Dear Anna

by Katie Blanchard

  “I usually do forty minutes. You’re welcome to join me at the local coffee shop after this if you want.” I watch as Jane pops her earbuds in one by one, all the while making it look effortless to accomplish while running at a fast pace.

  “Coffee sounds delicious.” Did I just make a friend? I smile down at the screen on the treadmill. Someone John didn’t approve of first; it feels like a sin and something freeing all at once.

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  You spent twenty minutes in the gym and left looking fresh and ready for the day. What the hell do you go for? I did forty minutes of hardcore running for you, bitch, just to see your whore face again. That’s okay, Jane is cool, so it wasn’t all a loss. Maybe I’ll end up with a friend from all of this.

  Seven

  “You know, you didn’t have to keep up with me the whole forty minutes, but I do commend the effort.” Jane pushes the creamer across the table to my side where I’m rubbing my shaky thighs, praying for relief.

  “Thanks.” I take the creamer with gratitude and shift my weight to sit up straighter with a groan.

  “Going too hard on your first day. Rookie mistake.” She shakes her head into the cup she’s pouring an obscene amount of sugar inside.

  “Oh, thank God, you aren’t one of those people who eat uber healthy, as well. I won’t have to pretend.” I blurt it before I can stop myself.

  Jane laughs. “Hell, no. I run forty minutes so I can put sugar in my cup.”

  “I would say that entitles me to at least two sugar-laden coffees this morning.” I rub down on my thighs and wince in pain.

  “At the very least, my dear.” She waves to the girl behind the counter and shouts for two more for our table. Her crass attitude would send John running for the hills and stamping her inadmissible to our lives, but I like her already. A lot.

  “So, what’s your story?” She blows on her coffee trying to will it to a tolerable temperature while I ponder her question.

  “Housewife. Bored. Over thirty, so gym. Yea!” I mock cheer over my coffee cup.

  “Divorcee. No kids. Wake up angry and run on Thursdays,” she responds.

  “I have no kids, either,” I admit—more to the java in front of me than my new breakfast mate.

  “Yo,” she hollers. “We will need two huge bear claws, as well.” Instead of being annoyed with her, the lady behind the counter smiles and throws a thumbs-up. They must know Jane here.

  “You want to talk about it?” She sips her liquid and moans with delight.

  “Nah. You couldn’t fix it anyway, so what’s the point?” I begin to sip my beverage, as well. My companion becomes quiet, so I use the time to take her in. The hands gripping her cup are rough and calloused, and her clothes scream that she works for a living and doesn’t have stuff handed to her. I almost feel embarrassed by my new athletic shoes bumping into her worn ones. She’s thin but muscular, the running she does hasn’t taken away her leg muscles. Instead, they’ve reacted in the opposite way and bulked up. My favorite feature on Jane, though, are her eyes, sad and wise. They are deep brown with tiny flecks of gold near the top edges of the pupils.

  “My ex-husband cheated on me. Some blonde cunt he met on the internet. I thought running would help me cope, you know?”

  I nod.

  “Thursdays were when they would meet for a morning snuggle. I found that I was still pissed off even afterward, so much for endorphins, but my body was looking good, better than his fat mistress at the time. He still stole a freaking day of the week from me.”

  “I’m sorry.” It’s a dumb thing to say, but it’s what’s expected when someone tells you their sob story.

  “I confessed. Now, you go.”

  I sigh. What can I confess to my new friend? That my husband is screwing the gym trollop she pointed and laughed at, or that I am not allowed to have a job or a life? That a lawyer is making me the butt of his lunchtime jokes? That the friendship I believe we are starting is strictly forbidden, and she is already a secret?

  “Come on. It feels good to get it off your chest. What’s bugging you that you needed to join a gym?” Jane coaxes. “Because, I hate to tell you this, you aren’t there for exercise. You can tell the difference between the people who go for the fitness and the ones who go to physically abuse their bodies to have an actual reason to live in pain.”

  “I’m not allowed a job,” I settle.

  “What?” She looks confused and irritated all at once.

  “My husband wants me just to be a housewife.” I slam my face down on top of the table. “Is that not the dumbest thing to have to hide in a marriage? If I want a job, I have to sneak around like a rebellious teenager.” I don’t know if I’m talking to the table, myself, or Jane, but she’s the only one who answers.

  “Not the worst thing I’ve had to hide. I think you could pull it off.” The waiter delivers our bear claws, and I lift my head from the table.

  “I’m sorry.” I apologize to the waiter, but he doesn’t seem to care.

  “Yeah. Maybe I can pull it off.” I say to Jane. Her simple solution renews me.

  “Let’s go put in some applications after these delicious treats.” She holds her bear claw up, waiting for my decision. If I go with her, I’m defying John’s orders, and possibly putting myself in jeopardy of him finding out. But, on the other end, I need a job to start securing financial freedom from my husband, even if it puts me back into contact with people that John feels will assist in my downfall.

  “Okay.” I slam my bear claw into hers, and the action incites giggles from deep within her belly to erupt. “Let’s give it a shot.” I laugh, as well.

  IT’S BEEN TEN YEARS since I worked, and I never had to put in a traditional application for any of the jobs I’ve held. I was too young at the time to be registered as an employee, so I was paid under the table until I became of age. Now, at thirty-six, the application process is proving to be a bit mind-boggling, but Jane sticks by me the rest of the afternoon while I shuffle from place to place hoping for a job to keep on the low. My hours are unappealing to some because I need to come in after John leaves for work and be back home before him. The rest of the employers find me unattractive for the fact that I haven’t held a job in ten years.

  Jane had me purchase what she deemed a burner phone, something my husband couldn’t trace on the cell phone account we share. She told me it would allow the businesses to call me when I got the job and that John wouldn’t know. When I got the job? Jane sure was positive.

  I’m losing hope, but I keep smiling. I have nothing but the slim chance that someone will call me and let me work for them. Even if it’s for minimum wage, I have to get money in my name. As the lawyer so boldly told me, I gain nothing leaving John.

  I may not have secured a job today, but I think there’s a good chance that I’ve made a friend. Jane is the opposite—loud and feisty. After a decade of being John’s wife, I have assumed an alter ego of poise and prudishness from my younger days. The fact that Jane doesn’t whisper her curse words makes me flinch a little each time I hear her bellow one out. By mid-afternoon, though, I’ve become accustomed to it.

  We are standing on the sidewalk about to get into our respective vehicles and part ways for the day. She treated me to lunch considering I don’t have a job, and in her mind, we needed to celebrate the fact that I may wake up tomorrow with one. “Jane, I just want to say...”

  “No sweat, girl.” She waves me off and steps forward to embrace me ─ something I don’t recall the other wives ever doing when we parted ways. Jane isn’t a light hugger; I feel her arms wrap around me and hold on like she’s hoping to glue a little bit of me back together. It’s warm and all-encompassing, and I didn’t realize until now that no one in my life aside from my mother ever hugged me this way. The tears form behind my eyes; Jane senses the shift.

  “Hey, it’s all right. We all have shit we have to go through. You have a friend now. I’m not going away. I’ll help
you.” Her voice is sincere, and it’s the first time today that Jane doesn’t feel like anyone around us needs to be able to hear her words as she whispers them in my ear.

  “Thank you.” I’m the first to let go in the embrace, not because I want to cut off contact, but because I know Jane intends to hold me until I decide to let go, allowing me to determine how much affection I need.

  “You know? You’re all right, Medeia. I almost slept in today and skipped the gym. Glad I didn’t.” With that, she waves goodbye and gets into her black SUV. It isn’t as lovely as the Mercedes I’m driving around, but I wish more than anything to be as wealthy as Jane.

  I pull into my driveway thirty minutes later and sit in the vehicle, staring at the house. It is a two-story colonial, complete with obscene columns that scale the entire structure. It was love at first sight when John brought me here during our engagement. I recall clapping and happily jumping up and down on the driveway like a damn yo-yo. It was the one I wanted. I remember looking over to see John’s face lighting up at my reaction, he wanted me to have everything I desired back then, and I was so enamored with it that I didn’t realize I would be giving parts of my soul away as payment.

  When I take in the grand view of my home, with my fresh eyes, it looks more like a prison. A place that I have spent most of my days cooped up inside with the list of what I could do shortened and dictated by my husband. This was my solace at one time. I used to believe that I would miss this house should I ever have to leave. John talked about moving and buying something else, and the idea caused me great sadness. Looking up at the grandeur of the red brick, I’m terrified to go in and be swallowed whole.

  I stopped at the store on my way home, grabbed a few groceries, and I did something today that I had never done before. I got cash back at the cash register. My aunt told me in my teenage years that she would do it to have mad money saved away from my uncle. He couldn’t see it because it didn’t show on the bank statement, it just made the grocery bill look a little larger. It wasn’t a trick I used in my life before John, but it felt just as dishonest and like a slippery slope. It felt dirty and cheap.

  I fold the twenty-dollar bill up and slid it into my bra. I would have to hide it. Not only that, I would need to get more. Dirty feeling or not, money was what I needed and would do anything to get it.

  Wherever I end up when the shit hits the fan, I know I won’t ever choose a development again. Neighbors are not my cup of tea, at least not the kind I have here. They are nose, and they want to one-up everyone’s landscaping and remind you of the Homeowner’s Association rules if you dare to do something on your own. I am even imprisoned by the neighborhood’s standards of what I can and can’t do.

  I peer down at my fingers, my manicure is tomorrow, and I have to get my hair trimmed. I like the way money makes me look. In the rearview mirror, I don’t see the ratty, pimple-faced girl begging the electric company for an extension. She’s long gone, back in the past, where I want her to stay.

  I climb out of the car and give a curt wave to the neighborhood gossip, Susan, who has taken to staring at me through her front window. Hello, you nosey, bitch. The curtains suddenly close, no wave. Rude.

  I step through the front door, and even my sneakers on the floor create an echo in this vast space. The living room alone matches the size of my childhood home. Also the apartment I rented at eighteen could fit inside the kitchen. I deserve this space. I’ve paid my dues. I covered up John’s crimes for this.

  “Oh God, Medeia. What am I going to do?” I watch as John panics and begins pacing back and forth in the alley. I note the blood that’s soiling his knuckles and cuffs of his button-up shirt. I am calm. This is nothing.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. I bend down and look on the problem.

  “How can you say that? Look!” He points down at the mess he’s made, the one I’m already looking at. The event has made him hysterical, and hysteric people do not do well in this type of situation.

  “I’ve done this before. They won’t find you; leave it to me.” I hand him my purse and start to strip off my coat, preparing for what needs to be done. The fear in John’s eyes mixes with gratefulness as he rushes to kiss my face.

  “Medeia, get me out of this.”

  Eight

  My thighs ache with each step on the stairs. Another morning at the gym proved fruitless of knowledge aside from telling me that I was ill of shape and that Anna didn’t bother to do any work at the gym but take selfies. How did she keep so fit? Was my body that decrepit with age already in my thirties? I shed the layer of spandex and stand before my bathroom mirror examining the dips and curves of time marked on my naked flesh.

  Parts have dropped and taken residence further down than the lycra was holding them up during my time at the gym. My stomach is not nearly as flat as I recall it being the last time that I examined myself so thoroughly, and my butt bears dimples of a few too many stolen candy bars under my husband’s radar. Was this the reason Anna gained John’s attention? Were these few flaws, brought on by time and the earth’s gravitational pull, that revolting to a man who swore to love me for better or for worse? The unshaven spots and untoned areas scream of my negligence, but I never pushed before this moment to see, with open eyes, the effects of my grief.

  I had let myself go and lowered my standards when my mother passed away. Who gave a shit about makeup when I would just be crying it off? I look now at the expression lines deepening in my face. I had Botox done a couple of times, and it appeared it was time for some more. I liked the way that money kept me from aging, but in turn, it made me hate my natural self. What was so wrong with these lines? The real problem was that they were frown lines instead of laughter ones.

  I slam my hand on the mirror to disguise my reflection; I won’t find the answer there. I turn the shower to a scalding temperature to burn my muscles free of their ache. What happens when my body gets toned? Do I get to stay in John’s good graces? No, I know why he has kept me around. That night when I made sure his deeds were hidden from the world. He owes me his reputation; it was my key to the house and the money by proxy. Now, I want the money and lifestyle with no John.

  As I’m putting on my makeup for the day, John stumbles in yawning and rubbing his eyes.

  “Good morning, John.”

  “Morning.” He relieves his bladder and cranks the shower over to a moderate degree of heat. Then he shuffles back over to kiss the top of my head. It feels like a twenty-pound weight pushing against me.

  “Did you put on concealer?” He tilts his head to one side studying my reflection in the vanity.

  “Yes.” I venture.

  “Oh.”

  “Why?”

  “Nothing, dear. You look tired is all.” He kisses the top of my head again. “Just looking out for you.” With that, he pulls the shower curtain closed.

  I narrow my eyes at his vicinity. How could I have missed these underhanded comments all these years? The way he cut up my appearance but managed to save his soul with a simple line of how it was all in my best interest. It never was. I can’t even retaliate in words considering I was in here not many moments before criticizing myself with worse vocabulary than he dares using.

  Weakness is a filthy layer on my body that I am dying to shed. I share my bed with a man who is cheating on me, and I stay. Something I swore I would never do. I’m finding now that it’s never that easy. Not as simple as packing a bag and walking. There are knots to detangle before you can leave a marriage. I watched my mother choose to stay every single morning of her life when my father would crawl out of bed and instantly reach for the nearest alcohol bottle.

  Meanwhile, she was scrounging up some breakfast to feed her three children who lived most of their lives starving so that my father could fill his need of the drink. Only he never got full, he was insatiable, and she stayed. It angered me as a teenager when I was old enough to understand the world a little better, and I asked her why she stayed.

  “Where wo
uld I go, Medeia?” She sighed into her coffee cup and reached for my hand.

  And so in my mind, I echo those words. Where would I go? I can’t call up my siblings because they’d rather not speak to me, and I have no friends aside from Jane, and we just met. So, where would I go?

  “I’ll be late tonight.” I shift my view toward John.

  “Oh?” I want to spill my guts here, tell him that I know precisely why he’ll be late this evening, but I bite my tongue.

  “Don’t wait up.” He kisses my forehead. “And don’t forget your pills.” He leaves to the closet, and I listen to him dressing in one of his finer suits. I wonder what suit Anna prefers to see on John? Hope not the light gray pinstripe that I adore ─ adored.

  He doesn’t call out a goodbye as he leaves the closet, and I abandon all hope in the mirror of correcting my face. I slide on a simple Dolce and Gabbana sweater dress for today and slither through our bedroom, listening to the sounds of John’s breakfast preparation echoing up the stairs.

  I hear the front door slam when I come to the top of the stairs. I glide down and wait for the garage door to signal the exit of my husband. When his car’s headlights shine through the glass front door as he pulls down the street, I take off for his office. Breakfast can wait.

  I miss breakfast and lunch. I don’t know what I expected to find, but if I’m going to set myself up to leave John, then I need to know everything I can get my hands on. I’m elbow-deep, sifting through files in the bottom cabinet of my husband’s office when I hear ringing. It takes me a little bit to realize it’s my phone. I forgot I purchased the burner phone at Jane’s insistence.

  “Hello,” I balance the phone on the tip of my shoulder while tearing through folders.

  “Hello, is this Medeia Moore?” a female’s voice asks.

  “Yes, it is.”