I rush to her crib and pick her up. She's blue and limp.
“Oh God.” It's either a prayer or a plea, but I'm not certain which one.
I immediately start patting her back, moving her arms and legs in a frantic effort to stimulate response, and then begin to perform infant CPR. Adrian rushes into the room, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, and I tell him to call 911.
Arabella begins breathing again. She coughs, then immediately vomits. I hug her to me, tears of relief pouring from my eyes, uncaring about the mess. She roots around for my breast, and I pull it out to begin nursing her. Her little eyes are red-rimmed and watery as she stares up at me. Her fingers and lips have a slight tinge of blue. I don't know if it's okay to nurse her after that, but it's the only comfort I know how to provide.
“I love you, baby girl,” I say over and over. “Mommy's here, my Sunshine.” She clings to my shirt with her chubby fist, unwilling to let go. After I clean her face, I carefully switch her to some comfy pajamas, then kiss her plump cheeks, breathing in the sweet, milky baby scent that calms my worry. She'll be okay. Nothing can remove my little piece heaven from this earth.
Paramedics arrive fifteen minutes later and perform a quick check. They recommend we take her to the hospital for a more thorough check, so I ride with Arabella in the ambulance, while Adrian follows in his car. On the way, her heart stops. The paramedics work on her until we reach the hospital, and then the staff take over.
Time appears to slow as Adrian and I wait. My husband is oddly unemotional, but holds me as I weep. What feels like 500 years later, a doctor walks up to us, apology written on his face. I hear the words, “we did everything we could,” and then I collapse to the ground, shrieking and wailing.
“Please take me instead, please take me instead,” I beg, as if the doctor has the authority to determine who lives and dies.
Adrian pulls me away from where I am crouched near the doctor’s feet, and holds me tightly in his arms. I can't bear this. There is no humanly possible way to survive from a wound that has torn out your entire heart.
11
IN ONE MOMENT, I'M convinced there is no power in the world that can come between me and my baby, and in the next, I helplessly watch a tiny casket being lowered into the cold dirt. My soul resides in that hollow space. All the oxygen on the planet has been sucked away, and I don't know how to breathe without it. My entire existence has been focused on keeping that little body warm, fed, and happy. I truly don't know what I did with my time before I became a mother, and everything else seems meaningless.
Even though my world has ended, the Earth somehow continues to spin, the sun continues to rise, and the moon changes its face every night. Months pass, but I can't find beauty in the color and gentle descent of fall leaves, because how can the death of something so magnificent seem beautiful? All I can do is love her memory, and pray that I'll never forget her smile, her smell, or the sound of her cooing baby voice.
We were told that Arabella had a congenital heart defect known as Tetralogy of Fallot. It's one of those conditions that isn't typically discovered unless a heart ultrasound is performed, but we'd never had reason for one. When the autopsy specialist examined her heart, he explained that the connections between her heart and lungs were tiny and threadlike. Even if we had discovered the condition and performed open heart surgery, it may not have saved her, and she likely would have needed several more surgeries, if she even survived the first one. I feel somewhat comforted, knowing she was able to slip away peacefully, rather than dying after several traumatic surgeries.
I sink into a dark hole, filled with bone-deep emptiness and waking dreams of a tiny face I'll never kiss again. Adrian copes by working twelve hour days, six days a week, and on his day off, he stays closed up in his office doing God knows what. Our marriage has gotten very strained from this, and instead of drawing closer to one another, we drift further apart.
One day, when I'm in bed crying—as usual—he slips under the sheets with me and holds me gently. I've been starved of human contact and love, so I soak in his nearness. It's unusual for him to show me affection outside of sexual advancement.
Eventually, he speaks. “I know it doesn't seem like it, but this hurts me too. I feel what you feel, I just don't know how to show it.”
It's the closest he's ever come to admitting there is something not typical about the way he handles things. I'm grateful for this admission, and I cling tightly to the comfort it gives me. Many marriages don't survive the death of a child, but maybe ours can.
My delusions live in hope, and if there is one thing I've learned about suffering, it's that hope is the one factor lying between victory and defeat. This journey called life is a twisted and sometimes torturous road, but there can be so much joy along the way. I vow to search for that joy, and to bask in every moment of happiness within my grasp.
At the end of the year, I make plans to visit my dad's family in Hope, British Columbia for the New Year. I crave simplicity, and they cling to the aboriginal ways of their ancestors. The plan is to connect to the earth and rejuvenate my soul. But when I ask Adrian for his credit card to buy plane tickets, he refuses, saying that my place is here at home.
I've become completely dependent on him financially, and too late do I realize the mistake that's been. I didn't finish college because our first year of marriage consisted of vacation after vacation, so I never enrolled again. And now, he'd be financially responsible for my schooling, something I know he'll refuse.
I am compelled to establish some sort of financial independence, and sometimes I browse job ads to see what my options are in the area.
I've finished cleaning up after dinner, and am curled up on a green velvet chaise lounge beside the fireplace with a glass of wine. I'm engrossed in a story about a time traveler. Reading has always been my way of escaping; a means of living lives outside of mine. This diversion keeps me sane and inspires me to dream. Something shatters against the fireplace, and I look up, wide eyed.
Adrian stands casually in the doorway, arms loose at his sides, but there's something about his stance that gives me pause. His eyes are calculating, but calm, like a predator. A tingle of unease travels down my spine.
“I take it you want a new one?” I ask, glancing at the now-broken iPad on the floor.
“Why is it, that when I check the history on your iPad, I see job searches?”
“The real question is why you're checking my history. What I search for is my business.” I redirect my attention to my book, hoping he's not in a mood to fight.
He steps into the library and stands in front of me. “Let's get one thing clear, Tula. Everything you do is my business. Those clothes, that ring, the iPad, your stupid book—“
Oh no he did not just insult my book.
“Stop with the money already, Adrian! I'm sick of you thinking you own me because you do your job of being a husband and providing for me.”
“That's where you're utterly wrong, Tula. I do own you.” He starts to undo his belt.
“If you even think about hitting me, I will call the police.”
He laughs and begins walking toward me. “And tell them what? That your husband wanted to have sex with you? That's no crime.”
My eyebrows raise. “I don't want to have sex with you right now.”
“It's not about what you want. Understand that now. Your role as my wife is to give me what I want, when I want it.”
This man is losing his mind, right before my eyes.
“We have sex every single day, Adrian, so don't act like you're not getting it enough.”
I turn the page of my book and focus my attention on the words, but my thoughts are racing. Is he serious right now? Would he really force himself on me? What would I do? All I know is that I need to put a stop to this behavior before it gets worse.
He grabs my ankles and pulls me toward him, then reaches for the button on my pants. I drop my book and push his hands away, but his expressi
on is one of determined focus.
“Stop.” I draw my knees up and roll to the side, but he grabs my shoulder and forces me to my back again. “Stop,” I repeat, but it's like I'm talking to a deaf person.
He uses his weight to pin my legs down, then pulls my pants and underwear off. I push him away, and I keep closing my legs, but he's stronger. I can't believe this is happening right now. My husband is trying to rape me. Finally, I do the only thing I have left in defending myself. I hit him, an open handed slap to his face. It's hard enough that his head jerks to the side, but when turns his face back to me, he is grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Just remember,” he says. “You hit me first.” He brings his hand up and backhands me across my cheek. I've never been hit by anyone before. Starbursts appear in my vision, a rushing sound fills my ears, and my eyes blur with tears.
My husband has me pinned down, he's using one arm to hold my hands in place above my head, and the other hand is holding my thigh, forcing my legs to spread open as he slams himself into me. Consensual sex isn't painful, unless the man is being overly rough. But this . . . it's invasive, painful, and humiliating. There is only one way to describe what is being done to me. This is rape.
I'm not strong enough to fight back. I can't protect myself. Tears stream from my eyes, and I turn my face to the side, trying to hide the evidence of my emotional response. Somehow I think that if I don't let him see that he's hurting me, this won't be real. I can't even begin to process what he is doing. He has taken an act of love, and has turned it into an act of power. There is no moving forward from this. Our relationship can never go back to a place of love after my husband has raped me.
* * *
WHEN ADRIAN COMES HOME from work the next day, I'm ready for him, but not the way he wants me to be. I'm still in yoga pants and a T-shirt, without any makeup on my face. In an additional act of defiance, I haven't made dinner. That'll show him.
He sweeps in the doorway, with an enormous bouquet of roses in one hand, and a wrapped box tucked under his elbow. I hate roses. They smell like a funeral, and I've attended too many of those in my twenty-three years of life. In his other hand, he's holding a carry-out bag from our favorite restaurant in town.
“Surprise,” he says with a sheepish grin.
After he fishes out a vase from under the sink, he puts the roses in, then sets the wrapped box down in front of me. I flinch slightly when he kisses my cheek.
“I'm sorry about breaking your iPad yesterday. I got you the newest one to make up for it.”
I am dumbfounded. I couldn't care less about the iPad. The only thing that will make up for yesterday is if there is a penis guillotine inside that box.
“Adrian, I don't want a gift. We need to talk.”
He walks away, opens the cabinet, and gets some plates out. Once he has piled food from the bag onto both plates, he sets them down on the table. He sits down, but then jumps up quickly. “Can't forget your favorite wine,” he says, and rushes to grab a bottle from the wine storage fridge.
I think I'm in shock, because this is the first time in almost five years of marriage he has served me anything. My angry, but well-thought-out tirade slowly begins to fizzle out and evaporate.
Adrian sets a glass of red in front of me, then kisses my cheek again before seating himself at the table. I hold back the urge to shudder.
“I love you so much,” he says. “Last night was amazing. I never thought role play could be that fun.” He winks as he sits down.
I stare at him, open-mouthed. Has he lost his damn mind? Role play?
“Adrian, you . . . I . . . I think we're remembering things differently,” I say carefully, then clear my throat as I gather my courage. “You forced yourself on me.”
He narrows his eyes as his gaze searches mine. “Tula, why would you say something like that?”
“You slapped me!” I sputter.
“I thought that was what you wanted, some roughness. Why are you imagining that last night wasn't consensual?” He pushes away from the table, stands, and begins pacing.
I remain silent, waiting for him to sort out his thoughts, and hoping for an apology, which will give us a better chance at a fresh start. His fist slams against the frame of our sliding glass doors, and then he quietly stares off into the distance.
He shakes his head, and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, before turning to me, his face completely calm and composed. “I was so afraid of this happening,” he mutters to himself, then begins to speak soothingly. “Look, babe. Last time we visited your mom, her doctor warned me that your mom’s condition might be genetic, and that trauma can trigger it. And I don't think there is anything more traumatic than losing a child.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. This is so messed up. It's like emotional blackmail. How do I respond to this? Adrian moves behind me and squeezes my shoulders.
“Let's wipe the slate clean, but any more incidences where you start imagining stuff, I'm going to have to speak to the doctor about it. She'd want to put you on meds, I'd imagine.”
I nod my head silently, lift my fork, and begin eating.
12
TRUE TO FORM, MY imagination starts to run wild after this. Or so Adrian would like me to believe. The sexual abuse increases in frequency over the next few weeks, and a depraved, sick side of my husband's personality emerges. When I struggle or try to fight what he does to me, the more enjoyment he finds. If I'm crying by the end, there is a twisted sense of satisfaction in his eyes.
I'm not sure what triggered this change in him. Has he always been this way and I've just been blind?
I'm trapped. I'm afraid to reach out to anyone for help. I read stories online about women getting the cops involved, but the police don't press charges, and if they do it's only considered a misdemeanor. I can't chance that. There is no protection aside from a piece of paper stating he can't come near you. I'm not sure what I'd do with that, besides light it on fire and throw it at him.
One day, after enduring a particularly cruel night fueled by his sick fetishes, I stand in front of the mirror examining my body. Dark circles fill the spaces under my eyes, and bruises color my arms from how tightly he was holding me in place. He had woken me from a dead sleep and held a knife to my to my throat, threatening to use the weapon if I didn't stop fighting. He knew he'd need something as menacing as that to hold me in place. There is a red line on my neck where he pressed in too hard, because what he did hurt too badly to stay silent through.
As I stand there, I think about exploring ways to kill him using an herb or drug that will be untraceable, but I don't allow myself to run an internet search on it. I want a divorce, but I know he would never grant one to me. Instead, I need to find proof of something that can ruin him, and in that I'll have better grounds to stand on. I'm not above blackmail, especially if it's my only hope.
His home office is almost always locked, so I haven't been able to search through there. We both have white iPhones, so I include a case exactly like his in my bulk order of vitamins from the internet. I just need to get a peek at his home screen and lock screen so I can change mine to look exactly like his.
I refuse to bring another child into a marriage this twisted, so I plan on getting the contraceptive implant, which will keep me covered for the next three years. I schedule my annual appointment for a day I'm going to visit my mom. Adrian hasn't stopped my visits with her yet, but I'm sure it's coming. I haven't gone to see her the past month, simply because I've been hiding from the eyes of the world. My shame must be written on my forehead, and I'm certain people will be able to see my humiliation just by looking at me.
* * *
I LEAVE MY CAR at the doctor’s office, and walk the half mile to the facility where my mom is living. My arm is tender where the contraceptive was inserted. On the way, I stop at a coffee shop for a cup of chai. Spring is almost here, but the breeze is quite chill. As I walk, I breathe in the fresh, crisp air, enjoying a moment of freedom.
<
br /> All at once, thoughts of him fill me. I've done my damnedest to not think of him, but it's as if I've been sucked back five years in time, and I'm the silly girl in love with her best friend. The memories are so vivid and so heart rending, that I stop walking and lean against a building with my eyes closed. I smile as I soak in the past. I allow myself to remember and to feel it all again, without guilt. My life has been a hurricane, but he was the eye of the storm. For a moment in time, he was my clarity and my peace.
I open my eyes, returning to my sad reality, and begin walking again. It's messed up how we're expected to make some of life's biggest decisions when we're least capable of making wise ones. And then we're fated to bear the sins of our youth for the rest of our lives.
My phone buzzes and I look down to see a text from Solei.
Hey stranger! Why have you dropped off the face of the earth?? You gonna be in the city today?
I pause. I've wanted to tell Solei about Adrian's abuse. She knows about the thing he did the day Arabella died, but not about the rape and continued sexual abuse. I know her. She'd be super practical about the whole thing. We'd go to the police, get a lawyer, reveal my documented injuries. I'm not ready for that. Not until I have evidence against him to secure my safety long after I'm out of his life.
Not today. Hopefully next week.
After I respond, I put my phone on silent and slip it into my purse. Glass doors slide open, and I walk into the tiled entryway of the care home my mom is staying in. She is treated well here, and for that alone, I believe my sacrifice has been worth it.
“Good morning, Mrs. Valentine,” the receptionist sings out. The woman is in a constant state of happiness. I can't help but smile at her as I sign in.
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