short after I’d soon found plenty of little-known boutiques and restaurants to include in my Burlington article. This morning I’d completed in-depth interviews with the owners of two other destinations in the area, a kitschy 1950s-themed motel and a rustic cabin retreat five miles outside of town. Gwen had already reviewed my notes via email and praised me for hitting a home run in the “hidden gem” department. Around lunchtime, I realized there was no need for me to stay another night. I called the airline and switched my flight a day earlier. Visions of Jason’s expression as I unexpectedly walked through the door played out in my mind. He loved surprises.
Now I lifted my suitcase from the trunk and closed it carefully. Jason was home. His SUV was parked in the garage, and warm lights shone from inside the kitchen and living room. It was 7 p.m. and I wondered if he’d eaten dinner yet.
My hand rummaged through the bag, searching for my house key and hitting the pair of wool baby booties instead. A tingle of anticipation prickled through me. The edge of the key poked my finger and I pulled it out, feeling my way through the darkness toward the lock on the back door. Our neighbor’s golden retriever caught sight of me and barked from the other side of a slatted wooden fence.
“Shh!” I said to the dog in a loud whisper, which only caused him to bark again. I ignored the barking, finding the lock with my key and slipping inside. The kitchen was empty, except for a few beer bottles scattered across the counter. I rolled my eyes and hoped Jason hadn’t been surviving on beer alone for the last forty-eight hours. A pleasant aroma emanated from the living room where my sandalwood candle flickered on the table.
“Hon?” He shouldn’t have left a candle burning unattended. I’d need to talk to him about that. That was the kind of oversight we couldn’t have once the baby arrived. Before I could blow it out, a white bag in the hallway caught my eye. I bypassed the candle and tiptoed toward the bag, a Nordstrom label appearing across the side. Had he bought something for himself? Or was it another present for me? I bent over and peeled back the tissue paper, unable to stop myself. My heartbeat quickened and I straightened up tall, confused. Another Fendi handbag, identical to the one he’d already given me, lay underneath the paper. Was it a joke? I’d told him I was worried about ruining my new purse. Maybe he’d already purchased a backup? It seemed wildly extravagant, and I forced myself to take a breath. I didn’t want to ruin the night, the surprise. The conversation about his overspending could wait for another time.
The soft hum of music floated from upstairs and I realized Jason was probably taking a shower. He’d mentioned earlier that he was hoping to get a workout in tonight. I climbed the stairs, my hand clutching the booties inside my purse. I couldn’t wait to show them to Jason.
I slunk down the hall and opened the bedroom door, the scene before me strangling my voice, my stomach convulsing. My hands automatically covered my abdomen, protecting my baby from the onslaught. Jason lay in our bed, naked, with a woman straddling him. Her ratty blonde hair bounced up and down. It seemed minutes or hours, or even my entire lifetime, passed before he saw me, his eyes growing so wide the whites showed all around. He shoved the woman off him and yanked up the sheet. The woman turned away, hiding her face and pulling on a T-shirt.
“What the…” was all I could say, my brain not able to catch up enough to form words, not able or willing to understand. My hands shook so violently that my bag dropped to the floor. He was in our bed with another woman. My eyes were fixed on her tangled blonde hair as I remembered Jason’s insistence many months ago that I dye my hair lighter.
“Liz! What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? I LIVE here!” I screamed. My heart pounded in my chest, breaking me out of my frozen stance, allowing a tidal wave of emotions to crash over me. “How could you do this?” The tears flowed freely now. I saw my perfect life, my entire future, washed away. Our baby, our happy marriage, the dreams we shared, all destroyed. Something inside of me snapped, like a boat breaking from its mooring and smashing from wave to wave in the middle of a hurricane. “HOW COULD YOU?” I screamed again. A primal version of myself took over, someone I’d never known and didn’t recognize. “IS THIS WHAT YOU DO WHEN I’M TRAVELING?”
Jason held up his hand. “Babe, this was the first time. I swear.”
He was lying. I knew he was lying. I don’t know which made me more furious, his lies or the fact that they flowed so easily from his lips. I lunged toward the pewter lamp on our dresser, the one we’d received as a wedding gift from my Aunt Bea, and yanked out the cord. I threw it directly at his face. He ducked just before it smacked against the wall, the light bulb fracturing into pieces.
“Holy shit.” The other woman ducked and sprinted out of the room.
The confusing scene from a few minutes ago—the burning candle, the duplicate Fendi bag—rearranged itself in my mind, suddenly making horrifying sense.
“Was that purse for her?” I picked up a vase and chucked it at Jason. Again, it missed him by inches and split into pieces against the wall. “You bought us the SAME FUCKING PURSE?” I was screaming now, hysterical. I grabbed everything I could find, everything within my reach, and hurled the items at Jason—keys, jewelry, candles—hoping something would hit him and leave a permanent scar. If we’d owned a gun, I would have loaded it and shot him dead.
“Calm down,” Jason said, his eyes pleading with me. “I can explain. This doesn’t change anything.”
“Get out. Get out. GET OUT!” He needed to leave or I would kill him. And that slut who was with him: I’d find her and kill her, too.
He didn’t argue this time. He yanked on his pants as I chucked books at his back, the guttural noise emanating from my throat like nothing I’d ever heard. I was screaming for myself, for our unborn baby, for my shattered life.
Jason scurried out the door, careening through the hallway and leaping down the stairs two at a time. “We’ll work it out, babe. I’ll make it up to you.” He yelled the words over his shoulder as he ran.
“GET OUT!” I screamed, chasing him.
He exited through the front door, slamming it behind him. A few seconds later, the garage door rumbled and his Mercedes zoomed out of the driveway. I didn’t check to see whether she was with him, but the Nordstrom
bag was gone, and I knew I’d been right. It had been a gift for her.
My legs gave out and I crumpled to the floor, sobbing. There was too much to process, so much lost in a matter of seconds. My mind shut down, my chest hollow. I hugged my belly, my baby, the one I could rely on. The only person in my life who I still felt connected with.
The number of minutes or hours I lay on the floor was a mystery. Missed clues and red flags surged through my mind. How many times had I traveled out of town for work? Dozens? No. It was more than that. Had he cheated on me every time I’d been away? I remembered the earring I’d found on the rug, the one I’d assumed belonged to his mother. It hadn’t been Mary’s. I knew that now. The muffled laughter I’d heard on the phone yesterday replayed in my mind. Had the other woman been at his office when I called? How stupid had I been? Did everyone know? The neighbors? His friends? Were they all laughing at me? My insides heaved again, and I felt exposed and raw as if someone had cut me open and turned me inside out. Why would he buy her the same purse? And insist on me dyeing my hair lighter? Maybe he wanted a crew of identical concubines to worship him. Cheating was some sort of sick game for him.
At some point in the middle of the night, I raised myself from the floor, shivering. I limped over to the candle in the living room. It barely flickered in a melted pool of wax and I blew it out. Then I dumped it in the kitchen trash. Just as I turned away from the garbage bin I doubled over, a new wave of despair crashing over me as I collapsed onto the couch. I hoped the baby couldn’t feel my agony. I needed to go see my doctor, to make sure everything was still on track with the pregnancy. Maybe I could survive without my lying, piece-of-shit husband, but I couldn’t cope with losing my baby, too.
Gathering my breath, I looked at the clock—2:30 a.m. Although every cell inside me screamed with exhaustion, sleep wasn’t an option. I raised my shell of a body off the couch and dragged myself into the kitchen, sifting through the cleaning products under the sink until my hand landed on a box of oversized garbage bags. I stomped upstairs, ripped the soiled sheets from our bed and stuffed them in the bag. I caught a whiff of perfume, not mine. Grief filled my mouth. My muscles contracted, a frenzy taking over. Everything that was his was tainted by her. His stuff would vanish into the bags, removed from the house as if eliminating his belongings would somehow ease my pain. It was the only way I could think of to salvage what remained of my life. He’d hurt me, now I’d do something to hurt him. That’s how karma worked. He loved his things—his toys, and clothes, and shoes, and watches—I knew that. He loved his stuff more than he loved me.
After the bed was stripped down to the mattress, I targeted his dresser, yanking open the drawers and scooping up his neatly folded designer clothes, the ones I’d told him he’d spent way too much money on, and dumped them into the trash bag. When the bag was stuffed, I filled another. And another. Within minutes, the dresser and closet were cleared of any memory of him. Thousands and thousands of dollars of his prized possessions, gone.
There were ten bags. I made five trips, dragging two behind me each time, down the stairs and out to the alley behind our garage where the dumpster sat. As I heaved the bags into the metal bin, I wondered how I’d ended up with a husband whose priorities were so out of whack. A man who valued brand names and arm candy over an honest relationship and a loving family.
The last bag balanced on the edge of the dumpster, teetering like it was scared to fall. With both hands, I shoved it over the edge, letting out a thick yelp at the same time. I stepped back, satisfied with my actions, a tiny bit of my dignity restored.
I stumbled back inside, my eyes hungry to locate more offensive items, but landing on the empty box of trash bags instead. The rest of my purging would have to wait. The contents of my purse lay strewn across the hardwood, the fuzzy edge of a miniature white sock visible beneath the mess. I crouched down and picked it up, the soft wool resting against my skin. An entire lifetime had passed since I’d made the purchase at the boutique in Vermont. The story of the woman who made the yarn from the wool of her own sheep seemed trivial now, a tale only a naive fool would tell herself to occupy her thoughts. Rocking forward on my knees, my forehead pressed against the cold floor, I clutched the knitted booties to my chest and sobbed.
Eleven
Gloria
Now
The hollow knocking of a woodpecker hunting for insects sounded from the forest. I boosted myself up from my hunched-over position in the garden, my eyes searching the distant trees for the noisy bird with the bright red head. I blinked, unable to locate it. Stretching out the kink in my back, I gave up my search and crouched back down. My gloved finger poked a hole in the soil, while my bare hand dropped in seeds.
Last summer, I hadn’t had the energy to keep up with my vegetable garden, especially after the darn deer found a weak spot in my fence and destroyed my harvest. I’d arrived at my plot one July morning and discovered they’d devoured all my plants. The beans, peppers, cucumbers, and tomatoes were gone. They may as well have gnawed away what was left of my heart. I’d moped back to my living room and collapsed on the couch, defeated.
The wire mesh still dipped down where they’d trampled through it. My resolve had strengthened since then. I would figure out a way to secure the fence before the seeds began to sprout. The knocking sounded again from the woods, and I glanced toward the trees, my mouth dry. A sensation of watching eyes pressed on my back as if that bird was spying on me. Or maybe it was the deer.
By the way my stomach squeezed with hunger, I guessed it was close to lunchtime. I shrugged off my uneasy thoughts and spied through a gap in the birch trees beyond my dirt driveway. Beth’s truck was there, parked outside her tiny house. I’d secretly hoped she’d spot me working and come over to chat, but she was probably busy preparing for her important lunch with Amanda. I couldn’t wait to tell her the news.
Ethan hadn’t picked up my call last night; his recorded voice had asked me to leave a message, followed by a beep. I’d hesitated, a tangle of words caught in my throat, before leaving a long and rambling message. After talking in circles about topics like the weather and The Tidewater’s fried perch, I’d finally gotten to the point and blurted out that I missed him and was sorry for not reaching out to him sooner. By the time I ended the call, my heart leaped around in my chest like a wild animal and my eyes stung with unexpected emotion. I’d hung up, pacing the room, wondering what in heaven’s name I’d done, and how he’d react. Ten minutes hadn’t passed before my phone rang. Ethan had called me back right away.
“It was good to hear from you, Mom,” he said, a tinge of worry in his voice.
His statement hit me in an odd spot, like when I knocked my funny bone on the wooden arm of the dining room chair. “Yes. You, too,” I said, but I dissolved into tears as soon as the words left my lips.
He’d been a patient listener, prodding me with questions and trying to understand. I explained how someone had left the pamphlet underneath my coat two years earlier, and how I realized I’d been wrong to keep it because he was perfect the way he was. I recounted how the self-help book from the clearance bin at Walmart had magically found its way into my hands and opened directly to the page about choosing love over hate. Didn’t he agree it was a sign? He laughed and said he did. I steadied myself against the kitchen counter, apologizing for the unexpected tears. I explained how I’d been working on my life, healing from Dad’s death, trying to become a better version of myself. But there was one thing, I told him, that I was missing more than anything—having him in my life. Would he come home for a visit this summer? Just a week or two.
He hadn’t jumped at the invitation. He sighed and listed the obvious roadblocks: Work, limited vacation time, tight finances.
“I’ll pay for your ticket,” I said, interrupting. Other than replacing the drafty windows in my farmhouse, I couldn’t think of a better use for the pile of cash stacked inside my pocketbook.
Silence hung on the line. Crickets chirped
from the other side of the window screen.
“So, you’re really okay with me being gay?” Ethan said at last.
“Yes, Ethan.” I inhaled a deep breath and held it, working up my courage. “I was wrong to judge you. I hope we can talk more about it in person.”
“Wow. Okay.” He cleared his throat and breathed heavily from the other end. “Work has been kind of slow lately. I’ll look into flights, but I’ll pay for my ticket. I don’t want you spending money on it.”
My smile stretched wide. I bounced forward on the balls of my feet and patted my Thirty-Day Life Coach workbook. Ethan was coming home.
A motor grumbled and sputtered, bringing me back to the present. I raised my head, shielding my eyes from the billowing dust as Joe’s vehicle clamored up the driveway. He’d already left and returned twice since I’d started working in the garden. Each time he passed, he waved to me and unloaded a new pile of boxes. The rusty Explorer lurched to halt in front of the garage and he emerged. From hundreds of yards away, he peered toward me and waved again.
I ignored the tremor in my gloved hand, lifting it in greeting. Then, I pretended to go back to planting. He swung open the back and removed an elongated duffel bag, its camouflage print ironically making it stand out more against the natural backdrop. My insides unraveled like a dropped spool of thread.
I’d seen a bag like that before, many years ago, when some acquaintances of Charlie had driven up one fall for a hunting trip. They’d convinced my husband to go with them as some sort of a male-bonding weekend. Charlie preferred books to guns and hadn’t been thrilled about the idea, but he’d ultimately agreed. He’d felt obligated to accompany his friends who’d traveled hours in our direction to spend the weekend in the wilderness. I still remember the slackened expression of relief on Charlie’s face when they’d returned on Sunday afternoon, empty-handed. He’d chuckled when he’d told me how they’d drank three cases of beer and played dozens of rounds of poker. They hadn’t spotted a single deer the entire weekend.