Underwater

by McDermott, Julia

  “I feel so bad, leaving while you’re dealing with everything.”

  “Don’t,” said Helen. “Go and enjoy. Let me have time to figure things out. I may even be going home tomorrow.”

  “How do you feel? Physically?”

  “Not all that bad, considering. I’m glad I didn’t have surgery after all. The doctor said that it wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing could have been done.” Helen sucked in a breath.

  “You’ll be in my prayers.”

  “Thank you. And congratulations. How was the wedding?” Helen wiped a tear and looked back at Dawn.

  “Wonderful. I had no idea what was happening to you, though. I wish someone had called.”

  “Well, we couldn’t find Monty. I was going to call you today, after the boys were born.” Tears now began to fall freely. “Candace, I have to go. Thanks so much for calling.”

  Helen handed Dawn the phone and shut her eyes, hoping to rest.

  Late Monday afternoon, Helen was discharged from the hospital.

  Dawn and Frank had picked up Adele the night before and taken her with them to the hotel. Helen had spent most of today alone—Monty didn’t arrive to pick her up until she called, when she received her discharge papers. They had barely spoken on the way home.

  Helen was glad they hadn’t. She needed more time to think, though she’d been doing a lot of that already. She’d gotten over the shock of losing the boys, and now all she felt was a deep sadness.

  She hadn’t told anyone about Monty’s assault on her Friday night, or even that they’d had a fight. It wouldn’t have changed anything if she had. Once her water broke, the course of events had been set. Who knew if the babies had died because of what happened? What would talking about it accomplish? Nothing could bring her babies back, and now she had to go on with life.

  When they got home, she’d told him to go over to the condo—or wherever else he wanted to go—and to leave her alone for the night. She wasn’t ready to be in the same house with him yet. They had a lot of talking to do and things to figure out, but she was too tired right now. All she wanted to do was rest, relax, and get clean. She had showered this morning at the hospital, but she planned to take a long hot bath this evening before she went to bed.

  Candace had called again and talked to Dawn, then reluctantly agreed to go on with her travel plans. She was probably in Fiji right now, staying in an exclusive luxury resort with her new husband. Helen was relieved that she had gone. The last thing she needed was Candace in Atlanta, entering the picture as Helen tried to get through the memorial while recovering from the births—deaths—of her babies.

  No episiotomy had been necessary, just like with Adele. Helen had delivered both twins even faster than she had her daughter, who came in record time after a short, easy labor. But Helen’s bottom was sore and she was having strong cramps as her uterus contracted. Dr. Russell had given her medication to prevent her milk from coming in, thank goodness. At least her back didn’t hurt anymore. The twins had weighed just over five pounds each, and the burden of carrying them was gone. But that physical feeling of relief was bitter, and quite opposite to the joy she had anticipated of holding two babies in her arms.

  She poured a glass of water, drank half of it, and placed it on her nightstand. Then she changed into a loose gown and stretched out on the queen-sized bed. Thank God Dawn was here to help her. Together they would figure out what to do for the service. Dawn’s presence in the coming days would be a huge source of comfort at a time when Helen needed her the most.

  Five minutes later, she succumbed to a deep sleep.

  Monty pulled up in front of the dry cleaners and parked.

  He needed to get his iPhone back. When he stopped here on Saturday afternoon to make them find it, they wouldn’t even look without his dry cleaning ticket. Annoyed, he had argued and cussed until they threatened to call the cops. Then he accused them of stealing it and left in a huff. Late that night he found the ticket in Helen’s car and decided to come back today and apologize.

  Ticket in hand, he got out of the car and walked up to the door. It was locked. Damn! He looked to the right and saw the Closed sign. What place of business, besides a bank, was closed on Columbus Day? It wasn’t even a real holiday, like Thanksgiving or Christmas. He muttered under his breath and turned around. He’d have to wait one more day for the phone, and if they didn’t give it to him then, he’d report it as a theft.

  He opened the car door, slipped behind the wheel, and put the key in the ignition. He reached over to the glove box, where he would stash the cleaner’s ticket until tomorrow. He flipped the box open and noticed a card on top of his car owner’s manual. It was the card he had saved, the last birthday card from his mother. The card he had found in the rubble back in April after the tree fell on the cottage.

  He grabbed it and opened it, rereading his mother’s handwritten prophecy about his future. But this time, her words didn’t evoke sadness or sorrow. No, he felt betrayed. His heart was full of disappointment, bitterness, and hatred.

  Susannah hadn’t been there for him as she promised she would be. No one was there for him, and no one cared about him. He ripped the card in half, tore the halves into small pieces, and let the pieces fall to the floor.

  He felt a profound sense of loneliness, a feeling of being forgotten and written off. He was supposed to have been the father of twin sons, but they had been taken away from him, dying before they could even live. He would never know them. He couldn’t share his feelings of grief and loneliness with Rachel. His own sister disdained him and had abandoned him. For the first time, he believed she wouldn’t cave in and give him what he wanted. She was too wrapped up in her own life to care about his.

  His wife had trained his daughter not to care about him, either. Adele picked up on her mother’s attitude and parroted her words of disrespect. And it was Helen who was responsible for the boys’ deaths. If she hadn’t spied on him and provoked him, he wouldn’t have gotten angry at her. Now he was trapped with her and with a child who didn’t love him, and he had no way to get the things that he deserved.

  His life was a mess because of Helen, and she would have to pay.

  Helen woke almost three hours later.

  She still wasn’t hungry, but she felt dirty and very sore. The doctor had said she could take a soaking bath, and that was exactly what she wanted to do. She brushed her teeth first, then turned on the tap.

  She walked back to the kitchen and looked at the clock. It was after nine o’clock. She decided to get her notebook, look over what she had written on Friday night, and write a letter to Monty. She wasn’t sure if she would give it to him; she’d probably tear it up. But she needed to express her thoughts and feelings on paper and to map out the conditions under which she would stay with him. Things were different now, and he had to change if he wanted to continue to be married to her and to see Adele.

  She picked up her notebook and searched in her purse for her favorite pen. Finding it, she took both to the bathroom, set them on a small stool beside the tub, and took off her gown. The bathroom was a spacious one for a house this size. The small shower was in the corner and the claw-footed tub sat next to it, under the window. The toilet was on the other side of the pedestal sink. Helen sat down to pee and flush, then stood to inspect her body in the mirror.

  Her skin was sagging, but her stomach looked better now than it did earlier. Her breasts seemed to have deflated a little. Her ugly scar was still there and always would be. But she wasn’t going to let it bother her anymore. She had decided to take Dawn’s advice and stop trying to hide it. If people didn’t like it, if they stared at it or asked questions, so what? After what Helen had been through this year, did any of that matter anymore? She was sick of worrying about it. It was skin, that was all, and it wasn’t who she was.

  She had to take control of who she was, right now and from now on.


  She stepped into the tub. The water felt wonderful as she eased herself in. She pulled her hair into a ponytail, poured a few drops of bath oil into the tub, and leaned back, relaxing. When the water level was just right, she turned off the tap and exhaled. After a moment she picked up her pen and started writing.

  She wrote about her scar, her demons about it, and her decision to let them go. She didn’t care what it looked like anymore, and she wouldn’t let anyone—including Monty—make her. She wrote about her self-image—her looks and her acceptance of them. She was still young and she would recover from this pregnancy in a matter of weeks. She might not be the most beautiful woman in the world, but she was attractive. She would be confident in how she looked.

  She wrote about her blessings. Even though her babies had died, she was alive. She was a mother. She had a beautiful little girl whom she treasured. She had lost her babies, but with their loss, her excuses for not standing up to Monty for so long had disappeared. Knowing that he had betrayed her made her feel even more determined. She would stop pretending that things between them would somehow get better on their own.

  She wrote that she would no longer allow him to abuse her—not verbally, and not physically. She would not continue to play the victim or walk on eggshells around him, afraid to piss him off. He would have to accept the new, stronger her, and he would have to change.

  Her pen flew across the page, strength and resolve flowing through it to the paper. She listed the conditions she would demand that her husband meet. First, he had to end it with Rachel immediately—Helen would have to see her in person and talk to her, to prove that he had. Monty was lucky that Helen hadn’t decided to divorce him because of his infidelity; most women would. She had decided to give him another chance to be faithful, so that Adele could know her father.

  Second, Rachel had to move out of the condo. Helen had to have proof of this, too. Then the condo had to be listed for sale. Just like for the house on Arcadia, Monty would have to let Candace decide the listing price. He would have to trust his sister to sell both properties for as much as the market would bear, even if it was much less that what he thought it would. When the condo sold, the funds would go to pay off the HELOC. When the house on Arcadia sold, the money would be applied to the rest of the debt.

  Then, if Candace had to write anything off, Monty and Helen would sign a note to pay her back over time. They couldn’t expect her to pay for their bad decisions by forgiving their debt. They would have to take responsibility.

  Helen would have to meet Mack and Jeremy, Monty’s so-called employers. She would have to know exactly what he was doing for them and how much he was being paid. If there were no such people—if Monty had been lying about it, which she suspected—then he would have to hit the pavement to look for a job. He would have to find work. He would report everything he did to her. There would be no secret cell phones, email addresses, or anything else.

  Monty would have to cooperate in downsizing their lifestyle in the coming weeks and months. Helen would start looking for a new job as soon as she could, but in the meantime they would communicate about everything, especially money. They might have to sell their cars and buy cheaper ones. Anything nonessential would be dropped from their budget: entertainment, restaurants, cable TV, and coffee at Starbucks. They would rent this house until they had a big nest egg, and they wouldn’t rush to buy anything. And they would never again take money from Candace, ask her to make them a loan, or ask her to cosign a loan for them.

  After the tragedy that had just happened, Monty would have to earn back Helen’s trust as a husband and a father. He would have to put her and Adele first. He would have to be loving, respectful, and protective towards them instead of mean and self-absorbed. If he wanted a relationship with his daughter, he had to stop ignoring her and start showing interest and involvement in her life. He had to begin helping Helen with her every day, whether they were to have any children in the future or not.

  If he decided not to meet her conditions—if he decided to abandon her and Adele, the way Helen’s father had abandoned his wife and kids—then she’d have no choice but to let it happen. She’d build a new life for herself and her daughter, and she wouldn’t look back. She might keep the option open for him to know his daughter, but she wouldn’t insist that he do. She wouldn’t hide from Adele the truth of who he was.

  Helen put the notebook on the stool and leaned back, closing her eyes, her pen still in her right hand. The hot water was so soothing, and her muscles were relaxed. She took a deep breath and felt at peace, almost in a slumber.

  Then her eyes opened wide. Two hands were gripping her neck and strangling her, pushing her down. Monty’s hands. He forced her head under the surface as water splashed on the floor and wall. She panicked, thrashing and kicking in the slippery tub and banging her elbows against the sides, her core muscles tender and weak. He pushed her farther down as she squirmed and flailed wildly.

  Her head was completely underwater. The recurring dream she’d had since childhood flashed in her mind. She had to push him away from her and break his hold on her neck. His hands tightened.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  She pushed against the end of the tub with both feet, trying to force her head above the surface. Her feet slipped up and out and he forced her head and shoulders farther down. She pushed her arms and elbows against the sides of the tub, finally getting traction. As she pushed and squirmed, she felt his grip slip from her neck. She rose out of the water, clenched her right hand around her pen, swung it backwards, and felt it stop.

  Then all at once, his hands fell away and she heard him scream. She felt the pen jerk out of her wet grip and she grabbed the side of the tub. She turned and sloshed, looking around frantically for her weapon. She got up and jumped out of the water, almost falling to the floor but righting herself, arms flailing in the air.

  Full of terror, she stood naked on the checkered tile and faced him. Her pen stuck out of his eyeball. Blood spurted everywhere as she stared at him in horror. He staggered toward her, still screaming, his face red and his other eye wild and fixed on her. In that pulsating eye, she saw his madness. She backed away unsteadily toward the closed door.

  He came at her, arms outstretched. Her back and head hit the door. She was trapped.

  “My eye!” he screamed. “Oh my fucking God! You ugly fucking bitch! I’m going to kill you!”

  Out of her peripheral vision she saw the toilet tank lid—it was sitting awry, as usual. She turned and grabbed it with both hands. Adrenaline soaring, she swung it hard as he lunged at her.

  Blood oozed from his skull as he fell to the floor, writhing in pain. She staggered back, gasping and shaking. He lay on his side, his legs pulled in a fetal position. The lid was in shattered pieces on the floor, surrounded by a mixture of blood and fluid. She jumped over him, ran into the bedroom, grabbed her phone, and dialed 911.

  “My husband attacked me and I hit him! He needs an ambulance!”

  The paramedics arrived in four minutes, but it was too late.

  Monty was dead.

  22

  Beginning

  Over eight months later, Helen stood at the door to her apartment and turned her key in the lock. After work, she had picked Adele up and driven her over to Dawn and Frank’s house to spend the night. Helen was looking forward to her date this evening with John Caldwell, Frank’s second cousin and the man she had been seeing since March. John would be here to pick her up at seven for dinner at Gabriella’s, a posh new restaurant.

  Helen had met him back in February, only a month after she and Adele moved in to this apartment and three weeks after her first day at Scopa Diboli, a Chicago graphic designer firm. John was a CPA with a major accounting firm; his wife of seven years had died of a brain aneurysm back in 2008.

  Helen dropped her keys in her purse and set it on the kitchen counter. She pulled a glass fro
m the cabinet and poured herself some water. Today was Friday, July 1, the start of the holiday weekend, and it had been a hot day, with temperatures rising to the upper eighties. A year-old memory flashed in her mind: Monty’s joke about the two seasons of Chicago, “winter, and the fourth of July.” She shuddered.

  How different her life was now from what it had been last summer, and last fall.

  That awful night in October, a night that she still couldn’t forget, the paramedics had arrived to find her in shock. She had thrown on a robe and was pressing a towel against her dead husband’s skull, blood flowing from it and tears streaming down her face. Her hair was wet and her throat was covered with purple bruises. Her pen was lodged in Monty’s eye, and his finger marks bulged on her neck.

  The police had arrived and had forced Helen to recount the chronology of events over and over. Her story of Monty’s attack on her was more than plausible, as were her claims of his past abusive and violent behavior. Dr. Russell told police that Helen had experienced trauma to the uterus and echoed Dawn’s suspicions that her ruptured membranes were caused by a domestic assault. Records showed that after Helen’s first night in the hospital, Monty had been absent for much of her stay, including the delivery of her twins.

  For Helen, the next few weeks had been hell—but a different kind of hell than what she had already experienced.

  While the police were still gathering evidence, she recovered from childbirth and buried her twin babies. With Dawn’s help, she organized a private memorial service at the same cemetery where the boys’ paternal grandparents had been laid to rest—and where their father would also be interred.

  Helen drained the water from her glass and set it in the sink. Grabbing her purse, she walked into her bedroom and pulled out her phone to check for messages—there were none. She put it on her dresser and opened the top drawer to search for her newest pair of SlimZ.