I drift to sleep slowly, floating in and out of consciousness, in and out of the minds of each of my patients, until finally I hit the rock bottom that is slumber. I dream I’m one of the women he watches. I’m someone I don’t personally know but in my dream I’m her. He’s described her to me in such great detail so many times that it’s easy for my subconscious to create a version of her.
I’m walking home, the rainy streets are filled with puddles, and the cracks in the sidewalk are overflowing and spilling over. Worms already pave the walkway looking for a safe place. Leaves make the concrete slippery and litter the walkway. The street is deserted, something that’s foreign to me. The hustle and bustle of downtown Chicago is a norm; people don’t sleep here. I always feel comfortable walking home alone because I’m never truly alone.
Tonight though, I see no one. It’s an eerie calm. I feel someone watching me. It brings me back to being on the red line. I was deeply engrossed in an article from Buzzfeed, a piece which captioned pictures of cats with funny one-liners, when I felt the strangest inkling I was being watched. I resisted looking up, I was simply being paranoid. One too many murder podcast episodes and I was waiting for a man to shove me into a barrel and allow my corpse to rot in his basement. I’d leave behind only my bones and 2000s clothing for the decades down the line to judge. My neck and back started tingling and I snapped my head up to find a man staring directly at me. Our eyes locked and he looked away, cracking his neck from side to side and rolling his shoulders forward as he glanced out the window.
That’s how I feel now, too. Like the man from the train is back, and this time we’re on a dimly lit street, alone, without the comfort of the red line. I don’t want to turn around; I want to get home to the safety of my locks and deadbolts and barricade myself deeply into my studio apartment. I pick up the pace a bit, but not as to draw attention to the fact that I know I’m being followed, my big yellow rain boots splattering rain up from the walkway.
I reach my building and frantically punch the code to unlock the entry door, certain that I’m going to have a butcher knife stuck in my back at any moment. I shove into the complex, latching the door shut behind me, finally brave enough to look out into the darkness. I press my hand against the glass and look into the night. There’s no one here. Am I going crazy? Probably. Certainly. I think about how paranoid I’ve become for literally no reason. I turn around and gasp, my mind can’t form any other words—no other sounds escape my lips. He’s standing right in front of me. He’s here. I don’t even have time to think about how he managed to get into my building. I spin around so fast I almost collapse, seeing black dots floating around from the sudden movement. As I turn the handle to freedom, he grabs me and shoves the knife right between my shoulder blades. I fall against the door and slip down to the ground, blood pooling around my rapidly failing body. I look into my killer’s eyes and know it isn’t the creep from the train. Blood seeps from the corners of my mouth and my eyes flutter, my pupils darting back and forth quickly while the rest of my body lies motionless. I understand I’m now in my final moments and nothing will change the events that have led to this very second. There’s no coming back from this. I’m watching myself outside of my dying body now, floating just above where I lay on the floor, watching it all play out like I am in the cinema. “I’m sorry,” I manage to say to my body as it takes one final deep breath in and finally gives up the struggle. Just as the last breath is sucked in through now lifeless lips, I’m immediately thrust into darkness, falling fast into an abyss of emptiness.
I wake up startled, not knowing where I am for a moment until I roll and see sweet Simon’s face sleepily looking at me. “You were having a bad dream, love,” he says with a husky, tired voice, his brown eyes only half open. I’m lying in a pool of sweat, unable to form words. What I just experienced felt so real.
I roll back over onto my other side and stare out at the moonlight peeking through the half-closed curtains as he rubs my back for what feels like hours until I finally fall asleep again.
~
I wake up to a text from Mara. My phone buzzes on my nightstand, the screen lights up and fades back to black. I’m a bit surprised since she sure as hell seems like she’d rather text my husband than me.
Let’s do coffee tomorrow morning! My house or yours? xx Mara
So, she wants to hangout with me solo. I wonder if she’s going to admit we know each other. Probably not. I have no issue giving her a chance. I’d like to think I’m a fairly open person and I know people can change. Ruining a marriage when she was sixteen doesn’t mean she hasn’t grown up at all since then. I decide a cup of coffee with her won’t kill me or dissolve my marriage. I tell her to come to my house. Being here gives me the advantage.
Simon is brewing the two of us coffee, I can smell it even from our bed. I make my way down to the kitchen and see him standing in his boxers and slippers. Hot damn, he is fine. Sometimes I wonder why he chose me. I’m not self-loathing or masochistic but I know he could do better, at least from a physical standpoint. He hands me my fresh cup of coffee and I stand next to him as he brews his own.
“So what do you think about Mara and James?” I ask.
He looks at me for a moment and I’m unsure of what he’s thinking. “They seem like a really loving couple. Fun. Exciting. I enjoyed our time with them.” He looks down as he says that, avoiding eye contact.
I immediately feel triggered. “A really loving couple? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t mean anything by it, babe. Of course I wish we were more affectionate. They were all over each other. Sometimes I wish we were more like that.” It hurts me but I know it isn’t intended to. He’s only telling me what he thinks our marriage lacks. Deep down I know we don’t have a strong physical connection anymore, but I didn’t know it bothered him.
“Well, sorry I have a full-time job and I’m tired when I get home.”
“You know I don’t fault you for working. I love that you’re independent, I love that your passion is helping people,” he says as he pours and then sets down his coffee and stands in front of me, his hands on my hips. “I just love you and I want you so bad all the time. I want to touch you, to feel your skin on mine. I don’t care if it’s in the morning, on your lunch hour, after work, in the middle of the night. But I do want more of you. I think Mara and James helped me realize that I need you to be more affectionate with me.” He looks concerned but like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.
I’m quick to react, and I don’t think about what I’m going to say before the words are spilling from my mouth. “Of course, Simon. It’s purely physical now after you see Mara, right? I’m sorry I don’t dress like a tramp. Sorry I don’t cake on makeup to make myself appear hotter. Sorry I don’t grab your dick in front of company,” I spit out, feeling my body tense and grow warm with anger.
“You don’t have to get pissy, Abbey. I didn’t say one damn word about her shorts and she didn’t grab his dick in front of us.”
Simon rolls his eyes and I’m instantly more pissed. “Oh, you noticed her shorts, too? Awesome. Why don’t you go be with Mara then?” I say, feeling childish with my comeback but not caring either.
“Screw you. I’m done with this conversation. Sorry for wanting to fuck my wife.” He throws his still full mug of coffee into the sink and goes into his office, slamming the door behind him, signaling that the conversation is over.
This is just what I needed before having to go into the office and give advice to an anorexic and a stalker. I hate fighting with Simon. It always happens before I go to work too. Why can’t he ever bring up his opinions after I get home, when I can tune him out and not think about what he says, too consumed with the day’s events to be bothered? He knows I struggle with insecurities and he brings up what a great lover Mara is to James? I’m seething. I want to text Mara to fuck off and that I hope her coffee scalds her tongue and she isn’t welcome in my home, but I don’t.
Mara has done nothing to me. I’m not married to her. My husband is the one I should be pissed at, not her. I have to remind myself of this multiple times throughout my day because as I keep thinking about the morning’s events, I get mad at Mara instead of Simon. Why did they have to move here? We were content before she showed up. I wonder if this is how Mr. Kent’s wife felt when she found out Mara had seduced her husband. Was she mad at both of them or just Mara? I’m getting ahead of myself again, I know that. Simon and I had an argument, he didn’t fuck Mara. I need to calm myself down.
~
As the day drags on, I feel bad about picking a fight with Simon this morning. Sessions with my patients help me realize that our problems are extremely minute, at least right now. Maybe tonight when I get home I can make it up to him. I’m insecure in the bedroom, which is probably why I don’t initiate sex as much as he wants. I know though, after what he said this morning, that if I don’t get more physical with him, he could stray. I should have sensed long ago that he was craving what I wasn’t giving to him. I thought we were happy. I am so unaware of his needs.
I send Simon a quick text, the first contact exchanged since our argument in the kitchen earlier.
I’m sorry, babe. I really am. I just know she is everything I’m not. I’m insecure, that’s all.
I hit send and scroll through pictures on my phone, looking for something in particular.
I took a photo of myself in lingerie he bought me for my last birthday. I’m sure he bought it for me to wear for him but I didn’t feel comfortable. Wearing it made me feel silly. I took a picture though, and saved it in my camera roll. I had no idea why or what I’d ever do with it but felt compelled to save it anyways. Forty years from now I will probably envy the woman in this photo.
I find the photo and examine it. My thigh has cellulite, not a lot but enough to be vaguely noticeable. I’m skinny but I’ve always had a bit of a chin, which is also apparent. I pick myself apart and think of all the reasons not to hit the send button, but ultimately force myself to send it his way.
Half of me regrets it, the other half feels kind of excited for him to see it. Simon loves me, he is going to enjoy this picture, I know that. I wonder if this is sexting. Did I just sext my husband? My stomach feels fluttery and nervous inside while I wait for his reply.
Maybe this is a step in the right direction.
Mara who? I think to myself, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips.
Chapter Eight
Mara
I step into my house, slamming the door behind me. Deciding I didn’t slam it hard enough, and as if Simon could hear it from his own home, I open it and slam it again for effect. Did Simon just kick me out? The words, “Have a good day,” ring through my ears in Simon’s voice. He definitely kicked me out. We could have had several more hours together, getting to know each other, talking about what we need in a partner, our favorite novels and art. He ruined it. I’m annoyed. I’m irritated. No one turns me down. Simon sure as hell is not going to be the first person to do this to me.
I think about what I can do to entice him, to help him understand that I want to give him what he needs. He has me feeling so many ways at once—I’m mad at him but I want to screw his brains out at the same time. I haven’t felt these feelings in years. I’m scared but it’s thrilling at the same time. The feelings I felt for Ryan happened quickly. From the moment I saw his book collection, heard the passion in his voice while reading Proust out loud to the class, I knew I wanted him in a way that was indescribable to my childish friends.
Of course things with James are wonderful, but the rush and intoxication isn’t there with him. He’s just a good man. Women aren’t always satisfied with good men.
Abbey finally got back to my text from earlier; she wants me to come to her house for coffee. That’s fine, better for me. I can leave when I want and I’m not responsible for endlessly entertaining, waiting for her to leave on her own.
If I can get close enough to Abbey to find out what their marriage is lacking, I can present those things to Simon on a shiny silver platter. Men can’t resist what they’re starving for.
~
Simon has officially ruined my mood for the day. I’ve been struggling internally since leaving his house. James has returned home from work and he notices I’m not myself. He’s questioning what’s wrong with me. My body language tells a story I can’t speak out loud to him. He won’t drop it so I brush him off and tell him any woman’s go-to line, PMS. It shuts him up and I know I won’t have to dodge any other questions for the night.
I leave James to cook dinner for the two of us and head up to our room, giving him the excuse I need to take Midol. I go into my closet, push past the clothes I recently hung up and to the back corner, picking up a small fireproof safe.
I carry it quietly to our large, four-poster bed and sit with it on my lap, unlocking it with a code no one would ever guess: Ryan’s birthday.
I run my fingers over my most prized possessions inside, feeling nostalgia wash over me, comforting me in a way only memories of him can. Most people would hate a man who tried to rape them but I could never hate Ryan. He was the only man to make me feel truly alive. I think Simon could, too, if he would let his damn guard down.
I pick up a photo I cut out of Ryan from our yearbook. He’s so handsome. I imagine him cooking me dinner, being the one I ended up with, how lovely our lives together would have been. Laughing together over spaghetti about the nonsense of our days.
Next, I pull out a copy of the book I reviewed in his class, In Cold Blood. I have dozens of page markers inside that highlight sentences I love and Post-it notes with ideas on them. It brings back memories of that shit grade he gave me and how I still don’t agree with the comments he wrote in red on the paper.
I muddle through the other items I keep sacred in this box until I’m at the bottom of the pile. A picture I took on my fossil of a flip phone. The picture is so blurry that if a random person saw it, they’d have no clue what it was. I remember though. It’s Ryan and his poor wife, through their living room window, sitting on separate furniture. So disconnected, so far apart. I think of Abbey and Simon and how I could get the guy this time. Simon could be my Ryan. He’ll never be as good as Ryan was, but he may be the closest thing I can get to the perfection he so encapsulated.
I put all of my secrets back into my little box and think of a quote by Frederick Buechner, one I memorized when putting this box together all of those years ago: “To sentimentalise something is to look only at the emotion in it and at the emotion it stirs in us rather than at the reality of it, which we are always tempted not to look at because reality, truth, silence are all what we are not much good at and avoid when we can. To sentimentalise something is to savour rather than to suffer the sadness of it, is to sigh over the prettiness of it rather than to tremble at the beauty of it, which may make fearsome demands of us or pose fearsome threats.”
I put the box back into the closet and join James for dinner, lingering thoughts of what could have been and what still could be.
~
The rest our evening bores me greatly, and I’m happy to sleep. I dream of Ryan, beautiful Ryan and all the feelings that accompanied our time together. I then dream of Simon, of Abbey, of James. James is standing in a white room and it’s almost like I’m watching it play out on television. He stands, looking small and frail, with tears in his eyes. He’s looking straight through me like I don’t exist. He isn’t sobbing uncontrollably or even showing any emotion as he cries. The tears just fall down his chiseled cheekbones and drop soundlessly at his feet.
I wake up after that one and look at him sleeping. I feel bad for him in this moment. I wish I could change but at the same time I don’t want to. James doesn’t know the horror that he has married. I chuckle to myself—he doesn’t know the whore he’s married either. I feel a sudden pang of guilt as I remember the words the therapist spoke to me all those years ago.
“You hav
e experienced a trauma, Mara. Often when a person experiences a trauma like this, their brain experiences alterations. It can have a lasting impact and affect your future relationships, your boundaries, and your ability to be empathetic.”
I think about the almost rape incident with Ryan. I’m sure, looking back on it now, that it messed me up a little but that wasn’t what “altered my brain.” Therapists think they know everything, but they only know what you want them to know.
Mine never got to the root cause of where my attachment issues come from. He never fully understood why I’d have relationship and boundary issues for the remainder of my life. Because I didn’t tell him what happened to me years before my time with Ryan.
Chapter Nine
Abbey
As I brew coffee for my morning with Mara, I have a sick feeling in my stomach that slowly creeps up into my throat. I don’t like her. I don’t like anything about her from those damn shorts to her long, beautiful, jet black hair.
I die a little on the inside when I hear a knock on the door. We always intended on putting a doorbell in but never found the time to pick one out and install it.
I greet Mara with a smile as big as the fake one she gives me and we even connect with a short side hug.
“I’m so glad you accepted my invitation, Abbey!” She slips off her shoes like she’s going to stay for a substantial amount of time and I sigh internally. I tell her, of course, that I’m always happy to chit chat over coffee with a new friend. We make our way into my dining area and I bring over two cups of fresh coffee for us to enjoy together. Might as well play the part, I think.
Those We Trust Page 5