The Things We Don't See

by Jessi Brazzell

  The THINGS WE DON’T SEE

  Jessi Brazzell

  Wasted Time

  Unthinkable Fate

  False Accusations

  The Truth Will Set You Free

  Shoulder to Cry On

  Hard Evidence

  Fruits of Life

  Resting Place

  All Eyes on You

  Up in Flames

  Shattered Pieces

  Moving On

  Reunions

  Deadly Suspicions

  Somber Truths

  Memorials and Realizations

  A Single Red Rose

  Determination

  Trial and Error

  Take a Stand

  Long Way Home

  She watches me sometimes. The way I watch her. There is a longing in her eyes, and I know that it is for me. She doesn’t know it, but she will. One day. She looks like an angel on that white sofa, she always does. I want to go to her, to show her what we have together, but I know the time isn’t right. Not yet. She sees me, but not like I see her. We are two people living in the same world, only leading completely different lives.

  Even from here, I can see her curls framing her soft face like a halo. Always perfect hair. The kind of hair you want to reach out and touch but you don’t for the fear that it would frighten her. I think about it a lot, just feeling the softness of it against my fingertips. What would she do? What would she do if I just touched her one time?

  We have shared this deep connection, the kind so powerful it can exist through our eyes alone. And tonight, it is her eyes that make my heart ache. They are saddened. She is sad. Her life isn’t what it should be, not what she deserves. I could give her so much more, and I will. I will do anything for her, anything, because that is how much I love her.

  Chapter One

  Chloe

  I pictured living in this waterfront mansion on Narragansett Bay to be the perfect life. I would sit under the stars, watching the moon dance across the water below me. My mornings would begin walking along the coast, watching the sailboats as they left the marina and feeling completely peaceful with the man I love. I imagined a happy life here. But life is contrary in the way that it seems to always give you the exact opposite of what you hope for.

  I stare numbly at the empty bottle of chardonnay lying next to me on the overpriced Persian rug before looking around the rest of the room. My only reaction is to smirk, disgusted, at the pathetic attempt at a home. This is not a home, it is nothing more than a screaming desperation of two people who are completely and utterly distasteful. Four walls enclosing lavish décor that fails miserably at masking the less than ideal life.

  I miss the simplicity, the appreciation for things in life that matter. I cannot even place it anymore. It is nothing more than a faint memory to me. Now I have been reduced to hugging my knees to my chest on a leather sofa, not even a couch, as I sit and watch the clock hands endlessly circle around reminding me that another day has been wasted.

  When I was younger, I always dreamt of a husband who would eagerly greet me as he came in the door. Smiling even. But I don’t have that now, actually I never did. That is just another thing I have lost over the years; the hope of love being something more than a convenience. Four years of marriage and this is what I have become. The lonely trophy wife who drinks away her misery while her successful husband works another late night at the office.

  Four years of marriage and my husband is a complete stranger to me. Years of an extravagant lifestyle with an endless spending account, and I hate it.

  I remember when I fell in love with him but I just do not remember why anymore. I was working my second job as a waitress in an upscale wine bar when I caught his eye. After struggling to pay off college and working two jobs just to pay rent, a man in a tailored suit who looked at me as someone more than just a waitress was to say the least, flattering. I watched him as he studied me across the room and I felt nervous simply because his social status was screaming loudly at me. I could see the watch wrapped around his wrist that cost more than my seven-year-old car. His silk tie hung perfectly nestled in his three-piece suit and his posture was definitely that of a successful business man.

  I had finally peeled away my eyes from him and turned to walk the glasses back to the bar when he stood from his table and made his way to me. I remember anxiously watching as his confidence exuded in every stride he took. His polished shoes caught the light from above and his strong jaw line clenched as he closed in on the space between us. I could feel myself blushing from his next to perfect facial features and I quickly turned away, a natural defense of mine no doubt thanks to my childhood, or lack thereof.

  “Excuse me…”

  I slowly turned back. My breath caught at the sight of his bright green eyes smiling down at me and I shyly looked to the floor. The gold watch hugging his wrist raised closer to my face and he gently took my chin in his hand to bring my eyes back to him. “What is your name?”

  “Chloe.”

  Looking back on it now, I realize that charm was sorely mistaken for his annoying smugness and arrogance. But I was younger then and something about his confidence was attractive to me. Something about his attraction to me was almost intoxicating. He made me feel like I was something more. He made me feel desirable in a way I hadn’t felt before and he made me feel worthy.

  But that was then. Now, five and half years later, he has managed to make me feel completely useless. The year we dated, before he proposed, was incredible… well comparatively anyway. He dazzled me with a lifestyle I would have never thought possible. He gave me things I could have only dreamed of before. But when we married, those things became just that; things. I went from feeling loved to feeling like a possession. Like a trophy that is becoming dusty on the shelf because it is old news. I am now nothing more than an arm piece he likes to show off at his business functions.

  I didn’t marry him for his money, although now I even question that myself. I sometimes think that maybe I was that kind of woman back then. Maybe I did only see the money in him and the things he could offer me. But if it were true, I didn’t admit it then. Now, it doesn’t even matter what my reasons for marrying him were, they were misguided nonetheless.

  At twenty-seven years old, I feel like I have wasted my entire life. I feel trapped in a loveless marriage. I feel these things because they are true.

  I look out over our pool and pull my wine glass to my lips in another desperate attempt at washing away my reality. Of course, it is empty. I roll my eyes and stand to walk to the kitchen, a path that will soon be worn across the floor. Looking at our wine selection, a smile finally finds its way to my face. If nothing else, at least I can always count on expensive chardonnay and the comfort of my silk pajamas.

  ‘Happy 30th Birthday Carson’ catches my eye and I look down to the cake on the counter. I numbly push the trash can lid open and slide the cake off to replace it with my second bottle of wine. What does it matter anyway? It’s not like I baked him the cake.

  Ready to pour myself another glass, I realize it is pointless to try and put on a show with no audience. It isn’t like I need to convince myself that moderation is something of importance to me at this point in my life. So, I sit the glass in the sink and walk back to the sofa with only the bottle and look to the clock on the wall to see it is now past two in the morning. I chuckle thinking of how stupid I am for putting up with this. I grab the remote to light the fireplace in front of me (God forbid we actually have a normal fireplace that requires any actual effort) and close my eyes to think of what my life has become.

  The sun blankets me in a brightness that the pounding in my head does not appreciate. Maybe I should be ashamed that I passed out drun
k on the sofa, but I am not. I hope that Carson hates it. I hope that it bothers him to see me sprawled out in a drunken state because I have become so unhappy being married to him that I have to search for a release at the bottom of a bottle. Ideally, he would have whisked me away to the bed when he saw me. He would have tucked me safely in between the sheets and held me in his arms while I slept off the effects of my lush evening. But that would be ideal. And Carson is no Prince Charming and sure as hell isn’t ideal.

  I grab the two empty bottles of chardonnay like they are trophies to some unspoken argument that Carson and I had, that I won, and carry them to the kitchen. I watch them sink into the wasted cake and think of how I should have ordered him a cheese tray instead. At least that would have gone with my wine indulgence. But even though my life is filled with heavy regrets, this morning’s most urgent regret is that I have drank all the chardonnay. There is no way I am going to make it through Carson’s birthday dinner tonight without that liquid comfort.

  The bed is untouched and the clothes basket is empty in the bathroom. No towel. If nothing else, Carson Damichi is a presentable man. He would never go a day without showering and sure as hell wouldn’t wear the same suit two days in the same calendar month, let alone two days in a row. The earth would fall off its axis if someone ever thought Carson couldn’t afford a diverse wardrobe.

  My hand shakes trying to dial his number. Not because I am worried about where he is, and not even because I am mad that the son of a bitch didn’t come home. But because the two bottles of wine still linger with me and I haven’t eaten anything to soak it up. I know Carson wouldn’t worry if I didn’t come home, honestly, he probably wouldn’t even notice. No answer.

  I hung up the phone feeling bitter about what my husband would choose to do on a Sunday morning. He is not “husband of the year” or anything. If I am being honest, he isn’t remarkable enough for any title that doesn’t involve a few choice words, but him not coming home or calling is a first.

  I am a realist. I know that his late nights at the office do not always include business. Which is another thing I have grown to hate about my life. I am the woman who turns a blind eye to her unfaithful husband because she just cannot find the energy to even argue it. Or maybe I just do not even care anymore. Most likely it is the ladder. Either way, he wouldn’t sacrifice hygiene for any flavor of the week so I reluctantly pull out the phone book and dial different hospitals, a silly attempt of giving him the benefit of the doubt. I am not surprised when there haven’t been any accidents involving him and the phone book lands against the kitchen table with a loud thud that echoes in the vaulted ceilings.

  I wish I could come up with a reason why I stay. Before, I always thought it would pass, that the distance between us was only temporary, a casualty of marriage. But now, I know that it isn’t. I know that this is going to be my life but what I don’t know is why I accept that.

  The water pours down around me while my imagination runs wild with the possibilities of what new pastimes my husband has taken on. We bought this house because we could start a family here, but truthfully, I fell in love with it for this shower. Eight feet by eight feet of heated tile and an overhead waterfall was enough to sell me. We made love in this shower once, the week we had moved in, before we had really started growing apart. But even then, when we were the closest we have ever been to being in love, he didn’t look me in the eyes. He never did. I wonder if he looks his office sluts in the eyes when he is fucking them.

  I could chalk it up to him having attachment issues, but that isn’t it. Carson is perfectly capable of love, he just doesn’t love me. Not like he should anyway.

  I hurry to get dressed and skip the makeup routine when I see the time. Two in the afternoon and I cannot miss my chance at getting more wine. Thank God Rhode Island isn’t one of those dry states that prohibit alcohol sales on Sunday. I don’t know how those unfortunate people survive without constant access to what I believe to be a necessary vice.

  The garage door opens and I feel a wave of cool air against my skin. I can almost smell the salt from the ocean water lingering in the breeze and I stand for a few moments to appreciate it before falling into my Cadillac. I had driven an old Honda before Carson and I got married. The exhaust was loud, the kind of car that drew sympathetic and sometimes judgmental glances from a mile away, but it got me where I needed to go. It was the first thing Carson disposed of after the vows. I am not complaining necessarily. I do love this Cadillac with the fancy features that I still don’t fully understand, but it would have been nice to have fallen in love with someone who didn’t feel like he needed to mold me into this person he wanted me to be. I was happy with my loud Honda and a simplistic lifestyle. He wasn’t.

  On the way to the market, I drive past the office to see Carson’s silver Lexus parked out front. “Bastard,” I mutter, thinking of what a shitty husband he was for forgetting things like coming home, and you know, having a wife. But, I didn’t go storming into his office telling him what a cheating piece of shit I thought he was. He would kill me if I ever showed my face in there without looking like a damn Kardashian.

  I am lusting over tubs of ice cream (rocky road, butter pecan, cookie dough, and especially the cordial cherry) that I would never eat, attempting to burn as much time as possible to avoid sitting in my dreadful home, when my phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Chloe, do we need to bring anything for dinner?” Mila asks.

  “No, I am in the store now. Thank you.”

  Mila is my best friend. She is married to Brian, Carson’s business partner and best friend. I knew that if anyone would understand my frustration at my suspicions of a cheating husband, it would be Mila. She and I are the same in many ways. Both of our husbands devote their time to their jobs more than their wives and we are both in wait for them to come home. Always living by their schedules without asking any questions. But I didn’t mention it to her. I wasn’t in any mood for gossiping on the phone in the middle of the frozen food aisle.

  She hasn’t always been my only friend. I used to have a social life. I used to be happy. But it is true what they say about marriage. It really is more of an end than a beginning. When I was in college I roomed with my two best friends, Macy and Joy. We would keep our noses in our books throughout the week and when the weekend hit we held on to no responsibilities. We partied like we had no cares in the world, and we didn’t really. Life was simple back then. Life was fun. Joy was the wild one. Macy and I would have to babysit her most of the time although we were rarely in any state to actually be counted on for safekeeping. Saturday and Sunday mornings usually began with us having to kick some drunken senior out of her room. So, it really wasn’t any surprise when she ended up pregnant and dropping out her sophomore year. Macy and I graduated together and she moved back home while I stayed in Rhode Island and struggled to keep the apartment.

  Even before I had met Carson, life had seemed to get in the way of keeping up with friendships and eventually our bonds became restricted to random emails with vague conversations. They both stood with me at my wedding but I haven’t seen either of them since the reception. Joy is a stay at home mom and Macy has a successful career as a financial advisor in Washington. Maybe that is one of the reasons I don’t reach out to them so much; I am embarrassed to admit that I am nothing more than a fixture on my husband’s shelf of collectibles. But I don’t worry about feeling that way around Mila, because she is just as pathetic as me.

  Carson’s car is still parked at the office on my way back home and I know that there are no clients there on a Sunday. I curse him under my breath in an attempt to make myself feel better about his disgusting two timing philandering but it really is a wasted effort. Not completely unsatisfying though.

  All 5,500 spare feet of our house echo with silence, causing me to hate it that much more. I would prefer a home that didn’t highlight its emptiness the way this one does. But I would prefer a lot of things over my current situatio
n.

  My closet is lined with all designer clothes hanging perfectly grouped by color and the walls cubby hundreds of pairs of heels, which I find very wasteful. No one could really tell the difference between the black Gucci heels and the black Armani heels, but even if they could, what does it really prove? I take in a deep breath, fighting the urge to resentfully throw them all into the floor. I settle on a black dress that borders the line of an escort’s attire and a pair of red Prada heels that Carson insisted I have. I guess Prada makes a statement he finds important. Materialistic doesn’t even begin to describe my husband.

  I look in the mirror while I paint my face to a level Carson would approve of and watch my blue eyes stare blankly back at me. I would almost swear to it that the blue in my eyes is darker than it used to be. I used to get complimented on my bright, sparkling eyes daily. A compliment that used to seem so exaggerated because I never noticed that there really was a specific brightness to them. Now, they just look sad and dull. That sparkle is gone. My husband didn’t come home last night. My husband has been doing God knows what with God knows who and here I am like some puppet. Dressing myself up just the way he likes, like I am some doll tailored to his approval.

  “Mrs. Damichi?” Rosalie calls out and I hear the front door close behind her.

  I sigh walking away from the mirror, imagining that every time I step away from that vanity I leave a piece of myself in the reflection. Unrealistic, yes, but it’s better to feel like I know where are all the pieces of me are instead of accepting that they are just simply gone.

  In the kitchen, Rosalie is laying out tonight’s dinner ingredients and I cannot help but find the humor in not even being able to cook for my own husband. I can’t live up to every one of his standards, but at least I can look shiny for him.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Damichi?” she asks and I hurry to hide the contempt from my face.