Dear Anna

by Katie Blanchard

  “Hi, this is Maggie from Books & Mugs, you applied for a job here.” She sounds older than me, and I can hear the wrinkles of time in her voice.

  “Yes.” I grab the phone in my hand and sit up straight.

  “I wanted to ask if Monday was a good day to start?” She keeps her voice soft.

  “Oh, my gosh. Yes, that will be fantastic.” I beam.

  “Okay. I apologize for cutting this call short. I have to go into a meeting right now, but I will shoot you an email with all the details of the job, and you are more than welcome to send me any questions you have back.”

  “Certainly. I look forward to reading the email.” I can’t help but grin like an idiot.

  “I’ll see you on Monday, Medeia.” She says it correctly, too.

  “I’ll see you on Monday,” I repeat. I end the call and fist-bump the air. I have a job. Yes, step one complete. I laugh in the dead silence of the house. I should put some music on to celebrate this moment.

  I’m still laughing when I grab the untitled manila folder in the back of the bottom drawer. It slips from my fingers, and the contents spill onto my lap.

  It stops being funny.

  Prenuptial Agreement spread in calligraphy across the top. The one piece of paper I was foolish enough to sign with my heart and not drop the pen with my mind’s logic. This paper states that I get nothing in the event of a divorce. I remember the day so well.

  “I know this sounds a little harsh, but it’s not. My father wants to see this done to protect his assets. The prenup has nothing to do with the money we make together. I swear.” John pushes my chin up so that I look away from the paper and into his eyes. “I promise, Medeia, I will always take care of you. There’s no need in this paper because we are never getting divorced. It’s only a formality.”

  “I trust you.” I smile back, and his face eases into a relaxed grin, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

  “I was so nervous about showing you this because my father can be so mean at times, and I didn’t want you to think less of me for it.”

  “Of course not.” I run my hand over his cheek and kiss the spot where my thumb resided only seconds earlier. “Give me a pen. I’ll sign it.”

  I jam the paper back into the folder and shove it behind everything else; then I kick the drawer shut with my Prada loafer. John’s father never once besmirched his mother in their divorce. He gave her half of everything without a single hesitation. He wasn’t the mastermind behind my prenup. John lied to cover his ass.

  I hated my father-in-law for years because of my husband’s cruel words on his character how he locked him in a closet when he was younger. He told me tales about the many affairs that his father had while his mother was in the house. Little did I know his father never once did the things that John led me to believe. By the time I discovered the hypocrisy, his father had decided I was worthless in his eyes. Our relationship never bettered, and he hates me still to this day.

  I can’t say I blame him. Everything is on me for not having a spine of my own. I trusted John to be the truth in my life, but he became determined to be the person casting stones and placing the blame upon me. My standoff attitude became famous on his side of the family, with very few of them accepting me or trying to converse with me during family get-togethers. John had perfectly designed a world where I was alone.

  I look about the room. I’m still alone.

  I pick up my phone and dial Jane.

  “Hey, girl,” she answers cheerily.

  “I got a job,” I rush.

  “Oh, my god. That is amazing!” she squeals. “I’d ask if you want to go out and celebrate, but I’m at work myself right now.”

  “That’s okay.” I’m sad at the prospect of hanging out being diminished. “I have some things I need to work on today, anyway.” I look at the drawer I just closed. “Maybe lunch tomorrow?” I hold my breath. I’m desperate for a friend, and hoping Thursday wasn’t a fluke of some sort with Jane. It has yet to be seen in my life if I possess the ability to retain a friendship.

  “I’ll text you. My boss is coming. Have to go. Bye,” she whispers.

  “Bye,” I whisper back and hang up. I don’t know why I lowered my voice; it sends me into a bubbly giggle. Girls used to be so mean to me in school, it’s my only memory of girl power interaction outside of my protective shell of my sister, and it stung.

  The first filing cabinet proved to be nothing but cruel and cold with the prenup tucked away inside. The next filing cabinet is a lot more varied from work documents. There’s a copy of John’s arrest record from college. He told me about it once. He said it was a simple bar fight. Just a quick arrest and everyone was sent home with no charges pressed, but it made him adamant that night that he would be in severe trouble should someone find out what happened. I go to shut the folder when a title jumps out at me on the page.

  Fayette County Probation Office.

  “What?” The word echoes off the walls decorated in honor plaques from various schools John has attended. His highest moments while I had one of the lowest.

  I flip the folder wide open again and pull the letter sitting behind the mugshot printout. John had to be on probation? I thought he said no files were charged against him. I take out my burner phone and Google John’s name. His business and social media pages are the first things to pop up, so I touch the search bar again and add the word “arrest.” There is a link to a tiny article in the Police Beat of that time. That’s it. Hidden away, out of the public eye, just like his rich father would want it to be.

  I read the other papers in the file. John was arrested for beating a man into a coma. He spent months in jail—thanks to his father it wasn’t years—and sentenced to three years on probation. Not a simple bar fight at all; in fact, this was at the man’s house. John hunted him down after an altercation earlier in the day.

  Oh, my god. Chills run down my body. I’ve been living with this man for ten years. We were dating when this happened. How did I not know? How was he in jail? My mind skips back to that time. I scatter the papers in the folder to find the date. Oh, my god. He said he was on a trip to Ireland, a gift from his parents for graduation. A three-month tour. I thought the life of a wealthy family was so privileged when I heard him go on about such a long trip; now I see it’s even more so because he should have gotten years in prison, but his father’s money kept him out.

  I search for the man’s name on the phone. His face has healed in the years past, but there are scars that my husband put there for the world to see for the rest of time. Every day this man wakes up to face the mirror and see the damage John has caused him. His scars are visible on his face; the ones John gave me are hidden from the world. Oh, God.

  Why would he lie about this? How could he keep this a secret? We were around so many other people during this time ─ wouldn’t someone have informed me? What about that night? Why didn’t he come clean then?

  I slam my head back into the other filing cabinet. I am in some deep shit, now. My husband is not only a liar but prone to violence.

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  Does he lie to you?

  Have you ever caught him in a lie? How does it feel for you, being one of his dirty lies yourself?

  You know about me. You don’t care. Were your years in school so rot with bullying from the other females that you broke off a feeling of kinship to other women? Is this the payback they get? Am I to bear the cross of being your scapegoat?

  Nine

  “I don’t think the pills are working.” John’s voice breaks through and drags me from the window of the sunroom where I’m watching an early snowfall.

  “What?” I shift my head out of my hand and shake my wrist free from the ache of the weight it held.

  “You seem different now. I don’t know how to explain it, but ever since that therapy visit, you are off.” He fumbles with something in the front pocket of his slacks.

  “Is there something you need?” I
t was bold of me, to not initially agree.

  “What?” My husband removes his hands from his pockets, crosses his arms over each other, and leans into the doorway of the sunroom.

  “Sorry. I don’t understand what you mean by me being different. Have I not accomplished a chore or an errand? Everything is done in the house; I’m bored. I told you before that I wanted to work because of this feeling.”

  He sighs and kicks his foot off the doorway frame, finally crossing over into the room. “You know how I feel about that, Medeia.” He sits down at the table across from me and takes my hand. I feel burnt by his touch. I suppress the urge to tug away.

  “I know.” I flick a piece of lint from my jeans.

  “I thought the gym was going to be your hobby?” He perks up, thinking he’s won the argument if I tell him that I didn’t go.

  “I go at five in the morning, John. That’s done for today.”

  “Oh.” He swirls circles on the table with his other hand.

  “Medeia. I feel like you’re saying this isn’t enough for you. Don’t I give you the world?”

  “Of course, you do, John. It’s not a slight against you, my wanting to work. It’s simply molding myself into being a more productive and worthy wife.”

  “I’d rather you fix your appearance to gain the title of a worthy wife. You seem to have forgotten your brush today, dear.” He nods toward the unruly mane on top of my head.

  “I braided it this morning when it was wet. Don’t you like it?” I knew he didn’t like it, that’s why I did it.

  “If you’re sure you like it.” He shakes his head.

  “I do.” I don’t want to play his games or let the berating of my body take over the conversation tonight.

  “I’m not sure your attitude is one that I want an employer to know about and gossip around town over. Besides, it looks tacky. Do you know what everyone will think if you got a job? They’ll think that I’m not doing my job as your husband and providing for our family.”

  “What family? You don’t want children,” I spit.

  “Come on, Medeia. Not this again. Look at how having children drained your parents and separated mine. The lengths your mother had to go to to keep food on the table. Do you want to be them?”

  It hurt in a familiar way ─ my mother being the target of ridicule. “I don’t think you’re too far from my family’s actions. Don’t you remember the night my skills of being poor benefitted you?”

  “You can go back to that shack in the woods. I’m sure your father will be happy to do to you what he did to your mother. Here you have a chance not to turn into him, or your seedy brother.”

  I drop his hand and wish him death with my stares. “Do you mean the mother whose funeral you couldn’t be bothered with attending because it wasn’t your thing?”

  He reaches forward and squeezes the hand I removed from his, tight enough to cause pain. “Look. I don’t like this new attitude you’ve developed, so you better stop it, or I’ll have to smack it out of you.”

  I flinch. I think about the mugshot and the guy who is still dealing with medical issues because of my husband’s temper. He’s never threatened to strike me before, but I haven’t spoken against him in our marriage.

  “Now, I don’t want to hurt you, Medeia, but it seems to me like you’ve forgotten all the things I do for you. You’re becoming entitled.”

  “My apologies, John. I spoke with emotion.” There’s an edge to my voice that he doesn’t appreciate.

  “Don’t do it again.” He squeezes my left hand again, and I feel the diamond of my engagement ring cut the side of my middle finger. A solid “fuck you” of our marriage. I wish I could hurt him back.

  “John, you’re hurting me.”

  “I’m reminding you.” His tone is low and warning. I feel my insides grow hot with terror. A flash of John’s hands that night covered in blood plays in my mind. He releases my hand and digs into his front pocket.

  “Don’t forget to take your medicine.” His eyes have grown black.

  “I did this morning.” I swallow hard on the lump inside my throat, but it refuses to move. My body is signaling that I’m not safe just yet. Fight or flight.

  “Remember the doctor upped your dosage.” He slides the small pill container over and points to my glass of water. I put the pills in my mouth but place them in between my back molar and cheek before sipping my water.

  “Open up.” He commands, and I do as I’m told. “Good girl.”

  John leaves me alone in the sunroom, whistling on his way. I yank the pills out of my mouth and toss them into my water, letting them disintegrate inside. I lick the blood from my finger, and the copper taste is more of a victory than a defeat to me. I want more blood but not my own. I hate my husband.

  I start work tomorrow. I can hardly wait to leave this man.

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  I wanted children. Does he tell you that? When you’re with him, is it all sex or does he mention the plans he had with his wife, with me? He promised me a more fulfilled life.

  Do you even bother to imagine me as a woman? Maybe even someone who could be your friend? I’m not a terrible person. I’m not entirely sure why he went off and found you. What kind of hold do you have? I’m dying to know.

  Ten

  My first day of work is a series of blunders with tiny redeeming moments that allow me to believe that Maggie won’t be asking me back for a repeat. Dammit. I see her coming toward me with thirty minutes left of my shift, and I hold my breath.

  “Medeia, can we talk?” My heart drops. She was the only employer out of thousands that gave me a chance, and now I’ve blown it.

  “Yes.” I feel small.

  “In my office.” She points toward the door, and I nod.

  “Of course.” I take the apron off from around my neck and hand it to the other lady working at the tea station. I have fucked up orders and burnt myself with more chai tea lattes than I care to remember. The apron I hand over is a mess of stains from today alone.

  We cross over the threshold to her office, and she shuts the door behind us. I take up space in one of the chairs at the front of her desk; she chooses to sit next to me, versus the traditional power move of sitting behind the desk.

  “I’m so sorry Maggie. Please don’t fire me. I’ll learn; I swear I will.” I grab her hand, begging her.

  “Medeia. I’m not firing you. Although those books damaged today will be coming out of your paycheck, it’s not enough for me to let you go.” She pats my hand.

  I breathe a small sigh of relief.

  “I realized hiring you was going to be a big chance considering the lack of experience you’ve had in recent years.”

  I shamefully bow my head. “I realize you’ve taken a great leap of faith on me. I promise I will learn. I won’t let you down. I want to be able to do this.”

  She holds her hand up to stop me. “You can save all that speech-making for another day, right now I want to inform you that I’ll be putting you on stocking duty tomorrow. It was my fault to put you behind the counter on the tea and coffee considering the amount of time that has passed since you were in the food industry. They aren’t the same thing, not with how fancy drinks have gotten these days. I think you’ll be best in reshelving, and we will do some training on the register. Do you think you can handle it, dear?” Her gentle touch, on my hand, grazes the Band-Aid I am forced to wear over the visible wound created by John.

  “Yes, thank you. I think that is more my pace for now. I am a fast learner. It’s going to be a small bumpy ride for me, but don’t give up, Maggie. I am a perfectionist. I can’t stand not being good at a job so I can assure you that I will master what you throw at me.”

  “You have a few more chances, Medeia. Prove to me that you can figure out one of these other jobs better than you can a cup of tea.” I want to forgive her for being a bitch, for coming down hard on me just because of my status and manicured hands, but I knew t
he type. I was on her playing level now, needing to work. She had a run in somewhere with a bitch who looked like me, and I embodied all the things that annoyed her about that moment.

  “Now, go home. Your shift is done. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I shake her hand and stand. “Thank you, Maggie. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I don’t say any more. I don’t want to dig my hole deeper or look weak trying to dig my way out. I fucked up today, and I own it. It wasn’t my cup of tea, pun intended, but I’m going to make tomorrow better. I have no other choice but to learn this job and accomplish it.

  When I get home, I have two hours to spare before my lying husband graces me with his presence. I’ve changed clothes in the car and stuffed the work clothing into a covert shopping bag, so our chef doesn’t bother to comment on it. It’s not odd to see a rich woman carrying a shopping bag, but it is strange to see her wearing a polo work uniform.

  “Hello, Hannah. Whatever you’re cooking this evening smells delicious.” I feel a little lighter in my step—even with a lousy day in the books, I’m coming home having achieved the keeping of a secret, one that was going to get me a new life.

  “It’s chicken noodle soup, ma’am. I made it a little fancier for Mr. Moore’s tastes.” I want to join in with her constant jokes about John’s uppity preference, but I know her to be a gossip. I won’t hand over anything.

  “I’m going to go upstairs and freshen up before Mr. Moore comes home.” With that, I turn on my high heel and march upstairs where I will scrub the smell of books and odd café drinks off my person and reapply my old life so that no one is the wiser.

  “Good evening, darling. How was your day?” I greet John with his usual glass of wine and a smile. Only this time it isn’t hard to fake because I’m thinking of the money that I made today instead of trying to conjure up one for him from scratch.

  “Well, someone’s feeling better. My day at work was good. How about your day here?” He accepts the glass from me and holds his elbow to me. I force myself to take it.