Dear Anna

by Katie Blanchard

  “Hi, honey.” It’s barely an utter, as I pour him a glass of wine just like I do every night, serving my master. I choke back the feeling. “How was work?”

  “Same as usual. Making money.” He smiles. “How was your day?”

  I sip my wine and try to act casual. “Oh, dull and uneventful.”

  “Perhaps you should pick up a hobby. Lori said you gave her the cold shoulder when she mentioned joining their book club.” He sips his wine and starts walking toward the dining room. “These are the people we need to keep in good graces with, you know. That’s your duty as my wife.”

  “I don’t feel like participating in the book club, John.” I sit in my seat at the table as my husband takes his place at the opposite end.

  “Honey,” he rests his hand on mine, “Is it because of your depression? Is it worsening?” John’s mouth ticks upward on one corner, it’s a hitch he can’t hide, almost like he is happy at the possibility.

  “No, I feel fine. I think that the book club isn’t the place for me, and I’d be much better served elsewhere. Maybe a job of some sort.”

  “Honey. You’ve just started making progress in therapy. Let’s not overwhelm you.” He dives into his duck and ends the conversation. Checkmate. That was John’s new favorite move—therapy.

  When my mother passed away, I suffered a mental breakdown. I searched for her everywhere on the streets, not wanting to believe that she had gone. John had me admitted to a hospital for a week.

  “Speaking of that, honey, there is something I wanted to mention to you this evening. I called Dr. Janson and scheduled you an appointment tomorrow at two.” My husband moans into the bite of duck he’s chewing. My therapy is discussed in a passing way, never sincere, and never with a troubled face.

  I nearly drop my fork onto the porcelain dinner plate adorned with tiny cherubs. John made me an appointment. Why? I am indeed capable of doing that task myself; I’m not a child. And shouldn’t my mental health and progress be in my hands?

  “Why did you do that?” I ask.

  “Well, I heard you crying again this morning in the bathroom. I’m not sure the new medication is working for you. Perhaps you should ask for something stronger tomorrow.” His eyes hold me, and I watch the wetness behind them. He is worried, and the only thing that will erase it from his mind is me handing over control. “Don’t you trust me? I’m only trying to help you.”

  “Of course, I trust you.” The words leave my lips before the reality of them sink in. How could I offer up the words to him so quickly when I caught him cheating today? Was I a robot?

  I bob my head and try to smile back. I cried in the bathroom this morning because today was scheduled to be the day I took my mother to a play she always wanted to see. Othello. I didn’t bother doing anything with the tickets. Instead, I threw on some lousy clothes and pushed myself to run errands, and ended up finding John’s dirty secret.

  “I’m only thinking of your well-being, Medeia,” he justifies himself. Sure, you are, John.

  “No, honey. I know you are, I’m not arguing that point. I’ll go. Two o’clock, right?” I do my best to ease his mind. With the discovery of his infidelity this morning, I can’t risk angering John and upsetting the system. Not until I can put a plan in action to stop the affair or get myself away with more than a dollar to my name.

  I sink my teeth into the duck, longing for the taste of revenge instead.

  Three

  “Goodbye, darling, have a good day.” I kiss John’s lips, and I swallow down the revolting lump in my throat.

  “Goodbye, dear. Try to forget that nonsense of a career today. I love taking care of you. This is where I want you to be. At home.” He kisses my forehead. A move meant to be protecting and loving, but it feels like a mark for a sniper to shoot me.

  I hold the front door open, draped in a real silk robe around a matching nightgown, and wave as John’s BMW fades from our development. When he’s out of sight, I launch myself into the mission for today—find out everything I can about Anna Trayor. Her file didn’t provide much insight, aside from the color of her undergarments, so I need to branch out further than what John’s employee files can provide.

  As I lay in our California King bed last night, I debated what my next steps should be, and without a doubt, I need to become a level-one detective and familiarize myself with the enemy. I can do as John did with the employee files and use it to benefit the choosing of my next move better. If I know what Anna is like, perhaps I can find the meaning behind John’s draw to her and use the information against him along with what we hid a long time ago. It’s my ticket to this house. Where do I start, though?

  Social media.

  I have heard tales from a few wives and girlfriends at the boring social events that John drags me to of how they looked up a former lover of their significant other on the internet. I will follow their lead. Those hours locked at a table of the “wives” will be useful for something.

  I lounge on the velvet chaise in the sitting area of my large walk-in closet and peruse the internet for anything it can spit out about Anna Trayor. Her social media pages are the ones ripe with information. For Anna, the most advantageous was proving to be her Facebook page. She hasn’t bothered to set it to private or block posts from being seen by strangers, so all the status updates are ripe for the picking. She wants to let the world in and make herself the center-stage attraction. She’s an attention whore. She writes everything down, and I mean everything.

  Whether it’s posting about the day’s activities or checking in to locations to show off her lifestyle, Anna doesn’t miss a day of keeping people informed, never missing a beat for the past 567 days. And the day she did miss, she apologized profusely for in her next update. The funny part is that there’s only ever a handful of comments on her statuses, typically from the same people. Her actual audience is minuscule compared to the grand scale she believes she’s projecting her views on. I note that she didn’t post about her lunch with John yesterday. Nothing about a love interest anywhere, not even a thinly veiled tacky meme.

  Her Instagram is harder to suffer through. It doesn’t show me much, aside from her perfect boobs and her idea of stylish dressing in cheap garments from the mall. Instagram is her vanity, Facebook her desperation, and Twitter is filled with rants about what she considers to be the injustices of the world. Her favorite restaurant discontinued a meal so obscure that I’m sure she only called it her favorite because it set her apart from the crowd. I don’t believe for a second that she ate and enjoyed it — still, no mention of John. Anna makes sure to keep her dating life private on a place that she posted about her menstrual cycle at least three times.

  She doesn’t cross-post though, something about her I notice straight away. I don’t have to sift through a redundancy of posts on the separate social media pages. Anna plays to a different audience on each platform, making it hard to get a depiction of her true self. I can only judge on the part that she is willing to offer up to the world, and boy is it ugly.

  On the surface, I see hypocrisy and contradictions in her posts ranging from giggly nasal videos of her dancing at the club singing with a group to her self-proclaimed “homebody” photos of skimpy pajamas she “wore all day.” There’s no way a person wore that without freezing their asses off in the winter time. And alone. Why?

  My favorites are the back to back postings checking herself in at a gym with the caption of laughing at the fatties this morning next to her “love everyone” memes about body positivity. Anna doesn’t have one lick of personality that she came up with herself. She is something fit for the modern world, a shifter who drifts in and out of trends claiming them as life.

  I scroll through thousands, thousands, of selfies before finding one unflattering photograph that Anna let seep through the wormhole. A picture was taken on her phone of an old picture lying on the floor of her bedroom. It’s from high school, and it tells a lot. Anna was not that popular in her school; I instantly pic
k that up from the lack of grooming on the girl of old versus her now. She is surrounded by only two friends, gripping them tightly in each arm as she finds herself in the center. The need for the attention to fall upon her alone seems built-in long before the ability to put on makeup came together. There’s a bulletin behind them, indicating that this photo of them was at the school itself. The corkboard is enclosed in a glass case protecting itself from the juveniles and their unoriginal pranks. There is a faint mirror image captured in the glass that upon zooming in I notice a boy walking past looking on the happy threesome with disgust. An older lady is taking the photo for them, no doubt a teacher instead of another classmate.

  Anna had been disliked.

  The photo also tells a different story of the girl in all those selfies. There has been work done. Her teeth have become straighter than her sixteen-year-old self possessed, and either puberty hit her late or Anna has had a boob job. That’s the option that explains the consistent pictures involving her cleavage. For the amount that I’m sure they cost, she wants to gain mileage flaunting them off. I notice that Anna once wore glasses, a style that’s coming back. She switched to contacts as soon as she could, but in recent postings, I’ve caught her wearing black-rimmed spectacles proclaiming to be a geek at heart.

  Which one is it, Anna? Are you a geek or a cool girl?

  She checks in at a gym not five miles from my house every morning at five. From the pictures she has of herself there, it’s more crowded than I thought it would be. Less of a chance that she would notice me. Perhaps, it’s time I get myself a membership and find out which social media posts are the real Anna Trayor and which aren’t.

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  I found out about your affair with my husband. The posts on your social media pages ranting about sister solidarity feel like a slap in the face. Who are you to pick and choose which female you support and which you ruin by screwing her husband?

  Your posts are nearly all selfies. I bet you don’t practice what you preach in friendships these days. Do you have any friends?

  Four

  I used to meet my mother somewhere of her choosing every single day. Never at the shack, and never at my mansion. There was unspoken shame in both of those locations. My mother regretted not being able to provide the type of life for me that I had now, and she felt guilty that she didn’t raise me to be humble in my upbringing. My house possessed the devil of change she loathed seeing in me, hers the devil of the past I didn’t long to see. That’s why we remained on neutral ground.

  “You don’t have to wipe your seat down, Medeia, the restaurant is clean enough.”

  “This is Versace, Mom.”

  “That’s not how I raised you.”

  ‘That’s not how I raised you’ was a favorite saying of hers whenever I would dare to remind her the cost of things. She wanted me to forget the money and what it was worth in life, but how could I? It consumed me from birth ─ fighting and scraping just to have a little, to finally have more than enough. It gave me a chance at life. Without John’s money, I might have turned out like my brother Hank and his run-ins with theft. Or, my father and his angry outbursts leading to more than one arrest and more than one victim. John’s rules, teaching me to be of his world, saved me.

  Despite the difference, my mother was my best friend. I confided in her about everything—John’s dislike for having children to my anxiety over not having a job for a sense of security that John couldn’t take away. She knew he scolded me in his side-handed comments. I watched the guilt color her face pink with embarrassment when I would recant a story about him. She told me it was wrong for him to speak to me that way. Even when I comforted her that he didn’t mean it the way she took it, she wouldn’t relent.

  When she didn’t meet me that day for lunch, I went back there, back to the dilapidated structure that raised me. The medical team surrounding the rotting wood spoke the words my drunk father couldn’t utter when he saw me. She was gone. And so, went a part of me—and my mind, according to my husband.

  Therapy was placed on the roster after my stint in the hospital. I don’t recall those days, only scenes of arm restraints and needles. The screams echo deep in a dark place inside of me. The attending doctor on the first lucid day explained that I had a breakdown of sorts. Rest was needed, and therapy. Their outlook for my recovery was positive. I, however, knew that a suffering heart never mends.

  That’s how I found Dr. Janson, renowned grief counselor and famous for his work with the wealthy class of the area. He was the best of the best, and if John was going to have a wife in therapy, it better be someone that had stars around his name. Dr. Janson is a warm and inviting person, and I have become fond of him.

  His sharp mind and proper manner of speaking seemed a proven tactic to gain the confidence of his patients. The first day that I came here, I remember feeling at ease by how knowledgeable and professional he sounded. We’ve grown from there, and he’s let his guard down some, switching his tools to adapt to a more appropriate plan for my “recovery.”

  Except for today─ today he is pouting.

  The dead air between Dr. Janson and I feels more like a duel rather than an awkward pause of disagreement. His eyes have locked and held mine for at least ten minutes now. I finally break contact and become the first to speak again.

  “I have been more sad than usual lately, and I think this medication is not helping. All I’m asking for is a different anti-depressant than I’m currently on or a higher dose. I’m not a drug addict, and I’m not trying to suck medication from your prescription pad to get high. I want to get better.” I run my hands through the sleek sides of my ponytail, bracing my elbows on my knees. Panic rises inside; if I can’t convince Dr. Janson to do either of these options, John will think I didn’t bother to ask. I can’t risk an argument with a prenup like ours.

  Dr. Janson sighs. “Medeia, all I’m saying is that you suffer from situational depression. Medication is not a long-term goal for you.” He grits his teeth. “Despite what John may think.”

  My entire body deflates, and I push hard on the space between my eyebrows. “Les, I just made mention of his suggestion. I’m here on my own accord.” I smooth down my dress. Versace again. I wasn’t raised like this, but the material did feel different. A little worthier.

  “Perhaps we should switch up techniques. There are other methods used to help treat situational depression.” He reaches back to his desk where brochures sit perched and ready.

  “Yeah. I’ve Googled them.” I slap my knees and lean farther forward. “Can you honestly look me in the eye and think that I haven’t tried everything possible? No one wants a broken person.”

  “Is this about John or your mother? Or your father’s awful expectations of you as a child that you could never meet?” His face is stern but softens with his finding of an ah-ha moment. “We discussed this Medeia; I feel like you aren’t addressing the real issue. You’re blanketing it under stress from your mother’s passing.”

  “Look.” I push a stray hair back out of my face. “Striving for perfection isn’t wrong to me. It gives me focus. I wasn’t on medication before my mother’s death, so I don’t see how you can say that I am blanketing these feelings under that. You’re hunting ghosts, Les, and I’m not about to dig them up with you.”

  “Yeah, cause people with mental health problems are all on medication and not walking around pretending it’s okay.” He scrubs his face in irritation. “Medeia, I like you. Enough to be on a first-name basis with you and talk so candidly. This is not the standard repertoire, but I know it helps your progress. That is a breakthrough for you. You’re less guarded, but you’re allowing that to be your top tier and not pushing for advancement and shattering that glass ceiling. You need to keep working at this depression from all angles. Become familiar with it, raise those ghosts and demons then confront them. I have been doing this for decades now; I think I know a thing or two.”

  “Well,
I’ve lived with myself all my life, so I think I know me a bit better than you do from your professional book typecasting,” I slam back, crossing my arms. I click my heels off the floor in protest.

  “I have never once typecast you into a category of mental health issues.” He shakes his head vigorously.

  “I’m sorry, Les.” I sink farther into the couch. “I don’t mean to be a bitch. I just had a hard day yesterday.”

  “Would it help to tell me about it?” He pushes himself upright, giving me rapt attention.

  I debate about opening up and having someone else help me digest the situation at home. Another ear to bend and help me plot my way out of this hole. But something stops me, telling me that this is a secret I need to keep to myself for now if I want to benefit from John’s affair instead of being demolished by it.

  “Tell me about yesterday, Medeia.” Les’s voice is soothing.

  “Yesterday, I had tickets to take my mother to see Othello.” I roll my bottom lip inside my mouth to protect it from quivering. Les nods his understanding.

  “I like to wake up in bed these days and keep my eyes shut so that I can pretend I’m a teenager again in my old bedroom. I’m lying in bed at my old house, waiting for my mother to wake me even though I’m already awake, listening to the noises she makes about the house as she gets ready for the day. If I concentrate hard enough, I hear her footsteps in the hallway, going back and forth from her room, collecting her clothes and putting on her makeup, in between refilling her coffee mug in the kitchen. Then I hear her tiptoe into my room, pausing at my doorway every single time without fail. She told me once that she took me in in the morning during the quiet moments. She stood mesmerized as she remembered that she carried me in her body and that I was a great miracle to her. Then she eventually resigns herself to the task of getting me up for the day and walks to the bed and kisses my forehead. I can feel her lips on my head when I think about it, but every time I open my eyes, I’m thrown into reality. I’m an adult, not a teenager, and my mother is dead. So, how do I stop it, Les? Do I forget about her?”