What's Left of Me

by Kristen Granata

  She shakes her head. “Been a Cali girl my whole life. I’ve always wanted to see the snow.”

  “You should go in January then. Most of the tourists leave after the holidays.”

  “Paul has no interest in traveling to New York.”

  I arch an eyebrow, the words burning my tongue in defiance as they fight to escape. “So that means you can’t go?”

  She laughs, dropping her chin, trying to mask the sadness flooding her eyes.

  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

  I search the yard to find Paul playing cornhole with some of the other husbands.

  I don’t know him. But he makes more money than he knows what to do with. Entitled. And I’d bet he doesn’t appreciate any of it. People like him aren’t taught how to. They take and they take, and once they have it all, they start taking the things that don’t even belong to them.

  Greedy.

  “So why was my question tough to answer?” Callie asks. “You never finished.”

  I shift in my seat, polishing off my beer before setting the bottle into the grass. “I miss the New York I used to know. Before ... before everything happened.”

  She hugs her knees to her chest, almost like she’s bracing herself for my answer. “What happened?”

  I scrub my hands over my face, as if to physically wipe away the horrific images that assault me every time I ask myself that question.

  What happened?

  I destroyed everything.

  Had everything I’d ever wanted, and I doused it with gasoline, lit a match, and torched it.

  Burned my life to the ground.

  I didn’t mean to, my conscience screams.

  Doesn’t fucking matter, though, does it?

  Doesn’t change the outcome.

  Resentment and hatred grate my teeth. “You think spouting a few lines about the things you’re grateful for can minimize your problems, that the good in your life outweighs the bad. And maybe it does. Maybe your troubles aren’t that big. Or maybe you’re just fooling yourself. But I don’t have anything to recite. No tangible item could possibly make me feel better about what I’ve lost.”

  Callie’s eyes glisten as she takes in what I’ve said, but she doesn’t look hurt. She doesn’t seem offended that I just called her out on her bullshit therapy exercise.

  No, it’s worse than that.

  The things I see etched on her face are a sucker-punch to my gut.

  Understanding.

  Recognition.

  Grief.

  Loss.

  This woman knows darkness, and she knows it well. More than she lets on.

  And fuck if I don’t have the overwhelming urge to wrap her in my arms and bear the weight of her pain.

  Scoop her up and take her away from this place.

  Beat the fuck out of anyone who’s tried to hurt her.

  “Cal, you ready to watch the fireworks?” Paul struts halfway across the lawn, too lazy to walk the rest of the way to come get his wife.

  Callie squeezes her eyes shut, a fleeting moment so she can collect herself. Then she plasters on a smile and hoists herself up.

  “Ready!”

  Something claws at my insides as I watch her slip her hand inside her husband’s. Something possessive and jealous.

  Both of which I have no right to feel.

  “Everything okay, brother?”

  My head snaps up to Josie, who’s looking from Callie to me like she can see the thoughts swarming my mind.

  I push off my knees to stand. It’s time to go.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she says.

  “No. You don’t.”

  “You forget how well I know you, Cole.”

  “You know the person I used to be.” I walk backwards toward the pool house. “And that man is lying at the bottom of a grave back in New York.”

  Seven

  Callie

  “Jeff and Brenda seemed nice yesterday.”

  I lift a shoulder and let it fall. “Sure.”

  Paul sets his water bottle on the island. “You didn’t like them?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  He smirks. “I know you, Cal. It’s written all over your face.”

  “They weren’t not nice.” I wave my spatula in the air. “They just went on and on about how great it is to have a nanny because they don’t want to take care of their own child.”

  “Ah.” Paul nods. “That’s why you don’t like them.”

  I twist the knob to shut the burner off and toss the last pancake onto the plate. “Again, I never said I didn’t like them.”

  “They need a nanny. Brenda owns a boutique down in Newport Beach.”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course she does.”

  Paul chuckles. “I’m just saying, it’s not like she’s a stay-at-home mom with a nanny.”

  “You’re right.” I walk around the island and take the stool next to him. “It’s nice that she gets to do something. Get out of the house.”

  A heavy sigh leaves his lips as he places his fork onto the marble. “Back to this?”

  “I just figured we could discuss it now that we’re not ...” I let my sentence trail off.

  “Now that we’re not having children,” he finishes.

  I nod. “Can’t the discussion be back on the table?”

  “You don’t need to work, Callie. Jeff doesn’t make half the money I’m bringing home. Brenda works because they need another income to sustain the kind of lifestyle that we’re all living here.”

  He laces our fingers together. “What will people think if they see you getting a job?”

  “I don’t care about what people think. It isn’t about them.” I swivel to face him head-on. “This is about what I want, Paul.”

  His brows collapse around pensive eyes.

  This topic hasn’t been broached since we’d started trying to conceive years ago. We put it on the back-burner because I had such a difficult time getting pregnant, and I’d wanted to put all my energy into that. Miscarriage after miscarriage proved that it didn’t matter how much energy I put in, though.

  You can’t make something happen if it’s not meant to happen.

  “If I’m not meant to be a mother, I at least want to be something.” I squeeze Paul’s hand. “I want to feel like I have a purpose in life.”

  He leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. “You do have a purpose in life. You’re my wife. Isn’t that enough for you?”

  “I ... that isn’t ...”

  I struggle to find the words. Maybe there isn’t a way to describe how I feel. Words can only take you so far.

  Paul is a man. He’s never been told that he doesn’t have to work. He’s been bred to work. It’s expected of him.

  And I’m expected to stay home.

  I’m expected to feel fulfilled as a wife and nothing more.

  I’m expected to feel satisfied by the success of my husband.

  Yet I don’t.

  And I’m afraid to tell Paul the truth.

  Paul shoves his plate away, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushes it back to stand. “Yes, Callie. Yes should’ve been your answer. I should be enough for you. But I forgot: I’m only useful to you if I can get you pregnant.”

  “Paul, wait. That has nothing to do with this.”

  He tosses his napkin onto the counter and storms out of the kitchen, leaving me to fall deeper into the abyss of guilt.

  “And what did you say to him?”

  I shift my gaze to the bright-yellow tulips sitting in a vase on the coffee table between us. “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say.”

  Melissa, my therapist, scribbles something onto her notepad. Probably something along the lines of Callie is pathetic and weak.

  “Did you really not know what to say to Paul? Your mind was completely blank when he said that to you this morning?”

  I lift my eyes to meet hers. “No, it wasn’t blank.”

  She leans forwa
rd. “What were you thinking?”

  “That it’s not fair for me to stay home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to work.”

  “Why do you want to work?”

  “Because I want to do something with my life instead of sitting home every day.”

  “So,” she says, leaning back against her leather chair and crossing her legs. “You did know what to say to Paul.”

  I nod.

  “You just didn’t want to say it.”

  I nod again.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “And what about your feelings, Callie? When do your feelings get validated?”

  I hike my shoulders and let them fall.

  They don’t.

  “Let’s do an exercise. Pretend I’m Paul. Tell me everything you’d want to say to him if you knew he wouldn’t feel hurt by it. If you knew he’d hear you and accept what you say.”

  “Okay.” I inhale in a long, slow breath while I compose my thoughts.

  “I’ll start,” she says. “Aren’t I enough for you, Callie?”

  “No, Paul. You are not enough. It takes more than another person to make me feel complete, more than a husband to feel fulfilled. I want to have something that is my own. I want to do something that I’m good at. I want to create. I want to feel inspired. I want to be my own person while you are out being your own person, and then I want to come home to you at the end of every day and share in our separate endeavors.”

  Melissa’s eyes narrow. “Keep going. What else?”

  Hot tears sting my eyes, my hands shaking. “I want to adopt a baby. We’ve tried getting pregnant, and it didn’t work, and I understand why we can’t keep going down that road. I’ve accepted it. But I don’t want to give up. Not when there’s another option. We can adopt a beautiful baby, and we can have the family we’ve been trying to create.”

  “Good,” Melissa says, jotting notes as I talk.

  Salty droplets roll down my cheeks, but I don’t wipe them away. I let them stay there, serving as proof that I do have feelings, and they do matter. This is the only place I allow them to surface.

  “I want to be able to tell you how I feel without you getting angry, without you turning the attention back on you. I want you to listen to me and actually understand me. I want to feel valued. I want to feel useful. I’m sick of feeling guilty for the things I feel. I’m sick of lying to my friends about our marriage. I’m sick of feeling empty inside. And most of all, I’m sick of pretending everything’s okay. It’s not okay, Paul. I am not okay!”

  I bury my face in my hands as the sobs take over my body.

  “Good, Callie.” Melissa rises from her chair and places the tissue box in my lap. “This is good.”

  What Melissa doesn’t understand is that my words, my feelings, my tears mean nothing once I leave this room. In here, we can pretend like Paul will hear me. We can practice articulating what I should say. But the problem isn’t that I don’t have the words to say to Paul.

  It’s that my words aren’t worth saying.

  They’re not worth the fight that will come after they leave my mouth. The hostility they will incite.

  That’s why I choose not to say them.

  “How have your panic attacks been since our last session?”

  I dab my eyes with a tissue and exhale. “I’ve felt them coming on, but I practice the breathing techniques you taught me. I also made a list of things I’m grateful for, like you told me to do, and that helps.”

  “I’m glad to hear those exercises have been helping. I have something else that might help.” Melissa holds up a pale pink notebook with the word Journal in gold foil script letters on the cover. “I give this exercise to all of my clients who have trouble expressing themselves verbally. Each day, I want you to write something in here. Doesn’t have to be long, whatever you have time for. But writing your thoughts can help reduce stress and anxiety. It helps to get it all out in a safe space. Like you do here.”

  I lean forward and take the journal from her, running my fingers over the matte cover. “Thank you.”

  When my session is over, I fix my smudged make-up in my car before heading home.

  It’s dark downstairs when I step into the foyer. Paul’s probably upstairs in his office, so I make my way to the stairs. I always leave therapy feeling spent, and I look forward to soaking in a hot bath.

  “Where are you going?”

  My shoulders tense when I spot Paul in the dining room, drinking at the table with the lights off.

  “Oh, I thought you were upstairs. I was going to take a bath.”

  “Come have a drink with me.” Paul tilts the crystal decanter, refilling his glass with the amber liquid.

  My nose scrunches. “You know I don’t drink scotch.”

  “Sit with me while I drink.”

  His tone is sharp and demanding. The Paul I know is being replaced with the person who comes out when liquor is added, which seems to be occurring a lot lately.

  I offer him a tentative smile. “Or you can come upstairs with me, and we can both enjoy a relaxing bath. Make love with the jets on like we used to.”

  My attempt at sounding sexy falls flat. He’s too far gone at this point.

  Paul stares into his glass, watching the ice swirl around as he flicks his wrist in circles. “Do you even want to fuck me?”

  My eyebrows hit my hairline. “Is that a serious question?” I set my purse and the journal down, moving slow as I venture toward him, leery of getting too close. “Of course I want to.”

  He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Why would you want to fuck me if I can’t get you pregnant?”

  My body stills, realization setting in.

  Maverick’s ears pin back, and his tail suctions underneath his body as he slinks out of the room.

  “Paul, I thought we discussed—”

  “I bet you want to fuck him, though.” His eyes lift, glaring at me from under his furrowed brows. “Bet he could get you pregnant.”

  “Who? Paul, what are you saying?”

  He downs the contents in his glass and slams it down on the table, pushing to his feet. “You know who. I saw the way he was looking at you last night.”

  Cole?

  My face twists. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I want you and only you, Paul. Please, let’s go upstairs and relax.”

  He stalks toward me, and fear constricts my breaths as I brace myself for what’s to come.

  He slides the back of his hand along my cheekbone, though his touch is anything but loving. “Say it again.”

  “Say what?” My voice comes out like a meek whisper.

  “That you want me and only me.” He leans in, the smell of alcohol thick on his breath, his words laced with possession. “Tell me you’re mine.”

  My heart breaks for my husband.

  After my fibroid surgery, the doctor said there was no reason why I wouldn’t get pregnant. When we continued failing, though, the doctor took a look at Paul. Low sperm motility was the term he used. Might as well have been a death sentence. Paul was devastated and hasn’t been the same since.

  I know he feels inadequate because he can’t get me pregnant. I want to argue, to tell him that it’s not his fault. But it’s late, and he’s drunk.

  So, I slip my hand into the waistband of his shorts and look in his eyes when I say, “I’m yours, Paul. You’re the only man I want.”

  I once meant this with every fiber of my being. Now, I say it because I know it’s what he needs to hear.

  His eyes close as he groans. “Again.”

  My lips brush against his, and I squeeze his hardening length. “I’m yours. I belong to you.”

  He yanks the straps of my dress down my shoulders and fumbles with the clasp on my bra. I reach behind my back and unsnap it for him, letting it drop to the floor.

  He kisses me, sloppy and aggressive. He stumbles as he
walks me backwards toward the staircase, his movements clumsy. Pushing me against the wall, he shoves my dress down the rest of the way and hikes my leg up around his waist. He’s too unstable to take his time, to touch me the way I like. Once he frees himself from his pants, he plunges inside me, fast and hard.

  I stifle the groan that shoots into my throat, swallowing the pain.

  We’re not making love tonight.

  This isn’t about me.

  It’s about him.

  And I succumb.

  Things are easier when I just comply.

  Eight

  Cole

  Five Years Ago

  “Top off. Now.”

  Penny tears her shirt over her head and flings it somewhere across the room.

  I shuck my pants and kick them behind me.

  I grip Penny by the back of her neck and kiss her hard, my tongue plunging into her sweet mouth. She opens wider for me, letting a little moan escape as she drags her fingernails through my hair.

  “I’ve been dying to be inside you all night, Penny.”

  I hoist her up and walk us to the edge of my mattress. When I drop her down, her hair fans out on the white pillowcase like a dark river I want to drown in. My hands slide down her tight body, working the button on her pants before I yank them off. I drop my mouth to her stomach, kissing and nipping and licking every inch of exposed skin.

  “Thank you for coming to dinner tonight,” she says, squirming underneath me. “It means so much to me that you were willing to meet my parents.”

  “I’d do anything for you, Penny.” I unsnap the clasp on her bra and toss it over my shoulder. “I want to give you everything and make you happy, because you make me the happiest man alive.”

  She takes my face in both of her hands and gazes at me with watery eyes.

  My hands still, everything coming to a halt. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

  She shakes her head, and a tear escapes, rolling down the swell of her cheek. “Nothing is wrong. Everything is perfect. You are perfect.”

  I lean onto my side and pull her close until we’re nose to nose. “I love you, Penelope Murdoch. I don’t know if this is too soon to say this, but I honestly don’t care. I love you, and I’m going to make you my wife one day.”