by Dana Feldman
“Maybe he’s curious about you. Perhaps he was just looking around, getting the lay of the land? You aren’t exactly an open book, Ella.”
This is true. And I’d actually believe this if not for the safe.
“Well, there is one more thing,” I say, deciding to tell him the rest. “I have a safe in my closet. You wouldn’t notice it at first if you just walked in. It’s not too large, and it sits on the floor in the corner. I cover it up with my longer coats and dresses. I just keep money and jewelry, things like that in it,” I say, leaving out the documents from Bob.
No one knows, other than Evelyn and now Peter that Bob gave me such detailed information. As far as my therapist is concerned, I’d simply been told the information about Peter and his two former wives. I’ve kept most of what I found out to myself.
“Go on,” he says. I’ve gotten lost in my thoughts again.
“Well, I went over to check the safe, and it was closed. But it wasn’t locked. I keep trying to tell myself that I must’ve accidentally left it unlocked. But I find that highly doubtful. I always double-check myself that it’s properly closed and locked. I always turn the combination knob to the right and left a few times just to make sure. And besides, no one but me has the combination. It’s memorized, not written down anywhere, so how could he open it?”
“That I can’t answer. Was anything missing?”
“No, I checked and everything was there. He doesn’t need my money or my jewelry. His father left him plenty. He’s fine in that regard. He’s only working to keep himself busy not because he necessarily has to.”
“So, you think that he was snooping around for what exactly?”
“I’m not sure, Dr. Bryer. Maybe he suspects that I’ve kept information from him.”
“You have,” he says. “If that’s the case, could he have found anything?”
“Yes,” I say, struggling, not ready to reveal all my cards. “There are a few documents in the safe. For instance, my marriage license, copies of my passport, things like that. But he knows that I had a husband, and he knows that he’s missing. I even told him his name and there was no reaction. He doesn’t seem to know anything about who his father was, or is.”
“Did he seem upset at all?”
“No. But there is one more thing. I turned on the shower, and then listened by the door. I thought that I heard him come back into my room and go back in my closet to check to see if the safe was locked.”
“Ella, may I be frank?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You’ve admittedly been tired, stressed out. You haven’t been sleeping well. Had you been drinking by chance?”
I nod my head, remembering the wine.
“Do you think that it’s at all possible that you think that you heard him come back into your room? Is it at all possible that you’re incorrect? That perhaps you’d left the safe unlocked accidentally?”
I think about this and realize that the radio had been on. And I had been drinking. I’m starting to wonder if I’m blurring the line between what I think I remember, or let’s be honest, paranoia and reality.
“I suppose that it is possible.”
“Did you end up having dinner together that night?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Did you bring anything up, ask him directly?”
“I was afraid. If I was wrong and I accused him of something it would ruin everything. I keep doubting myself. I’ve been so tired lately. Maybe I did leave the safe unlocked. I don’t know anymore, Dr. Bryer. He was so happy that night, so excited to make this wonderful dinner. He’d gone to the store, picked everything up. It was delicious. Wine and salad, pasta with prawns in this delicious sauce that he made. I didn’t want to ruin the evening. And honestly, we were having so much fun, just talking. Maybe the wine got to me, I don’t know. But I allowed myself to just enjoy the dinner. I wanted to bring it up.”
“Anything happen since that night?”
“Well, he’s been working, and I’ve been so busy myself. The timing just hasn’t been right to bring it up. And I was waiting to see you. I wanted to talk to you first before I said anything. What do you think I should do?”
Just as I ask him I notice that he looks very tired. He has dark circles under his eyes, and it doesn’t look as though he’s shaved for days. I wonder if everything is ok with him. Whenever I’ve tried to ask him about himself, he immediately steers the conversation back to me.
“As long as you feel that you’re not putting yourself into a dangerous position, I believe in the direct, honest approach.”
“You think I should ask him. That’s what I was afraid that you’d say.”
“Why? Why do you want to avoid the truth here?”
“Because I tend to dislike the truth. So far it’s never been what I’ve wanted for it to be.”
“Whatever it ends up being I think that you need to know what it is. Again, I only suggest this if you feel that you’re not going to be putting yourself into a bad situation.”
I think about this. I’m not sure of the answer. At the hospital Jane had warned me that Peter could be verbally unpleasant but that he was a gentle man. I’d never seen any side of him other than his good side. I wonder just how alike his father and he are in that regard.
Gabe was the perfect gentleman for the first year that I knew him. But once I’d seen his ugly side there was never any turning back. Might Peter be the same way?
I suppose that I’ll need to find out sooner or later. Truth is it’s been killing me the past few days. I haven’t been able to get that night off my mind. I need to know what he was doing and why.
CHAPTER TWENTY
TRUTH
I’m in the kitchen making myself a drink when he comes home. I hear him call out to me to see if I’m here.
“Hello, Ella?”
“In here,” I shout, and ask if he wants to join me on the patio for a drink. A few moments later I come out with two drinks. I hand him one, and we click glasses. It’s early evening just before sunset. The sky is painted with its usual splashes of orange, pink and yellow.
“Cheers,” we both say in unison. “I hope you like it,” I add.
“It’s good,” he says, smiling at me over the rim of his glass. “What is it?”
“Vodka, a splash of pineapple juice, some fresh lime and lemon. It’s become my new favorite.”
“I can see why,” he says.
We haven’t spoken much since dinner the other night. I’ve almost been avoiding the topic, not knowing exactly how to approach the subject. Also, the timing hasn’t been good.
We’ve been like passing ships, not home much at the same time. He’s been leaving very early for work before I get up, and I’ve been coming in a bit late in the evenings. There’s a lingering silence.
“I have to ask you a question,” I begin, wondering how to say this without offending him in the off chance that I’m wrong. It’s always possible that I, in fact, left the safe unlocked. I’ve been very tired lately, under a lot of stress. It’s possible. The Tylenol is another story, albeit a much more easily explainable one.
“Ok,” he says. “Anything.”
“The other day when I came home early and you were home, not feeling well,” I say, gauging his reaction. He’s looking at me, revealing nothing, allowing me to finish. “It’s not that I mind if you go in my room or anything, but I’m just curious what you were doing? And please don’t say getting Tylenol because the bottle I had hadn’t been opened.”
“I saw that when I picked it up and didn’t want to open a brand new bottle. But then I saw another almost empty one on the bottom shelf in your medicine cabinet. I’m sorry I took it without asking. I just didn’t want to bother you by calling or texting over something so small. I wanted to replace them and got you another bottle.”
I feel like a real ass as he pulls out a new bottle from his pocket and hands it to me. Now I remember that I did have an older bottle that I left on the shelf righ
t below the new bottle. I thank him as I take the bottle from his extended hand.
“You didn’t have to repay me with an entire new bottle. You only took a few.”
“I know. But I felt bad. Going into your personal space and all.”
And then I think about the safe. I look at him. His eyes betray nothing. He looks perfectly calm and composed. He doesn’t know that I know about the safe. Or at least I think that I know about the safe. I’m still questioning myself on that one.
“That’s fine. About the Tylenol, I mean. Of course, if you need something, you can borrow whatever. I want you to feel at home here. Just ask me first next time, ok?”
“Understood,” he says. “Is there something else?” he asks, looking at me, concern etched on his face.
I pause, deciding if I really want to push it. I could be wrong. Dr. Bryer might be right. I haven’t been sleeping well lately and I’ve been exhausted. I’d also had a full glass of wine and hadn’t eaten much that day. It’s very possible that I had a slight buzz on, that I imagined hearing him come back into my room. But what if I didn’t imagine it?
“Yes, there’s one other thing. Peter, please just be honest with me, ok?”
He nods his head and sits upright, facing me. He takes a long sip of his drink, draining his glass, and sets it down on the table between us.
“I have a safe in my closet,” I start, but stop myself. I can’t read his expression.
“Yes, I saw that,” he says matter-of-factly.
“How did you know the combination to open it?” I ask directly, no more games.
“I guessed,” he answers, looking me in the eyes. I’m not afraid of him. He doesn’t seem angry or dangerous. He seems a lot like me right now. Curious. Tired of being lied to. Wanting to know the truth.
“You guessed? How?”
“Well, it took a few tries, but I got it right, when I put in the date of your wedding anniversary with my father.”
And then it’s out there, set free into the world. The truth. That we’ve both lied to one another, that we’re both at fault, that neither of us wants to get up and leave right now. That we’re in this together. I’m not alone anymore.
We stare at one another, both of us waiting for the other to say something, to break the awkwardness that silence often brings. Questions swirl in my head about Peter. Can I trust this man who so easily lied to me? Will he ever be able to trust me after I did the same? Is it Gabe that brings out the darkness in me or was I drawn to him because we carry the same blackness inside of us? And is Peter cut from the same cloth as his father? I may never know the answers or perhaps time will be kind and reveal them to me.
“How long have you known?”
“For a while now. I was waiting for you to say something, but you never did.”
“I was told when you were in the hospital that you weren’t in a place in your life to handle much stress. I wasn’t sure what, if anything, you knew and every time that I wanted to say something, I just couldn’t. I didn’t know where to begin and then the lie of omission just sort of took over. You seemed so happy here with me.”
“I am happy here with you. I suppose that we both kept secrets from one another so we’re even as they say.”
“Why didn’t you just ask me?”
“I figured that you had your reasons for keeping things from me. And I’ve been dealing with a lot since I got back. PTSD is no joke. I figured that you would tell me when you were ready.”
“Understood. And, out of curiosity, you said that you’ve known about your father for a while now. How did you find out?”
“The Internet, of course. It’s an amazing thing. No one can hide anymore. Not even my father.”
“Ok, so from this point forward, no more lies. No more secrets.”
“Deal,” he says, extending his hand.
“Deal,” I reply, extending mine.
Neither of us brings up anything related to his father’s days as a hit man. Not knowing if he has any information on that part of his father’s life, I keep my mouth closed. The last thing that I would ever want to do is jeopardize Evelyn’s job. I know that she tells me a lot more than she probably should.
“So, we’re good then?” he asks, looking at me with kind eyes.
“Yes,” I say, “we’re good.”
As much as I want to fully trust him, I just can’t. I’ve always been this way. Life has taught me to always keep some things to myself. I’ve never been one to show anyone all my cards, not even Gabe. I came very close with him, but something always nagged at me not to tell him everything. I’m having that same feeling now.
I’ll go with my gut on this one. It’s never led me astray. When I listen to it, that is.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
INTO CATEGORIES
Dr. Bryer is staring at me. His gaze is even more intense than normal. As I sit down and make myself comfortable, I wonder what he plans to discuss in the session today. Whatever it is, it’s a fair bet that I won’t like it.
“Ella, there is a particular topic that you’ve refused to address with me. I am hoping that today we might be able to push through a few barriers. I want this session to be about trust.”
I sit there looking him in the eyes and hold my ground. I straighten my posture, alluding to him that I know where this is headed, and I will not be bullied into talking about that.
“I think that you know where I’m going with this. Look, there’s simply no avoiding it. We need to talk about your childhood to better understand your life today.”
At first I say nothing. For many years the traumas that I faced in my early years were tucked very neatly into a crevice in my brain that was closed off. A hidden place, even from me, I kept those memories there and left them to rot and disintegrate. Only they didn’t ever fully leave me. Flashes of things would come to me at the most awkward of times, while I was in the grocery store buying peanut butter, for instance, or at the drycleaners picking up my clothes.
They were few and far between at one point in time. And then they became an almost battering of my senses. There was nowhere for me to hide from them. Alcohol, drugs, men, whatever I tried to use to distract myself never shielded me. These temporary distractions would only increase my vulnerabilities and weaknesses to these memories, leaving me even more exposed and raw.
“Why?” I ask, hoping to spend the duration of the session challenging him.
“Because the things that we experience in our early years, these events, shape our lives. They do not need to define us or determine how our lives will turn out; but they do shape the way we deal with things in our present lives, the way in which we process and handle various situations.”
“And what does my childhood have to do with my current situation? My childhood could hardly have prepared me for the future disappearance of my husband.”
“Well, had you had a normal childhood, whatever that is, or at least a stable upbringing, you might not have married Gabe. Or at the very least, when he first became abusive you might have left. Sooner, you might have left sooner.”
“I might have done a lot of things but that’s not the point.”
“It is actually,” he says, determined to make me face my past.
“How so? I’m here, in this mess right now. How will going through all of this help me exactly to get out of it?”
“You need to understand the things you do, the decisions you make. You cannot fully do this unless you deal with the things that have happened to you.”
“You have the records. You already know what happened. Why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m not doing anything to you. I’m doing this for you.”
“I really don’t see how it’ll help,” I further argue.
“How about if we make a deal? We discuss this today, and we never have to again. Unless you ever want to, that is.”
I think about this for a few minutes. I always knew the day was going to come, the day I’d be forced to talk about t
his shit. If there is ever a trial it can all be used against me, to paint me as some sort of an abused psychopath. There’s no getting away from any of it.
“Fine,” I say, surrendering, hoping that this will go quickly. I take the hourglass figurine off his desk and turn it over.
“But you don’t get the full hour. I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”
He nods his head in agreement, and I brace myself. At least this will get me out of discussing Peter. After last night, I’ve decided not to share with Dr. Bryer everything that I learned from Peter. I have to draw the line somewhere, and no one person has ever gotten to know all of me, or my secrets.
Into categories: I have always allocated the people in my life into them, no one ever fully knowing everything. This has worked out quite well for me.
“Tell me about your parents,” he begins.
“Why? You have everything right there!” I exclaim, pointing to the thick file sitting on his lap. I recognize the mint green folder. This is a copy of my records from the state.
“I want you to tell me, in your own words,” he says, his hand tapping the top of the cardboard folder.
“You have fourteen minutes left. I suggest that you skip the bullshit and ask me what you really want to know.”
“Ok. Your parents abandoned you when you were just a few weeks old. At a police station in downtown Los Angeles.”
He waits for me to say something. I instead look to the red sand as it funnels down into the bottom glass bulb.
“You then spent the first eighteen years of your life in foster care. I believe that I counted eleven different homes.”
“These are not questions. You’re just reiterating the facts as I already know them.”
“I want to know what your childhood was like, Ella. I want, in your words, for you to tell me what this was like for you.”
“I was never molested or beaten, if that’s what you’re getting at.”