Dear Anna

by Katie Blanchard

  “No,” he whispers, perhaps remembering his own usual daydream that keeps him going in life. He sighs. “I’ll prescribe a higher dosage. Perhaps it will help relax your mind right now.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I’m grateful for you.” I mean it. He’s brought me back from the dark side. With him helping me turn around and face my demons head-on, I comfortably live alongside them instead of wrestling them.

  He scrubs down his worrisome face. Something is troubling Les, and he doesn’t want to say it out loud for some reason. He’s about to do the doctor thing where they say it in a way that makes you come up with the answer that they already know, but don’t want to tell you straight out because you would become offended. Also, giving you the answers doesn’t aid in your growth—those you are supposed to come up with on your own. I brace myself. I feel it coming. He always does this at the close of our sessions.

  “How is the relationship between John and you?”

  I don’t know how to handle that question. It is vague compared to the other ones that Dr. Janson usually leaves me with to ponder.

  “Oh, good. Normal, I suppose. We are married, so it has its battles like any couple. We fight over the standard things like dinner and cleaning up.” I smile to hide any dead giveaways in my demeanor. My teeth are fake, so every smile since they got put in has been fake, anyway.

  “Mmm.” He jots down a few more notes, and I’d give anything to read one of those entries on me, or even his most psychotic patient. Wouldn’t that be the world’s most interesting read? Inside the mind of a man that gets inside the minds of the craziest people, losing their minds. “Well, I’d love to chat more and discover this issue, but unfortunately we are at the end of our time today. I want you to schedule a follow-up with the front desk. Sooner than our regular appointment. I need to know if this increase in medication is working for you or not.” He stands and wanders over to his desk and leans over to retrieve the small prescription pad in his top center drawer.

  With that, my body instinctively rises from the couch. I hate this part. I am leaving, not knowing if I’m in a better place or not. I’m thankful for the doctor because he has helped me in the grief process of losing my mother, but I always leave feeling like I gave up the power and conviction of my disease that I walked in the doors holding. I think the session will go one way, and he steers it in the opposite direction, and I end up losing control.

  “Of course, Doctor. Thank you.” I reach for the prescription when he hands it over; he holds it tight until I force myself to look into his eyes.

  “If you need anything, Medeia, do call.” His face is what I imagine a good father to look like—worrisome eyes that hold love and not hatred, wrinkles that scream of life rather than an addiction.

  “I will.”

  He lets go of the prescription, so I move to the door and make the next appointment with the receptionist up front. When I step into the sunlight, I debate about stopping the medicine cold turkey and allowing myself to feel the grief, but I know it will put my body into shock. For now, my husband will believe that I’m on a higher dosage, but I didn’t ask for it, so I’ll hold off on the increase.

  The sunlight warms my face, but something inside grows cold.

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  Why is he so obsessed with you?

  Five

  “I don’t know what I can do for you, Mrs. Moore.”

  “What do you mean?” Across from the lawyer’s desk, I clutch my purse firmly in my lap. I bet it costs more than his entire cheap suit.

  “If you have a prenup that you say guarantees you nothing, then that’s what you’ll get.” He shrugs. He’s the only lawyer I could get to meet with me on such short notice that didn’t work anywhere near our home or John’s company. I should have done more digging.

  “What about his infidelity?” This seems ridiculous. There’s no way that a prenup to your marriage allows you to hump whoever you want.

  The baby-faced lawyer stretches his arms up above his head. “Do you have proof?”

  “I saw him in the restaurant with her.” I screech.

  “That’s hearsay. You have no pictures, no video, no emails, no notes, no texts. Nada. This is a no-fault state, so it doesn’t hold as much weight as you’re hoping.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Get proof.”

  “Will that cancel out the prenup?”

  “Not in my opinion.” He raises his eyebrows at me and points to the door. “It was nice meeting you, Macy.”

  “Medeia!” I shout. “I can’t say the same about you.” I bolt out of the chair and rush out of his office. I slam the door with finite on his slimy smirk. What a jerk. Is that all I get? I never signed a deal with the devil, so why is my soul being taken from me?

  Shit. I slam the car door and lock myself inside. Shit. Shit. Shit. I repeatedly bang my hands off the steering wheel. I bounce my head off the horn, and it scares a couple walking past. I get nothing. Nothing. Not a dime. I’ll have to sell my clothes. I’ll have to get a job.

  I groan in the space — a job. Now, how in the hell am I going to manage that when John doesn’t want me working?

  LATER AT DINNER, THE mere mention of a job sends John’s need for control in overdrive. My knife digs into my tender, medium-rare steak much harder than it needs to, and the scrape of the plate causes John to stir at his end of the table.

  “I know you’re mad, dear,” he coos.

  “No, no, I’m not mad.” I obscenely smile to let my husband know that yes, he has ticked me off, but I don’t wish to talk about it because I will spit obscenities. On top of the lawyer this morning, I feel trapped.

  “I told you, I don’t think that now is the best time for you to begin a career. The therapist just upped your medication.” Because of you, John. He upped it because of you. I almost pout, but I suck in my bottom lip in with defiance. I won’t beg him.

  I wish I hadn’t told him about the therapy session today; I wish I had lied and said that tears were a sign of happiness or made up some bullshit in medical speak. However, I can’t lie as well as John can. His whore passes through my mind wearing a white wedding gown. I slam my knife down again as my teeth tear into the piece I just stuffed inside my mouth.

  John exhales.

  “Honey. I hate to see you so upset Medeia. I don’t want to risk your health. It was so terrifying for me when you were in the hospital.” He chokes up on cue.

  My body sags, and I set my knife down. But the Post-it note in Anna’s file blares into my vision, and I jam my fork into the next piece. Fuck him. That trick of acting worried would have sent me straight into submission before, but not now. I long to scream and throw shit in a tantrum just like my father would. My blood runs cold at the thought. I take a breath and count my chews so that I can afford myself some time to calm down. I will address this with my head about me; emotion will get me nowhere. It got my father nowhere, and my mother became the worst victim of his tantrums.

  “I understand,” I say after I’ve calmed down. I channel it out of my body. “I just...well, I wanted to have a hobby. I feel I’ve mastered the tasks around the household, and lately, I’ve been feeling bored and unchallenged.” A professional tone always strikes a better nerve with John. He can’t stand when I speak what he deems to be hick or uneducated talk. “I thought that a career would be a preferable option because it had the extra incentive of cash flow coming in. You’re always saying we can’t ever have enough money.” I raise an eyebrow. He nods the agreement that it is a true statement.

  I watch my words work on my husband. He scratches his head with the butt of his fork and hums into his steak. He sees my point; perhaps this will go my way after all. It would be easier to find work with my husband on board rather than sneaking around, although the thought of entering the workforce again disturbs me. I’ve become accustomed to my lifestyle.

  “Plus, Dr. Janson didn’t think it was such a bad idea.” John l
oves therapy, maybe this was the lie I needed to fake, but to my surprise, John laughs.

  “Honey, he would think that. If you have a mental breakdown, it’s more money for him. Trust me; I have your best interests at heart here. He spends an hour with you here and there; I pledged my life to you. Remember what happened the last time you were working?” I feel slapped, even though John hasn’t touched me.

  Tears sting my eyes. I try to brush them off as I put a green bean in my mouth, but the sniffle gives me away. “That was you, too.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” he ignores my comment. “If you can maintain some hobby outside of the house, we will discuss it again at a later point.” He’s confident that he’s come up with the perfect solution and strikes his fork into the air like the dot of a period—end of subject. “I should have been a therapist. No one can help you like I know how to.”

  What am I, John? A child? You don’t want children, but you want to treat me like one? I’m getting a job.

  I bite my tongue until I taste blood mix in with the Kobe steak. This will be the hardest time of my life. I no longer find redeeming qualities in my husband; in fact, my stomach hardly tolerates being around him. But, I’m not an idiot; my corner is empty. And until I fill it, I need to play this game.

  “Now that you’ve mentioned it, I was thinking of joining a gym. Would that suffice as a good launching pad? That is, however, in the opposite direction of making money, but you had made mention a week ago that my thighs were jiggling more when I walk, so two birds in one stone.” I want to tell him to fuck off and choke on his expensive steak, the rare delicacy that he entrusted to our mediocre twenty-something chef. When I have money, I won’t be so foolish to hire a lousy cook.

  “You know what? I think that might be perfect.” He raises his glass of some expensive wine that has always tasted like it should be named ‘piss’ to me. I imitate him immediately. Cheers, asshole.

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  One thing: five in the morning to workout is fucking ridiculous. I want to hit you with a dumbbell. Choke on your protein shake, whore. This better be worth it.

  Six

  I stumble into the local 24-hour fitness joint in town, knowing damn well it’s the one Anna occupies because of her Facebook check-in locations. Last night, John was all on board with having a trim wife; he even called down and set up my membership over the phone, something only accomplished by the snobbiest of wealthy people. I attempt to be gracious to the front desk when I enter; I’m sure ‘bitch’ is stamped on my file somewhere because of him. My brand-new outfit, never having seen workout equipment before, already places me in that category.

  “Hello, how may I help you?” There’s an older lady behind the counter, and I take comfort that she’s gripping a Styrofoam cup while addressing me. Perhaps she understands my lack of caffeine from a husband who said it wasn’t the best idea to drink that before I worked out this morning. I almost slit his throat; however, orange never was a flattering color on me.

  “Hi, I do apologize, I’m a bit embarrassed, but I believe my husband said he purchased a membership for me over the phone last night. Under the name of John Moore, my name is Medeia.” The first rule of not having a bad reputation preceding you in a place: blame someone who isn’t there.

  “Oh, yes. Your husband said you would be here this morning.” She smiles and does a cute little shrug I wish I could add to my movements, but I don’t think I’d pull it off as well as she does. Hook, line, and sinker, Claudia—as I read on her name tag—will be erasing the bitch stamp on my file now. I need to keep a low profile here, can’t risk gym gossip getting to Anna. I don’t know how well acquainted she is with the staff, considering she checks in daily.

  I smile back. “He’s a pain in the butt sometimes, too thorough.” I giggle on cue to entice her to join in comradery with me. She falls for it.

  “I understand, Mia.” Shit.

  “I love that nickname.” Please take the bait; please take the bait.

  “Oh, I apologize. I haven’t finished my morning coffee.” She raises her cup toward me. “Your name is the most unique I’ve ever heard. How do you say it again?”

  Thank you, Jesus. I hate when people don’t listen the first time though. Thanks, Mom, for a weird name.

  “Ma-day-ah,” I pronounce it slowly enough to help her out, but not too intense that I hit a nerve.

  “Your name is so pretty.” She sighs into her body. “My mother sadly named me Claudia, sounds more like a horse’s name.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Nonsense. You have a beautiful name.” As I smile back, I notice a familiar blonde breeze past the quick entryway on the side. One of the workers even shouts out a good-morning greeting to her.

  Anna.

  Oh, you don’t disappoint, do you, Anna, dear?

  Claudia attempts to conceal her eye roll at the mention of Anna’s name, but I catch it. So, she’s not a favorite with my new buddy, Claudia.

  “You’re all set, Medeia.” This time Claudia pronounces it correctly. “You have to sign here, and the floor is all yours. I will go over some simple gym rules with you as I show you around.”

  “Oh, I do apologize, but a tour won’t be necessary. I came here before I was married, and it doesn’t seem like the place has changed too much.” A lie. I had to get to the top floor before Anna could notice me. She would be on the bottom floor, lifting weights as her social media pictures indicate. I can view her better from the open walkway area upstairs housing the treadmills. “Plus, I don’t want to take you away from your morning coffee, if I already know everything. My husband didn’t allow me my coffee this morning, and I don’t want to do the same thing to someone else.”

  “How awful of him.” She gasps. “Well, thank you. You go on and scoot. I’d hate to keep you from your workout. We both win. Besides, you’ll be that much closer to getting coffee” She winks at me. See, John, I can make friends. I’m not as awkward as you make me sound in social interactions.

  I head straight to my destination, not stopping at the lockers to put things away. I didn’t bring anything but bottled water with me, anyway. I take the stairs two at a time, the thrill of watching Anna fueling my high. I might not need the coffee this morning after all. I take control of a machine I had my eyes on since first walking in; it has the allure of location. A wall nearby that can aid in the covering of my appearance should Anna look up.

  I doubt she will. According to her posts on Instagram of her workout sessions, she hardly ever leaves the bottom floor. That’s where she can scope out the man-candy as she so whorishly put it in a post that was dated three months ago. Perhaps John and Anna weren’t together then, or maybe I should have myself checked for diseases from Anna’s multitude of partners.

  “Can I help you with that? You know these machines are, uh, a bit tricky at first.” Leaning against the treadmill beside me stands a man old enough to be my father, smiling a creepy grin.

  “I’m good; thank you.” I make sure to flash my left hand as I wave him off. Married to an asshole, but still married.

  “I’ll be down at that end if you need me. Name’s Rob, by the way.” He winks.

  “See ya later, Rob.” I don’t offer my name, and he takes the hint and walks away. See, John. I have options. I could cheat. I’m not as immoral as you, though.

  I jump on the treadmill. I set to work choosing my incline of the day. I’m walking a damn steep hill in life metaphorically, why not make it physically, as well? Maybe a fitter lifestyle will prepare me for the workforce that I still plan on joining despite my husband’s issues.

  I’m two minutes in before the slutty blonde makes her appearance from the locker room. She’s in no hurry to make her way to a station, saying hello to all the patrons in the gym. I watch closely to the interactions; more than half of the men stare after her ass but end up shaking their heads instead of reaching out to talk to her. Why won’t they take the bait?

  “Oh, that
’s our town trollop in the gym. She’ll fuck anything that walks, and spends more time taking selfies on the workbench than actually pressing something.” I slam the stop button on the treadmill to avoid falling off from the shock of the stranger talking next to me.

  “Excuse me?” I pant out. I look to the right at the woman around my age punching the buttons on her treadmill in deep concentration. Built like an avid runner, and her grimace at the machine tells me she’d much rather be outside running. Her black hair is held up in a high ponytail, enunciating her strong jaw.

  “That blonde.” She nods in the direction of Anna. “I saw the disgust on your face, shared your sentiments, saw you were new and figured I’d welcome you to the gym. She won’t try to be your friend; she’s harmless to the vaginas in here. Unless your husband is here.” She laughs until she takes in the shock of my face. “I’m sorry; I was just kidding.”

  “I just—” I wave my hands around trying to catch my words, but everything fails as I try to decipher whether my heart is thumping out of control because of the treadmill or this stranger’s confession. “I’m Medeia.” I hold out my hand. She instantly takes it.

  “Jane. I’m here only on Thursday mornings. Other than that, unless you’re a night owl, you won’t see me.” She starts her machine up, and I punch mine, as well.

  “No, I like the mornings.” I stare down toward Anna. “More productive this way.”