The Girl He Loves

by Carmen, Roya

  “She read their entire conversation, and she checked her out on his Facebook. It’s a woman from work, with fake boobs.”

  “How does she know her boobs are fake?” I ask.

  Gretchen shrugs. “She assumes, I think. I saw a picture of her, and I’m inclined to agree.”

  Abigail laughs. “Oh, you’re inclined to agree, are you?” she says, teasing her.

  Gretchen scowls at the both of us. “We shouldn’t be talking about this. I feel bad. I’m not usually inclined to gossip either.”

  I can’t help but smile. Gretchen is so sweet… that girl wouldn’t hurt a fly. You just want to hug her and kiss her cheeks.

  “I agree.” I adjust my napkin and flatware, and position my glass of water at a forty-five degree angle to the right. I tap on the edge of my plate three times. My friends don’t notice this either. I bite into my BLT. I don’t need to know more. After lunch, I’m going online and buying myself a book. I’ll get lost in the drama on my Kindle, instead of my friend’s misfortune. I just need a distraction.

  I’ve never spied on Brian, despite the fact that he’s always on social media. He’s not on Instagram as far as I know, but I see him on Facebook often. Occasionally, he flips his iPad closed when I enter the room, and he shoots me a smile. He says he’s bored and Facebook is stupid. Claudia’s story makes me wonder? And perhaps a little paranoid. Should I be worried too?

  I know I need to be careful because of my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I know if I decide to go down that road, I might not be able to find my way out. I’d start with one picture, and then I’d be stalking every single one of his female friends. And the man has a lot of friends. This is the reason I’ve unfollowed my own husband on Facebook.

  2

  My timer goes off. It’s three o’clock on the dot. Mollie needs me. I quickly gather my notebooks and papers and arrange them in an orderly stack next to my laptop. I tuck my pen and pencil into my pencil holder, and grab my empty cup. As soon as Mollie hears the flick of the can tab, she comes sprinting. I bend down to pet her soft fur, and she rubs the top of her head against my wrist, wanting more. I scratch her neck for a second. As I empty the contents of the Fancy Feast tin into a glass bowl, she slithers between my legs, her long tail up high. This is obviously her favorite time of day. Her second favorite time of day is at night when we cuddle to watch television or read. I’m her #1 person — the boys are too wild for her, and Brian’s not really a cat person.

  As soon as she dips her head to her food, I head to the laundry room to clean up her cat litter. I do this methodically, quickly. I wash my hands and grab a cloth from the linen closet.

  My daily condo tidy is a dance of sorts. It’s very quick and precise. I follow the same direction, execute the same movements as I restore the order of things. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Yet another ritual of mine.

  The boys have even started following in my footsteps, especially Trevor. I know I’m being obsessive, but I tell myself it’s to help with Tristan’s allergies — not a dust particle in sight.

  I’m thinking about our lunch conversation as I dust the dressers and knick knacks in our master bedroom. There’s a pretty decorative box by the window, a wedding gift, that I like to position a certain way. Brian often turns it around to mess with me. I’ve told him a thousand times not to touch it. But he doesn’t listen of course.

  I don’t know how it happens. My movements are usually so precise. I don’t think I’ve ever dropped anything before, never broken a fragile vase, or knocked a book off a table.

  The picture frame is splayed, its face against the wood floor. I hope the glass is not broken — I can’t quite see. I bend to pick up the pieces. The back stand has popped out, and the picture is also on the floor, its white backing facing me.

  I pick up the photo and turn to see the image of Brian and I on our wedding day. We’ve been living in this antique pearl trimmed silver frame (another wedding gift) for about fifteen years now. It’s one of my favorite photos, and I never plan to replace it.

  When my eyes land back on the floor, I notice another photo, and I’m very confused. When I flip it over, my stomach drops. From confusion, shock, I’m not sure. The picture in my hand is a photo of a young girl. A beautiful young girl. Perhaps sixteen years old or so, not much older than Trevor. I don’t understand.

  Her gaze is intoxicating. Beautiful blue eyes and dark hair. She looks so innocent, and kind of sad. Who is she? I study the photo, both the front and back. It’s just a girl, smiling but not quite. She’s wearing a striped t-shirt. The back of the photo has two faint watermarks scattered across its white backing.

  FUJI FILM

  Fuji Color Crystal Archive Paper

  There are also digitally printed numbers.

  014232 153/169+ ava201785.jpg 153 14232 ava20178

  Her name is Ava.

  My fingers shake and my heart pounds as I pick up the picture frame. Miraculously, the glass is intact. I press the picture of the girl behind our wedding day photo, back to its place, where it’s been quietly hidden for who knows how long. I press the back stand in and tuck in the steel pegs to secure the photos inside. I position the frame exactly as it was.

  I resume my dusting. I have a schedule to adhere to.

  The routine flows since it’s wired in my brain. I could do it in my sleep. I dust the rest of the room, all the while, asking myself a million questions.

  Where did this photo come from? Perhaps it’s always been there. Our good friends Janet and Robert, who hadn’t been able to attend our wedding, gave us the frame years ago. It already held our wedding photo, and it was accompanied by a rather large check. I’ve never opened the frame, never peeked inside. Perhaps this photo has always been there.

  I distinctly remember receiving the gift — the frame was in a plain brown box, no product tag attached. It’s an antique after all — maybe it was a regift. Perhaps they hurriedly grabbed an old frame of theirs and inserted our photo, and forgot to remove the existing picture. Perhaps the photo is a niece of theirs. Come to think of it, she did bare a resemblance to Janet, who is also blue eyed and dark haired.

  I haven’t spoken to Janet, an old colleague of mine, in forever. Not long after our wedding, she and Robert moved away to New York.

  Yes, that’s got to be it, I tell myself. But then, my other voice says. But what if it’s more? What if Ava is a secret? Brian’s secret?

  She is absolutely stunning. She looks like a younger version of myself — fresh-faced, full cheeks, long silky hair. Could Brian have a thing for young girls. Most men do, as much as they wouldn’t want to admit it. Brian loves kids — he’s a high school teacher, and he adores his job.

  God, I feel sick. How old is this girl?

  No it can’t be. You’re obsessing again, Mischa.

  My mind doesn’t care. It’s ruthless that way. It pounds and pounds at me, until I’m beaten, “Who is Ava?” it keeps asking, over and over again, begging to be answered.

  “Who is Ava?”

  Unexpected discovery notwithstanding, my day must go on. I proceed as if nothing has happened, because for all I know, nothing has. This is all in my silly imagination, I’m sure. But just to ease my crazy obsessive mind, I check my address book. I don’t know what to expect when I dial the number Janet gave me years ago when she first moved. I’m happy when I get their voice message.

  “Hi, You’ve reached Robert and Janet, Jordan and Brianna. Please leave a message, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”

  I leave a quick awkward message. I ask her to call me back.

  I check my watch. Fuck. It’s 4:15 PM. I’m off schedule. I should already be reviewing my accounts, and planning for tomorrow. Stupid picture.

  They’re so loud. Every time the three of them get home, it’s mayhem. Brian kisses me on the cheek. “How was your day, sweetie?”

  Sweetie. It’s what he calls me. “Good,” I reply, my mind full of Ava. I just want to wave the p
hoto at him, and shout out, Who the heck is this girl? Who is Ava? Do you have a thing for young girls?

  But I don’t. Of course I don’t. He already thinks I’m crazy, and it embarrasses me, because let’s face it… I am. I’m certifiable. I’m on two different medications. I attend therapy twice a month. And I have been hospitalized, more than once.

  It’s practically a full-time job for me to appear half sane. It’s hard, but I don’t want my kids to know what their mother is really like. My friends know I’m kind of odd, but they have no clue just how messed up I really am. And Brian… he knows, and he loves me regardless. I’m lucky to have someone who is willing to put up with all my quirks.

  Trevor gives me a Trevor Hug, “Hi, Mom.” And Tristan pulls me in for a Tristan Squeeze. The Trevor Hug is quick as a flash, so swift, you barely notice it, and you sometimes have to ask yourself, Did our bodies actually make contact? The Tristan Squeeze, on the other hand, is long and tight, and I feel compelled to say, I’m here, Tristan. I’m not going anywhere. I know you love me, now let me go.

  When Tristan finally releases me, I check him out to make sure he’s not on drugs. I always do this. He’s never given me any reason to obsess — he’s only thirteen, after all. But he does take after his dad, and Brian used to be a stoner and boozer, back in the day. Trevor, on the other hand, is as straight as me.

  “How was piano?” I ask Trevor.

  He pulls out books from his backpack. “The usual.”

  “Allana says he needs to practice more,” Brian tells me.

  Trevor rolls his eyes, and Tristan plops down at the table. “Why do I always have to hang around after school? Why can’t you pick me up?”

  I blow out a breath as I retrieve tonight’s dinner ingredients. “You know, Tristan, that I don’t drive often. Only in emergencies.”

  He sighs. I know what he’s thinking. You’re such a weirdo, Mom.

  I do have my license, but I don’t drive much. I can’t handle it. I’m a nervous wreck. Too much chaos. Too many rules I can’t keep straight. Too many cars. After my third road accident, Brian and I decided that I would only drive in extreme circumstances. Since I work from home, and everything is within walking distance, it’s not too bad. Brian is the one who taxis the boys around, and for that, I’m very thankful.

  “What’s on the menu tonight?” Brian asks me with a pat on the rear. I smile, but then scowl at him. How dare he do that in front of the boys.

  Does he do that to Ava? I shake my head. There is no Ava. Stop obsessing.

  “Lasagna,” I tell him, and turn back to the pantry.

  * * *

  Most people’s first memories date back to when they were about four years old or so. Mine was when I was two. I remember it distinctly. My mother and I were at a kids’ play center. I can recall everything about it: the purple carpet, the border of letters lining the walls, in both block and cursive, the elephant on the wall, the rack of children’s books, the blocks and wooden puzzles, and the worn down instruments; a xylophone, a tambourine, maracas and a small guitar. And most of all, I fondly remember the doll house with its wooden furniture and tiny heavy cloth dolls. I liked them because you could bend their legs easily, sit them on the chairs, and tuck their legs comfortably under the table. I’d always run to the house first thing, and if there happened to be another kid playing, I’d push them out of the way. I had to tidy the house. It was always a mess. I had to make everything right. If not me, then whom?

  My first meltdown took place at the play center. I’m sure it wasn’t my first, only the first one I remember. I was playing with small plastic animals. I had carefully categorized them in groups. African animals in one group: lions, elephants, zebras and the like. Domestic and farm animals in another: pigs, cows, dogs, cats, etcetera. Northern American animals in another: wolves, bears, and the tiny raccoon. Even at the tender age of two, I knew raccoons didn’t live in Africa. I had a final category for the unknowns: the cheetah was in this group.

  I knew a lot about animals. I was obsessed with them and I devoured all my older sister Sacha’s animal books.

  I had them all in perfect order when a small boy, about my age, perhaps a little older, came and picked up a lion. I watched him and his mother intently and scowled because I wanted them to know I wasn’t happy. He played with the lion for a while, making roaring sounds. The mother picked up the cheetah. “You like animals?” she asked.

  I nodded quietly.

  “What about this leopard? You like leopards?”

  I stared at her for a moment, not believing what I was hearing. “It’s not a leopard.”

  My eyes grew wide, and she was speechless for a second. Yes, I spoke well. I’d been speaking since I was ten months old.

  She studied the cheetah more carefully. “Uh… you’re right, little girl. It’s a jaguar.”

  I remember wanting to knock my head against the floor. I just shook it instead.

  “It’s not a jaguar, it’s a cheetah,” I told her in that ‘You are very stupid, lady’ tone.

  “Oh…” She studied it again, and set it back to where I had originally placed it, not daring to touch another animal. “You are a very smart little girl, aren’t you?”

  I was still watching her boy, hoping he’d put back the lion but he walked away with it. My heart pounded at the sight of him stealing the animal. I chased after him. “Give me the lion, please.” I asked politely. When he didn’t oblige, I asked him more sternly. “Give me the lion,” I repeated. When he didn’t, I ripped it out of his hand, and then pushed him for good measure. My mom yelled at me. “Mischa! That’s not nice!”

  The boy got up and headed straight for the animals. Somehow he knew they meant a lot to me, he wasn’t stupid like his mother. He kicked all of them, sent them flying in different directions. I jumped on him and brought him to the floor. I punched his face repeatedly until I was pulled off of him. All I wanted was to retrieve the animals and restore the order, but my mother wouldn’t let go of my arm. She scolded me and gave me a long speech about proper behavior. All the while, the chaos in the room was making me hyperventilate.

  That was the first episode I remember. The first of many.

  3

  I’m watching Modern Family and folding laundry when Brian walks in our master bedroom, all smiles. Unlike most people, I love folding laundry. I find the motion of folding the clothes and towels at perfect angles extremely satisfying. The feel of the fabric in my hands is soothing.

  Brian sits on the floor next to me. He doesn’t help. He just watches intently because he knows how much I love it. He’s fascinated by how precise and pragmatic my folding is.

  He inches closer, and presses his mouth on my shoulder. The heat of his breath warms the fabric of my t-shirt. “You’re the best folder I’ve ever seen,” he teases.

  I laugh. I know exactly what he wants. He always kisses my shoulder or my neck when he wants to get busy. And I always act coy. It’s a little game we play. I think he likes it as much as I do. “But I’m folding laundry.”

  He turns to glance at the clock. “Um… you’re right. It’s 8:57 PM,” he says. “It’s TV and laundry time. Three minutes until free time.”

  I shake my head. Why does he insist on making fun of me? All. The. Damn. Time. I study the impish expression on his face. He knows I’ll forgive him because he’s so damn beautiful, and he knows I want him as much as he wants me. Even after all these years, he’s grown even more attractive to me. His wavy dark hair is just as full as it’s always been. He hasn’t even gone grey yet. Me, on the other hand, need to dye my roots every month. His green eyes are as intoxicating as ever and the few pounds he’s put on these past years only make him sexier.

  I fold the last of the laundry. “I bet all the girls in your classes have crushes on you,” I blurt out, surprising the both of us.

  He’s mildly amused by my comment. “Nah, they probably think I’m an old geezer.”

  “You’re thirty-nine. You’re not exactl
y old.”

  “To teenage girls, I’m ancient.”

  I smile. “Well, not to me… you’re not. You’re still a hot young stud.”

  He grins, and checks the clock again. “It’s nine o’clock on the dot.” He grabs my hand and pulls me to the bed. “Time for me to rock your world, baby.”

  I laugh. “Trevor and Tristan are still awake.”

  “Oh, they’re both holed up in their rooms, with earbuds in, I’m sure.”

  “Go lock the door.”

  He hops off the bed and obliges.

  I’m wearing a plain t-shirt and plaid lounge pants — nothing sexy, but it’s good enough for him. He loves me like this. He goes straight for my stomach, and pulls up my shirt over my breasts. I just happen to not be wearing a bra. He drops soft butterfly kisses just below my navel, and his kisses go straight to my sex. He slides his tongue and swirls it around, like he always does.

  “I think you have a belly button fetish, Mister,” I tease.

  He laughs. “That, I do. And I love yours,” he whispers. “You have the best belly button in the world. Not too big, not too small.”

  I shake my head, thinking that I’ve married a very odd guy.

  He pulls at my lounge pants, and I lift my hips off the bed as he slides his large hand under my ass. He kisses the curve of my hip. “You also have the sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted.”

  Something about his words hit me the wrong way. … I’ve ever tasted. How many pussies has he eaten exactly? We’ve been together since I was in high school. Well, I know he had two girlfriends before me, so I let it go.

  He peels off my panties and pants, and slides them over my calves. “My sweet, sweet girl,” he whispers.

  Sweet, sweet girl. I think of Ava. Her sweet face. Her youthful cheeks. Her long flowing hair.

  “Hey, why don’t you ever wear your sexy outfits for me anymore?” he asks as he moves back north to my breasts. He swirls his tongue around my nipple, teasing. My tits are small, but he loves them all the same.