by A B Whelan
Only two days ago she was whispering sweet words into my ears, egging me on, giving me permission to do things to her. Why is she resisting me so viciously now?
I started kissing her neck the way she used to like it, but when my eyes found hers I saw something I’d never seen before. Hatred. Contempt. Those eyes broke my heart.
She spat in my face for a third time. Her warm, foamy saliva landed on my nose and on my cheek. The black cloud that had been hanging over my eyes rose into my brain. A cold and dense mass of emotions, the commander of my actions.
I sniffed my fingers that were inside of her. For the first time, I found her smell foul and repulsive, and everything changed in that moment.
My heart sank, and I wrapped my hands around her swan neck.
As the images of my flashback catch up with the present, it becomes clear to me that she is the one to blame for our disastrous date tonight. Her actions tonight led us to this point, leaving me with no other option but to teach her a lesson about respect.
An hour passes, and she still fights back, but at least she stopped calling me a “fucking idiot.”
I use the moment of quiet and peace to replay the events of this awful night in my head on an endless loop, trying to make sense of things. Every angle, every thought, leads to the same conclusion. This creature underneath me isn’t the one who stole my heart. I want back the Caroline I fell in love with on that picnic by the ocean, but I’m at loss; I can’t turn back time, and nothing I do to her now is working.
As her breathing calms, her arms stop flapping around and her nails no longer try to claw at my skin. I release her neck and put my hands on the floor. Her face lies only a couple inches from mine. It’s impossible not to notice that her eyes are glazed over with fear and contempt. I have a feeling that she won’t apologize; she won’t submit, and that realization makes me incredibly sad and disappointed.
The break is over, and I refold my fingers around her neck and tighten my grip. Only God knows how long I have to go on with this madness to see the sweet look in her eyes again. I long for that love, for that connection, but she isn’t giving it to me. She is selfish. Blake ruined my dear Caroline. She is damaged.
But tonight, I am in the position to help her find herself again. As I push down on her, power I’ve never known before runs along my arms and gathers in my fingers.
Soon my dear Linnie’s slurred words reduce to a moan and, at last, into silence. She lets go, and the weight of her head feels like a ton in my hands. As I struggle to hold her, I watch the muscles on her face droop and her eyes go out of focus and roll back into her head. It’s mesmerizing to witness how popped blood vessels turn the white part of her eyes into a maze of red lines.
When her lips stop trembling, I let go of her neck, ready to kiss her without resistance, but her body drops onto the couch like a rag doll.
As I get back on my feet, her body moves to the edge of the couch and rolls onto the floor. Her head bounces back from the wood with a dull thud and drops back again like a slam ball.
I let out a long, tired breath. I know she is playing dead, and I’m not in the mood for games.
I poke her.
No response.
As a heavy dose of adrenaline spreads inside of me and heats up my face, I poke her again.
No response.
I touch the vein on her neck.
No pulse.
Heat rises in my stomach and in my face. I didn’t mean to kill her.
I massage my face and stand up, angry and frustrated. “Now look what you’ve made me do,” I grunt and kick her in the stomach.
I had given her all my love, and she had hurled it back in my face like it was nothing. I’m angry with Caroline because this is not what I want for us. We had plans. We had a future together.
Time lost to me, I chew the skin next to my nails while sitting on the floor beside Caroline’s lifeless body. I thank God that we never made our relationship official. She wanted to wait and see if we were serious before telling her friends and family about us. I agreed with her decision with disappointment because it made me feel as if I wasn’t worthy of her love, as if she was ashamed of me.
Though my initial feelings about the secrecy were negative, I soon learned to enjoy it. There was excitement and magic in the stealthy ways I picked her up at parties in the darkness of the night and stole her away. She would text lies to her girlfriends about her whereabouts while hiding out in my mother’s guesthouse with me.
She knew how to make me feel special. That’s why I don’t understand what got into her tonight.
I get a knife from the drawer in the kitchen of the guesthouse and scrape out my skin from underneath her nails. I soak a cloth in bleach and water—using the same ratio my mother uses to disinfect the bathrooms—wipe down her body and soak her hands in the bowl. Mother always says that bleach makes stains disappear without a trace. And that’s what I want, to erase my traces on her.
I run a comb through her hair and a lint remover over her clothes. I roll her in plastic wrap, using up an entire roll I had found in a kitchen drawer. I dig up the biggest wheeled suitcase from the closet and force her body inside. It’s a surprisingly challenging task, and it wears me out.
I drink two bottles of Coke before I grab my car keys and pull the suitcase out to the yard.
My back aches from lifting her dead weight into the trunk, but at least I start feeling good about getting rid of this manipulative bitch because nothing is as it seems with her, not even her weight. I did the world a favor by taking out this conniving man-eater. I couldn’t let her go to college and tear through people’s hearts and souls.
I drive to the part of town where Blake lives, but there is no place to dump a body in that stuffy suburban neighborhood where people breathe down each other’s necks. The playgrounds I pass are only patches of sand and grass with uninspiring and identical swings and slides, monotonous and repetitive zones that serve only one purpose: to teach kids that being home is more fun than the park.
I take El Camino Real to the east shore of Batiquitos Lagoon, which is far from Blake’s house, but my brain is drained, and I can’t think of a quieter, more suitable place.
Under the veil of night, I stop the car in the middle of the bridge and drop the suitcase into the dark water. I know I should keep moving and leave before somebody sees me, but it’s hard to tear my eyes away from the sinking suitcase. Bubbles gurgle and pop to the surface as the dirty water enters Caroline’s makeshift coffin and floods her body. I imagine her skin breaking out into goosebumps. It’s still a pleasant image in my head.
The wooden pillars under the bridge are infested with barnacles and moss. Floating islands of seaweed give rides to soda cans and candy wrappers. People don’t come here to swim or scuba dive. This is the perfect resting place for Caroline. No one will ever bother her here.
The wind that passes along the bridge is chilly and harsh. A series of shudders force me to fold my arms around me.
Under the starry sky, the ocean in the distance makes a beautiful sight. If I die, I’d like to be buried here. Caroline is lucky. This is prime real estate.
Two headlights glaring in the distance warn me that it’s time for me to go. I do the sign of the holy cross and murmur a quick prayer in memory of Caroline as I get back into my car.
On my way home, I stop by a 7-Eleven. I feel dirty and tired and need a little pick me up. As I sip on a Styrofoam cup of watered-down, burnt coffee, I promise myself not to waste another minute of my life thinking about that selfish, callous bitch. Life is too short to waste on people who don’t deserve your attention. Yet I can’t find sleep. The worst thing is, I don’t know what is keeping me up—the caffeine or my disturbed conscience.
Olivia
MONDAY
A violent force pulls me out of my sleep, and I suck in a lungful of air, like being revived after a near drowning. My body lies docile as my eyes begin to focus so rapidly that I feel my pupils dilate. The exposure
to light and the rush of oxygen makes me shiver and my head swim with dizziness. I pull the blanket up to my chin, listening to my heart pounding in my chest, a marching band with hundreds of tiny feet enclosed in my ribcage. I reach over to my right, but the bed is cold and empty. Richard is gone.
The antique mantel clock warns me that it’s 11:42 a.m. I try to sit up, but every movement I make releases a hard, bouncing ball inside my head, slamming against my skull.
Holding my head still, I summon my memories of last night, but it’s so loud in my head that I can’t grasp a clear thought. I look around the room to find a picture or an object I recognize. I’m panicking. Where am I? What happened to me?
With measured moves, I snuggle up to the headboard like a frightened animal recently introduced into the wild, stripped of any feeling of safety. From this angle, I can take in the entire room; the large peach-colored carpet over the dark hardwood floor, the detailed woodwork on the sofa, the elegant cabinets hugging the pastel-colored walls, the fireplace with the white mantel decorated with golden motifs. At last, my eyes land on a framed picture of Richard and his mother hanging over the fireplace. I’m home. I’m safe. This is the bedroom I share with my husband.
I let my eyes adjust to the daylight. It takes a while for the gray cloud in my head to lift. This is not my first time waking up hungover despite not having a drop of alcohol the night before. Lately, my adjusting takes longer. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older and my brain isn’t as resilient as it used to be. But then again, I’m only thirty-six. That’s not old enough to lose one’s mind.
I reach for my iPhone on the nightstand and call Richard at his office. I know he has prohibited me from bothering him at work, but I need him now. I’m in raging waters, and I need an anchor to still me.
The line seems to ring forever, and after an anxious wait, I hear the answering machine pick up. A pleasant, sexy female voice informs me about the Good Samaritan Foundation’s business hours. I don’t leave a message and hang up.
I check my phone for today’s date. Today is Monday. How long was I out?
I scoot to the edge of the bed and hug my knees to my chest. As I rock back and forth, my memory clears. I remember now. Last night, I had a fight with Richard over the money I sent to my brother in Sweden. Richard provides me with a very comfortable life—he gives me more than I need—but the day we married, he made it clear that he wouldn’t support my family. I didn’t expect him to, and I still don’t, but it’s difficult to live in a multimillion-dollar mansion and drive expensive cars when my mother struggles to pay her electric bill and my brother can hardly feed his family.
Richard and I were eating dinner when he mentioned my withdrawal from the bank between two bites. “I thought we talked about this, Olivia. You went behind my back again.”
Our Hungarian housekeeper, Margit, was in the room with us, but her presence is usually ignored. Her progression from annoying obstacle to unnoticed wallpaper eventually became normal to us. Richard thought European help in the house would make me feel more at home. I’m from Sweden. We don’t speak the same language. We don’t recognize the same traditions or customs. We don’t even share the same culinary taste.
I put my fork down. Food doesn’t taste as good when the emotional price to pay for it is so high. “I know, Richard, and I’m sorry for not asking your permission, but Lucas called and begged for my help. It was an emergency. He said that they couldn’t turn the heater on and that the kids were cold,” I explained, pushing my plate to the side. I felt Margit’s disapproving eyes on my back. She’d spent half the day conjuring up a fantastic feast of tender roast beef with carrot sauce and bread dumplings, yet I disregarded her laborious work with a flick of my hand.
“How come he doesn’t have money? Didn’t we help him open a restaurant last year? Or was that a lie, too?” Richard said without raising his voice, calm and controlled. Moments like this, I wish he’d yell or break a few plates. Show some human emotion, dammit.
I know my brother lies. He also has mastered how to appeal to my conscience, making me feel guilty about the wealthy life I now enjoy. “It’s easy for you. You just open your legs and get what you want,” he’d say, spitting his jealous, bitter words at me, as if I weren’t his little sister but a cash cow he was unable to milk.
When it comes to my family, I go soft, especially when Lucas calls and tells me about the place where my mother lives, a small, one-bedroom brick house on a secluded hill where she grows her own food on a napkin-sized piece of land, with only a scrappy mutt for company. I live on an acre of manicured land in the Los Feliz area of Los Angeles, tended by a live-in landscaper.
My mother is alone.
I’m never alone.
My brother has two young children, and he and his wife have little money to raise them.
I have no kids.
When Lucas calls, or when I call my mother on Skype, I become weak with emotion, and I break my promise to Richard.
If I had access to cash, I could be craftier about saving up money to send to my family via Western Union. But since I’m not doing any shopping for the kitchen or the house, not in charge of bills, and was given only a credit card, my expenses are tracked in Richard’s digital world.
Having no other option, I wired five hundred dollars from Richard’s bank account, knowing that Richard would be notified. I knew this fight was coming. It’s an unavoidable evil I must bear every time I choose to help my family.
I’ve been trying to make my brother understand that everything we own is provided by Richard. I signed a prenup. If we divorce, I’d have to leave this house the same way as I moved in, with only a suitcase of clothes and shoes to my name. Maybe that’s exactly what my envious brother wants for me.
My mother understands. She never forces me into the corner.
“He has the restaurant we gave him money for; it just isn’t going too well these days.” My voice shakes. Richard knows that I don’t even believe the words I’m saying.
“Or so he says.” Richard pairs his utensils on the right side of his plate, indicating he’s done eating, and wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Did you like your life growing up?” he asks calmly.
Richard knows about the harsh circumstances I endured as a child, thanks to a low-self-esteem and an ever-loser, alcoholic father. If I had known that during our years of marriage he would use this information to dominate me, to control me, I’d have never told him. In marriage, one’s weakness shouldn’t be a platform for the other to stand on.
“You know I didn’t.” My stomach turns over. I taste the bile in the back of my throat.
Richard leaps to his feet. The legs of his chair scrape over the floor, startling me. “If you disrespect me like this again, you’ll find yourself back where you came from. Am I clear?”
He leaves me shaking and crying in the dining room.
It’s all clear now. I know who I am, where I am, and what happened last night. After I left the table, I crawled up into a reading chair with a book, feeling alone and abandoned, until Richard brought me a glass of warm milk. I’m not a restless child, yet Richard treats me like one sometimes. “It’ll help you sleep better,” he’d say, “calm your nerves.”
I’m young enough to start a new life. I could go back to work as a nanny, like when I first moved here. I was good at it. Or apply for sales positions at the mall. I could turn my life around, but I never do. I guess it’s the Catholic in me; I like to suffer. Or maybe I’m just a coward.
I push myself out of bed against my better judgment. My body is begging for more rest. I make it to the bathroom, where I take a good, long look at the dark circles under my eyes, my blotched, swollen face, my cracked lips. I want to hurt Richard the same way he hurts me. I do that sometimes, get back at him with little annoying things he’d never know was me: deleting a song he loves from his iPod, hiding his favorite tie, spitting in his shoe. He never suspects me for those unexplainable mishaps because I’m cunning and stealthy,
like a ninja. When you grow up with a father who could go into a mad rage over a glass of spilled milk, you learn to be invisible.
Richard is a man of measured and monotonous habits. Every day he gets up at five o’clock sharp, goes for an hour-long run around the neighborhood, eats breakfast at six thirty—a bowl of kefir with nuts and a hint of cinnamon and dash of honey—and at ten past seven he drives to his office in downtown Los Angeles. Since it’s near midday, I won’t find him home. Good, because I itch to do something annoying to him to retain what little self-respect I have left.
I drag myself downstairs on the carpeted staircase to his home library and weekend office.
Margit is an aggressive cook. The clinks of pots and pans reverberate through the hallway, and even though I’m heading away from the kitchen, the sounds are sharp and set my nerves on edge.
In Richard’s office, I find an inch-thick stack of paper titled “South Park Shelter Rental Renewal Contract” on his desk. I take out two random pages from the middle of the pile and crumple them up in my hand, leaving the rest of the documents as they were.
To hide the stolen pages, I take a little trip outside to the dumpster behind the carriage house, which had been refurbished into a garage where Richard keeps his car collection. I flip open the top of the trash bin. A bundle of blood-stained towels nestles on top of a pile of dried leaves, and next to it lies a bag of dust and lint that seems to have come from a vacuum cleaner. Apart from Margit, who, as far as I know, uses the trash bins by the side of the house, only our groundskeeper, Pablo, has access to this trash bin. I picture him wrapping his hand or arm in towels to stop the bleeding from a deep cut from a brush trimmer or a broken branch.
I bury the crumpled contract pages underneath the grass clippings and leaves and walk down the long driveway to the guest house to check on Pablo. He is that type of rough man who would rather fix a broken leg himself than see a doctor.