Ugly

by Margaret McHeyzer

  As the water runs I go into our bedroom and strip, and as I finish the ping of a text message comes through.

  Line it with cardboard. When the other shoe gets a hole, I’ll find the money to buy you another pair of shoes.

  He wants me to walk to work tomorrow – and it’s bound to rain – with a hole in my shoes. I reply with:

  It’s going to rain tomorrow. My feet will be soaked by the time I get to work.

  Virtually instantly he says:

  Then you best take an extra pair of socks with you. No is no. I’m turning my phone off now. Don’t bother me again.

  I put the phone down, and take myself to the only comfort I have. I sink into the bath and let the warm water embrace me. Relaxing into the bath I begin to wonder about so many things. Here I am twenty-five years old, and I have no identity. I don’t know who I am, or even what I’m supposed to be doing. I have no love. No love for life, or Trent, or even myself. Is this God’s way of proving to me I’m worthless?

  I keep mulling over the day’s events. They are like a cyclonic storm whirling all around me, as I stand in the eye of it and watch life drag me further under the constant, heartless doom that haunts me. Is my destiny only to exist and never live? What kind of legacy can a girl who never was, leave behind? Never was pretty, never was smart, never was anything?

  I never was meant to live. This isn't a question. This I know absolutely.

  What’s the point of breathing?

  I cut five cardboard strips that will fit into my shoe. This way I have spares in case the heavens open up and my foot becomes drenched. I’ve also packed an extra pair of socks so if my feet become saturated, I won’t end up catching a cold.

  Trent will be even angrier if I get sick and can’t go to work. I have some vacation I can take, but I know he wants me to save that for when he’s sick and needs looking after. Me getting sick isn’t an option.

  The walk to work takes me just over forty-five minutes, and when I get there, I change the strip in the bottom of my shoe and my socks. I still have half an hour before I’m due to start and I do something I’ve never done before. I get the courage to go to the Bank of America, where my pay is direct-deposited, and see if we have the funds to withdraw fifty dollars to buy a pair of shoes.

  The moisture that got into my shoe from the walk to work has caused my foot to rub on the inside of my shoe and has given me a blister on my little toe. I’ll risk the wrath Trent is surely going to explode into once he learns I’ve taken money out of the account, because I need a new pair of shoes. I’ll go in on my break, and see if I can buy something appropriate I can wear to work, and everywhere else.

  I have to be mindful not to be greedy and spend too much money, because Trent says I can’t frivolously spend. If he does get angry at me, I’ll tell him I’ll walk to work for two weeks, which covers the fifty dollars I’ll withdraw for the shoes.

  I take the little ID I do have and walk down to the bank. Waiting second in line, I get called quickly to the teller.

  “Hi, I’d like to withdraw fifty dollars please. I have my account number, and here’s my ID,” I say sliding over what I have.

  She types in the number I give her and she chats with me about how busy her Thanksgiving was, and did I have a nice time. I lie, of course, and put up the exterior everyone expects. “Did you say you wanted to withdraw fifty thousand? Because that will take me some time to get organized,” she says with a gentle smile.

  “Fifty thousand?” I ask. “Goodness, I wish there was that much in there.” I smile.

  She peers at me from on top of her glasses which are perched on the tip of her nose and she tilts her head to the side. “There’s more than that, Mrs. Hackly. Here you go. This is your account balance.” She swings the computer screen around so I can see the balance, and there’s in excess of eighty thousand dollars in the account.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I think you’re showing me someone else’s account,” I swiftly say, blocking my eyes so I’m not intruding on anyone’s personal information.

  “No, it’s yours,” she happily confirms.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp and look around me in the bank. Suddenly I feel like everyone in the bank is looking at me. Watching me to see what I’m going to do. “I’ll just withdraw fifty dollars. No wait, make it fifty-five please.” I’m not walking home, now I have bus money too.

  She gives me the fifty-five dollars and I ask for two copies of proof of what’s in the bank. I’ll keep one in my drawer at work, in a sealed envelope because it’ll be my own secret proof I’ve actually got money. At one point in my life I, Lily Hackly, who used to eat half rotten fruit and bury the foul part before her dad found out, now have been able to amass over eighty thousand dollars, all thanks to Trent’s precise budgeting. I know that half this money is his because we’re married, but I’m also smart enough to know that money has been from all the years I’ve been working, because Trent’s never really had a job until now, his first year residency.

  For the first time in my life, I skip, just like a child, to one of the small shoe stores and search for shoes to the value of fifty dollars. When I find a pair which look nice and fit me, I nervously, but excitedly hand over the fifty dollars. I’ve never spent so much money on myself. Trent bought the last pair of shoes and they cost forty dollars, he absolutely cringed handing over his card to pay for them saying I had to look after them because he didn’t have the money to buy any more for me.

  The rest of my shift at work I keep peeking at the slip that proudly displays all our money. Now I know why Trent keeps such a tight rein on our finances. I truly understand. He’s building a better future for us. The smile on my face is having a positive effect on everyone I’m coming in contact with today.

  “You’re happy,” Dale, my supervisor, says when I walk past him.

  “I am,” I cheerfully answer. “It’s a great day.”

  “So it seems, Lily. Keep up the great mood and while I’m at it, keep up the great job you’re doing on the floor, too.”

  His words of appreciation make me smile even broader and I now also have the best and most carefree happiness chirping away inside me.

  My shift ends, and I catch the bus home. The entire way I keep smiling at the shoes I bought, stealing small looks to admire and appreciate them. I want to shout to all the people on the bus how I bought these shoes with my very own money. This seems like nothing to most people and I’m sure, they all have more than one pair of shoes. But to me, I’ve never in my life bought something with my very own money. Not something so insignificant, though completely important as shoes.

  The bus trip ends, and I walk, with my new shoes, to the apartment. I go in, and get to work preparing Trent’s absolute favorite dinner. I want to show him my appreciation for everything he’s been doing for us. Because now I understand just why he’s been so controlling with our finances, I know why he’s always saying I need to work more and we can’t afford to buy me new clothes and shoes.

  Once dinner is in the oven, I go into the bathroom and have a quick shower, washing my hair and scrubbing myself. I quickly dry off, and style my hair exactly the way Trent’s told me he likes it. Given, it’s been a long time since he told me he liked it a certain way, but I remember when he’d run his hands through my hair and say he liked it left out. I cover the bruise on my cheek with cover-up, just like I did this morning before I got to work, and when I got to work. The bruise isn’t big, but I didn’t want anyone to ask either.

  I dress in a tight, black dress Trent bought me at a yard sale, and I look myself over in the mirror. I can’t wait until he’s home. I’m going to lavish him with kisses and anything else he wants.

  Checking the time, I know Trent will be home soon, he hasn’t messaged me to tell me he’s not coming home, and I haven’t talked to him since he dropped me off yesterday. I flutter around the apartment, cleaning and making sure everything is put away and in its place. I fluff the odd mismatched cushions on the sofa, and tidy
up all of Trent’s clothes. I hang his suit jacket up and smooth it down, ensuring it falls nicely on the hanger. Trent has said it’s important he have nice clothes because being a doctor means you need to present yourself in the best possible manner. And whenever I’ve had to see the doctor, he’s always dressed nicely, so I agree with Trent. Trent said the only way to make an impression is if he bought the nicest suit, which turned out to be Armani. And really, he’s so right about impressions.

  The timer to the oven beeps, and I glide, still on cloud nine, over to the oven and check dinner. It’s almost ready and should be done by the time Trent comes through the door. I dress the table with the prettiest table cloth I have, and I have time to cut love hearts out of a page from my journal. I cut out a few love hearts, and scatter them on the table near Trent’s position at the head of the table.

  I can’t wait until he gets home.

  Just as I finish putting the scissors away, back in the third drawer in the kitchen, I hear the key go into the lock. I fly across the room, the biggest and warmest smile for my husband, to welcome him home.

  The door opens, and I jump into Trent’s arms, peppering kisses all over his face. “Get off me,” he says as he pushes me away. “Jesus, Lily, I just got home, give me a few minutes to wind down.” He drops his bag beside the door and walks in, taking his tie off. He’s not in the clothes from yesterday, but that’s understandable, because he told me he keeps clothes at the hospital in case he needs to sleep there.

  “Sorry, Trent,” I say as I pick up the tie he dropped on the floor.

  “Get me a drink.”

  I go over and get his whisky, preparing it exactly how he likes it. Two fingers of whisky and three ice cubes. When I turn around, he’s sitting at his usual spot at the table looking at the love hearts. “Here you go,” I cheerfully hand him his drink.

  Trent picks up one of the hearts, looks at it, frowns and tosses it aside. “What’s this shit?” he asks, as he pointedly looks toward the hearts.

  “I’m just really happy,” I answer as I try and move toward him to sit on his lap.

  “What’s got you finally behaving like a damn wife should instead of acting like a bitch?”

  “You. I’m just so happy, and now I understand what you go through. I just want to make you happy, that’s all.” I bend to take dinner out of the oven. “Dinner’s done, I’ll just serve yours up.”

  “What I go through? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well…” I start saying. “Don’t be mad, but I went and bought a pair of shoes today.”

  “You did what?” he slams the glass on the table and it makes me jump back, dropping the knife in my hand onto the tray of food I’ve prepared.

  “I had to, but I’ll walk to work for the next two weeks to pay for the money I took from the bank for the shoes,” I say as quickly as I can in one breath.

  “You what? You went to the bank?” He stands with so much force and anger, his chair falls backward on the floor, and his thighs move the table forward. “You went to the damn bank?” he asks again.

  His tone scares me, my body temperature drops to what feels like freezing and every hair on my body trembles with fear. “I got new shoes.” I point to my new shoes, resting just inside the family room.

  His eyes widen and he tightens his jaw. His nostrils are flaring and his lips snarl at me. “Go get them,” he eventually mutters through his closed jaw.

  I go into the family room and pick the shoes up, bringing them over to Trent. I extend my arm and hold the shoes out to him. “Here you go,” I whisper.

  The look on his face is filled with so much anger. “Get the scissors,” he instructs in the same low, grim voice.

  I walk over to the drawer and get the scissors and walk back to him. “Here.”

  He shakes his head at me. I’m not sure what he’s saying, and he’s not actually verbalizing it. I look down at the scissors, then back to him. I count in my head, because I’m still so unsure of what he wants. The tension in the room rises, the knot in my stomach is desperately tying itself tighter and tighter again. My throat begins to constrict and I’m having difficulty trying to breathe.

  “Cut them up,” he says looking between the shoes and the scissors.

  My heart breaks into tiny pieces as I realize the severity of his words. “What?” I whisper. “But they’re new, and I don’t have other shoes.”

  He takes a step toward me, and I counter by taking one away. Trent pushes me with both hands, with much force I stumble back into the fridge. The door handle jabs me in the back. “Cut them up,” he repeats in the same deadly, low monotone.

  “But I’ll walk to work for two weeks to pay them off. I don’t want to cut them.”

  He grabs a fistful of the hair on top of my head and slams my head back into the door of the freezer. “Cut them!” He screams no more than a hair’s breadth from my face. Spittle flies out of his mouth, and lands on my face.

  “But…” Smash. He hits my head once again against the door.

  “This will teach you to meddle in my business. It’s my money, not yours, you no-good piece of trash.” Tears are rolling down my face, my head is splitting from where he’s slammed it against the hard fridge door. “That money is mine, not yours.”

  “But I’ve been working for it,” I stupidly challenge. I realize belatedly I should have kept my mouth shut.

  “It’s mine you stupid piece of shit. Mine, not yours. I control it, I control everything. And I control you.” He lets go of my head, and punches me over and over again. Some of them land on my face, and when I try to shield myself with my arms, he punches my stomach. “You bitch!” he roars.

  “Help!” I yell. But the apartment next to us has been vacant for some time, and it’s still early so most people wouldn’t be home yet from work.

  “Shut up!” Bang. I keep crying and trying to scream. “I said shut the fuck up.” Punch.

  Please God, please let me die. He stops hitting me and I try to blink through the hot tears to see what’s happening. But the beating doesn’t stop. He wraps his hands around my throat and begins to squeeze.

  “You stupid bitch, you make me so angry. You shouldn’t have gone to the bank. It’s all your fault.”

  As I struggle to breathe, my eyes try to focus on the last thing I’ll ever see.

  But all that’s in front of me is Satan. His eyes are wide and blood-shot from the burning hate that must be pulsating through his body. His face is red from his intense fury, and his hands have a death grip around my throat.

  And now I understand my fate and I know my future. You can try to change the devil, but he’ll always remain evil.

  “Kill me, please,” I beg.

  I close my eyes and give my life over to the beast.

  “You can’t be in here, Max. She’s resting.”

  “B-but how can she r-rest wh-when there’s p-p-people coming in and out? Sh-she-she n-needs a pr-pri-private room.”

  “You know we don’t have the room.”

  “I-I-I d-don’t c-c-care,” Max angrily responds. “I-I’ll p-pay for it. P-p-put her in a pr-private r-room.”

  “Max, you can’t do that.”

  “It’s m-my m-money. I-I’ll do wh-what I w-want.”

  Sleep.

  “Mommy, Mommy, can Wiwi and me go pway in the back yard?”

  “Wade, you need to have a bath. Daddy will be home soon, and it’s getting dark. No playing outside, you need to go get your pajamas ready. Off you go.” Mommy taps Wade on the bottom and turns to look at me. “You too, missy. Go get ready for a bath.”

  I stand and just look at Mommy. She’s so pretty. She has the brightest eyes I’ve ever seen in my whole life. Her hair is just like running honey. You know when you drip honey from high above and watch it as it falls on the bread? That’s what Mommy’s hair looks like. Her smile is always so bright. I love Mommy so much.

  Why can I hear people but I can’t respond? I’ve heard the nurses talking about me like
I’m not here. Is this heaven? Am I dead? Did Trent kill me? Am I waiting to open my eyes and see God in front of me?

  “I’m sorry, Lily,” Trent says. His hand takes mine, and he squeezes it. “I don’t know what came over me,” he whispers. I try to open my eyes, but they’re so heavy. “Please, babe, wake up. Please don’t die.”

  I’m struggling against the suction of whatever this is keeping me buried and under a heavy veil. I can hear everyone, but I seem to drop off and drift into dreams. Or maybe memories, I don’t know. I don’t ever remember happiness, so they’re more than likely dreams. But I like these dreams, they make me happy. They let me forget all about what I’ve been through, the tests I’ve been thrown into, the situations I’ve had to endure.

  “Lily, I swear I’ll change. I’ll stop the cheating. I’ll be a good husband. I’ll never hit you again, or do anything bad. Please, babe, please wake up.”

  I’m sucked back into a beautiful dream. I’m in a field of tall wildflowers that sway slightly from the warm breeze gently caressing my sun-kissed skin. I’m skipping through the flowers, and skimming the palm of my hand along the top of the blossoms. The sun is beaming down on me, her happy rays engulfing me in her warmth. Pointing my face up toward the sky, I let her embrace me. It feels natural and raw, like a mother’s kiss on the nose when you stumble and scrape your knee.

  “I kn-know what he d-does to you, L-Lily.” A sense of calm blankets me as I feel the warmth of a hand over mine. “It’s n-not r-right,” he pauses, then adds, “Wh-what he does. N-no m-man should r-raise his hand to a w-woman. He n-needs help. I-I knew when I saw y-you in the hospital, I c-could tell he h-hurts you.”

  I want to scream at Max to stop, to tell him I don’t want to hear what he has to say, but I can’t open my mouth, I can’t find my voice.