Unbearable (The Port Fare Series)

by Sherry Gammon

  “I’m getting it cut tonight, right, Lilah?” I stepped out of her reach. “Now, seriously, why are you here?”

  “I told you, I need a letter of reference.” She stomped her foot. “And stop rolling your eyes and hear me out.” I signaled for her to continue. Why not? I enjoyed watching a train wreck as much as the next guy.

  “You know how great I am with fashion, like, ya know, with clothes, purses, shoes, right?”

  I nodded. “Yes, my bank account and I remember your obsession with spending my money.”

  “Bookie, please,” she complained, her teeth clenched. I waved her on. “There’s a prestigious fashion house in New York City accepting four apprentices, and I need you to write and tell them I’m a good risk. With my criminal record and all it’s been difficult. Like you said, the crimes were against you so I’m hoping if they see you’ve forgiven me, maybe it will help persuade them.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “You’ve forgiven me, right?”

  Now I felt like a jerk. No, I hadn’t forgiven her. She used me. She never loved me, ever, yet I did love her, very much. “Let me have the paper.”

  “Thank you, Bookie. I knew I could count on you.” She attempted to hug me. I angled coyly to the side and stepped closer to Tess. “I see your email address is on the form. When I’m done, I’ll have Tess shoot you an email and let you know when you can pick it up.”

  “You can drop it off at my mom’s. I’m staying there temporarily,” she said, walking out the door.

  “I’ll have Tess email you,” I reiterated. Nik was horrible, but her mother . . . I shivered. I wrapped my hand around Tess’ elbow. “We should be getting back to work. It’s looking wonderful in here, Lilah.”

  “Thanks, Bookie. See you at dinner tonight.” Lilah’s chuckle could be heard all the way to the elevator.

  “That was nice of you,” Tess said as the elevator doors creaked closed.

  “Don’t put me on a pedestal, Tess. If Nik’s in New York City that means she won’t be hanging around here bothering me.” Tess hid her grin behind her hand as I pressed the seven. I hated when she hid her smile.

  Chapter 15

  Tess

  Nearly five years ago

  Our new home, courtesy of reelected Senator Graft, stood in the middle of nowhere. It took an hour and a half each way to get to and from school using public transportation. I’d always used the bus system before because we could only afford one car, but being so far from school meant more than double the commuting time. Thankfully, I’d graduate soon.

  Despite Graft’s win, Garen didn’t get the cabinet seat as promised. He was livid. Up until then he’d controlled his temper fairly well even though he’d only completed three sessions with an anger management counselor before quitting. He quietly redid the household chores that hadn’t measured up to his standards, with only a twitch of his jaw. Once I heard him muttering about what a disappointment I turned out to be, and he should’ve married up the social ladder and not scraped the bottom. It hurt to hear, despite the fact that I’d be leaving him soon.

  After the election his temper escalated daily, and he began shoving me around, even slapping me once. He stayed out later and later, not coming home some days until the early morning hours. We hadn’t slept together in weeks. Thursday while doing the laundry, my suspicions were confirmed. I found a hotel receipt in his pocket from the Hansford Inn, in town. He’d told me he had a weekend conference in Houston. I sank to the floor, stunned and raw. I told myself it didn’t matter, I was leaving him, but the betrayal stung nevertheless.

  Later that evening, I made the mistake of confronting him. “You’re asking me if I’m having an affair? Tell me, Terese, where do you go every other afternoon from five to six thirty? Don’t you impose your guilt onto me when you’re the one who’s been unfaithful.”

  “I’m taking a yoga class in town. Remember, you said my butt was getting saggy,” I explained, exasperated that he’d turned this back on me. “How did you know, anyway?”

  “I have my ways. I knew you couldn’t possibly be taking care of this place. I’ve had to redo the towels daily. And we won’t discuss the mess you call a pantry.” He jabbed a finger at me. “If I stay away it’s your fault for making this place a nightmare to come home to.” He pushed past, shoving me roughly aside. I stumbled to the floor, smacking my elbow.

  He made love to me that night, if that’s what you want to call it. It was cold, sterile, and harsh. After he finished, he crawled off and headed for the shower to “wash your stink off of me,” he muttered. He seldom touched me after that, and for that I was grateful. Our “bedroom time,” as Garen called it, had never been stellar.

  A couple months later, I finally graduated. Instead of taking some time to celebrate, Garen had me running errands for him in Dallas. Having not eaten all morning, I felt queasy, and decided to splurge and stopped at Greens for a quick lunch, braving Garen’s wrath. I’d call it a graduation gift to myself if he complained. While waiting to be seated, I discovered Garen sitting in the back of the restaurant, kissing a thin blonde girl. Unlike the time I discovered the hotel receipt, this time I felt nothing. I just didn’t care anymore. I took my salad to go and ate it on the bus ride home. With any luck, they’d check into the Hansford Inn, and I’ve the house to myself for the night.

  The new phone Garen bought me was a joke. It seldom worked and had to be constantly repaired. That meant I hardly ever got to speak to my family. Whenever I did, Garen was right there listening. I felt cut off, isolated. With my father in chemotherapy, my parents couldn’t make it to my graduation. I was heartbroken. I really needed to see them.

  To my surprise, for my graduation gift Garen said I could fly home next Christmas. That helped take the sting out of not having them there for the ceremony, even if Christmas was still months away. Part of me wondered if the only reason Garen offered was so that he and his mistress didn’t have to hide, but again, I just didn’t care.

  My plan now was to work until then, saving all my money, and then once I got to California, I’d file for divorce. I’d have enough money to stand on my own and not burden my parents. My sister shared with me during one of our brief conversations that my dad had to take out a second mortgage on their home to pay for his cancer treatments.

  It sickened me to know I’d failed at my marriage, having rarely failed at anything, but I didn’t know what else to do. My self-worth lay at my feet in a crumbled mess. I second-guessed everything I did to the point that I’d gotten my one and only “C” the last semester in my dance theory class. I knew the material inside and out, yet still choked on the test, doubting even the simplest of questions. For the first time in my life I felt myself falling into a depression. I wanted to sleep all the time, nausea and fear were my constant companions, so much so I was an emotional basket case, crying over every little thing. But never in front of Garen. I desperately needed to find a job and break free.

  I didn’t mention any of the job interviews I went on to him. I didn’t want to endure his ridicule if I wasn’t hired. But somehow, he always seemed to know as if he were having me followed.

  Today I’d spent the day filling out applications at several of the local dance studios downtown. A last ditch effort before trying the dreaded fast food chains. Whatever it took to escape Garen.

  The local dance school advertised for a new instructor and I jumped at the chance. I dreamt of teaching dance to children, and hoped someday to own my own studio. In all, twenty-three people vied for one position. The school’s owner arranged for auditions at the Marriot hotel in downtown Dallas since their studio had classes all day. When we arrived, they taught us all a dance routine. We then had to dance it back for them. The interview process was brutal. I felt both exhilarated and nauseous, but I pushed my way through it, pleased with how well I’d done.

  Afterwards, a few of us stopped at Mike’s Pub and got sodas to celebrate—diet, of course. Not one of us dared gain an ounce, a big no-no in dance. I went home and
waited for the call offering me the position, but it never came. Heartbroken, I dreaded the thought of Garen coming home more than usual. The last thing I wanted was to walk on eggshells because he’d had yet another bad day. Rumors of illegal use of campaign funds trickled into the news of late, threatening Senator Graft’s seat. He took out his frustration on Garen, who, of course, took his frustration out on me.

  He arrived home an hour early in a full rage. He shoved his briefcase in his usual spot, went to the bathroom and washed his hands. I heard the pantry door open and knew he was checking the towels to make sure. He stormed out of the bathroom, still not having said a word to me.

  “How was work today?” I went to the fridge and removed the salad I’d made earlier and added some fresh tomatoes, Garen’s favorite.

  “Graft got caught dipping into campaign funds, and he made me the scapegoat.” He sank into a kitchen chair.

  “Scapegoat?” My body tensed. This was not going to be a good night.

  “He claimed I mishandled the funds and suspended me for a month, without pay.” He scrubbed his jaw and shoved his hand through his hair. “He can’t fire me outright because I’ve information that could be damaging to him if anyone found out. The suspension is his way of giving the press a bone, but in truth, it’s a warning to me not to mess with him.” Garen slammed his fist onto the table. “I won’t be treated like this, Terese. He’s going to be sorry he did this to me.”

  “I’m sorry, Garen. You’ve worked hard for him. You deserve to be treated better.” I did my best to soothe him, strictly out of fear, not compassion.

  “That’s exactly right!” He slammed his fist even harder on the table, rattling his much beloved salt and pepper shakers. He had a fetish with salt and pepper shakers, spending months trying to find the perfect set. They either poured too quickly or not quickly enough. When he’d found those, he was like a kid in a candy store.

  “Graft has messed up my Life Plan. I’ll have to lay low until the press moves on to another scandal. Do you know how hard it’s going to be to get a job in DC now?” He stood and shoved his chair under the table. “I was supposed to be working for a federal senator by next summer. No more messing around with some rinky dink state senators. I was moving on to the big boys, where the real power is.” His eyes met mine, his nostrils flaring as he grounded his teeth. “You’re as much to blame as Graft for messing up my Life Plan. You and your selfish refusal to move to a place with snow. ‘I hate the cold, Garen. I refuse to live anywhere that has snow’,” he mocked me. The conversation didn’t go down like that in the least. I bit my tongue as my anger surged.

  “I’m so—”

  “What’s his name?” Garen planted his knuckles on the table as he leaned across toward me.

  “Whose name?” I asked cautiously, spinning the bowl of salad in my hands.

  “Don’t play games with me, Terese. You’ve been all over town today. The Marriot downtown, Mike’s Pub.”

  How did he know where I’d been? His eyes scrutinized me as he waited for my answer. “You’re following me. How dare you, when you’re the one having an affair. I saw you at Greens the other day kissing a blond.” Outraged, I slammed the bowl down on the table, knocking his precious saltshaker onto the floor, shattering the glass. My stomach sank.

  His eyes burned with anger as he paced slowly toward me. His glare going back and forth between the broken shaker and me. I backed away. My first instinct was to run, only we had no neighbors. I wondered if that was why Garen insisted that we move here; no one would hear my cries for help.

  My body trembled, and I sent up a silent prayer begging for protection from what I knew in my heart was going to be bad.

  He flew into a rage, slamming me into the wall. I slid to the floor as lights flashed behind my eyes and my head pulsated. Dampness ran down my hair. Blood. He’d split my head open.

  He grabbed my shirt and dragged me to the ruined shaker, rubbing my nose into the scattered grains of salt and glass on the floor.

  “Garen, please stop! I remember where we got those. I’ll get you another set tomorrow.” Blood droplets splattered onto the floor. My head now bled heavily.

  “I’m on suspension, Terese, without pay. Where do you think the money’s going to come from to cover your clumsiness?” he shouted in my ear.

  “I had a job interview today with one of the dance studios. I’ll buy a new shaker with my first paycheck.” I tried pulling away, but Garen held my face to the floor.

  “A job interview for a dance studio in a hotel? I don’t think so. I know you’re meeting your lover, Terese. I’m not a fool. Tell me, do you lay there like a mannequin for him, too?” He grabbed my arm and dragged me in the living room, ripping my t-shirt off me and pushing me down.

  “Garen, stop. I’m not having an affair. I swear!” I wrapped my arms instinctively around me as I scooted backward on the hardwood floor.

  “What about the other place, Terese? Mike’s Pub? Tell me, why were you there?” He grabbed my pants around the ankles and with a couple hard shakes, jerked them off me.

  “Garen, you know I can’t drink alcohol. It makes me sick. Please, stop and think.” I scooted to the couch, having nowhere else to go. Shaking so badly now, I had to wedge my tongue between my teeth to keep them from chattering. “I swear I’m not having an affair. Garen, get control of yourself!”

  His eyes flashed red. “If I’m out of control, it’s your fault, you whore.” He pulled his shirt off and his trousers, tossing them onto the floor, a first for him. His actions reminded me of a wild man, someone completely out of control. “Well, now you’re going to get what you deserve.”

  The rape was quick. He was rough, insulting me, slapping me, clawing at my skin the entire time. When he was done, he spit in my face and immediately went to shower. I lay on the floor, shocked and humiliated.

  After he finished, he dragged me into the shower, demanding I wash off the other man’s filth. When I stepped out of the shower ten minutes later, he grabbed my wet hair, his fingers thumping against the cut on the back of my head from earlier. I flinched.

  He tossed me on the bed, and pressed his face to mine as I lay shivering on top of the blankets. “You’re mine, do you understand me? No man can ever touch you but me, do I make myself clear?”

  “I swear I wasn’t—”

  This time, instead of a backhand across my face, came an all-out punch to the head, not once but three times. Thankfully, I passed out.

  When I woke, I was cuffed to the bed and Garen was raping me again. He continued all night. Punching, violating, insulting me. “You worthless piece of trash.” “Selfish, evil woman.” “Vile sick whore.” Over and over. I stopped defending myself, crying silent tears as he violated me in ways I didn’t know were possible. I felt filthy, nauseous, empty.

  The next morning, after he showered, he dragged me into the bathroom. “Clean yourself up.”

  Sitting on the shower floor, cold water pelting my skin, I cried, my knees to my chest and arms around them, rocking back and forth, unaware of how much time passed. I didn’t budge until the shower curtain flew open and he dragged me back to the bed, naked and wet. This time he only cuffed one hand to the bed. He shoved a tray of food at me, leftover salad from the dinner we never ate last night, and a cup of peppermint tea. The smell of food made me sick and I turned my head.

  “Eat.” Garen thrust my face into the food. I fought back the bile in my throat and forced down half of the salad, and all of the bitter tea. He removed the tray and I lay back on the bed, sick and dizzy.

  He came back, this time cuffing both my hands to the bed. I thought he was going to rape me. Instead, he put on his suit. “Have some things I have to do. I’ll be back before dinner.”

  “You’re going to leave me cuffed to the bed until dinner?”

  “Don’t want you calling your boyfriend over, Terese.” He readjusted his tie, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “What if the house catches on fire
? I won’t be able to get out.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I swallowed hard, hoping I hadn’t planted an idea in his wicked mind.

  He shrugged. “Guess you’d better hope it doesn’t.” He turned to me, laughing as a yawn escaped my lips. “Besides, with as much Ambien as I put in your tea, you’ll sleep through a fire.”

  “You drugged me?”

  “Sure did. How else am I supposed to keep track of my tramp of a wife?” He turned and strolled out of the bedroom, leaving me naked and cold on the bed without a blanket.

  I lay shivering, my mind floating in and out of reality before the pills took completely over.

  I don’t know how long I lay there, but it was dark when he came home. The assault started once more, violating me over and over. I didn’t fight him to avoid being punched. Sometime during the ordeal, he shoved me into the shower, and when I came out forced me to eat and drink more drug-laden food. Then it began all over again. Thankfully, I passed out.

  Days turned into nights, and into days again. A thick fog held my mind because of all the drugs. I remember being uncuffed at one point and forced to walk, or at least try to walk, around the house while Garen followed me, acting as if he were worried about my state of mind. “Terese, are you alright? What’s wrong?” I brushed it off as delusions from the drugs, but to be honest, I just didn’t care anymore. I wanted him to kill me, to be done with it all.

  I woke up to sunlight slipping through the slats of the blinds in our bedroom. I was alone, but could tell from the sound of the birds chirping it was morning. Of what day, I had no idea. Though still drowsy, my mind had cleared significantly. I twisted around to the alarm clock on the nightstand. It read seven-oh-three. I lay listening to the birds, wondering how long I’d be left in peace before my sick pervert of a husband came in, starting the nightmare all over. Tears slipped down my face, running through my matted hair, soaking my pillow. How much more would I have to take before I died? I drifted off to sleep, waking to a loud slam of the bedroom door sometime later.