Dear Anna

by Katie Blanchard

  There’s no flow in this room; I bang my knee into an oversized coffee table that doesn’t fit in the space, leaving only a tight area to scooch around the couch. I creep down the hallway to the kitchen, rubbing the pain in my knee away. There are three shelves placed in an even row going down the hall, and they all house creepy stuffed animals. A thing some people collect as they have a uniquely large head design, but a woman of Anna’s age should be out of this hobby by now, shouldn’t she? Or at least hide them where only she can enjoy whatever pleasure she gets out of collecting these obscure little things. I run my finger along the edge of the first shelf. Dust. Come on, Anna, get your shit together.

  What does John see in her? It’s clear she doesn’t have any personality that isn’t picked straight out of whatever chain home store she shops, and the little bit she does have is somewhat disturbing and thin. I enter the kitchen and open the fridge. Cheap beer. How tacky, Anna. Perhaps you should try a boxed wine to whet your palate for the finer things in life. I suppress a giggle. Is this her appeal? She’s just a girl, whereas I am a woman. Even just grab a malt beverage for God’s sake, Anna. The rest of the fridge is close to bare, having lost her groceries to her mom.

  I look in the freezer. It’s stocked. For being a svelte girl who shops at the whole foods store, she sure does like to snack on the freezer meals and ice cream. It’s probably all for show. Her social media feeds are flooded with photos of her eating healthy meals. What would her following think if they caught a glimpse of the real, unedited, unfiltered Anna? I see a lot of the chicken nugget trays as if she’s still a toddler. There is a bag with dinosaur shaped ones. Oh, for the love. Come on, John. I give you class and sophistication, and you take this toddler nonsense over me? I shut the door and peer into the cabinets, not many baking dishes to be found.

  Anna is the type of girl who has her food to-go or delivered. She doesn’t cook or bake. I wonder how she manages those pictures on her feed. There isn’t much to be found in this kitchen at all that supports the life she puts out there for the world. The truth behind her mask is that Anna is still poor and lonely.

  John comes home to me, but he happily leaves that space for someone whose life is just as fake as the ten pounds of makeup on her face. From the looks of the apartment, there isn’t much to Anna. She keeps herself alive to be a toy for the men she wants in her life, waiting for the day when it pays off.

  I’m pleased that I decided to come here this evening. I hesitated for so long, believing that what I saw on Anna’s social media was enough to catch a glimpse inside her world. It wasn’t. It is all a lie; she isn’t that person at all. Nor is she the woman at the gym working out on the weight machines, she prefers to run outside. She wasn’t the woman with a fancy SUV because she worked hard at her job, she got that nugget from blackmailing her ex. Anna is a woman devoid of any real personality of her own. She keeps throwing things at the wall, hoping something sticks for her.

  I make my way farther down the hallway. The bathroom is littered with a ton of makeup that’s more expensive than the living room furniture. She spends hours in here dolling herself up only to have that work smeared across her whorish face. I look in the bathtub, her hair from shaving in the bath is scattered all over the white porcelain. Every woman knows to shave in the shower instead. Her mother never taught her the secret. Good God. And who doesn’t clean the tub out afterward? Disgusting.

  I roll my eyes at the mildew on her shower curtain. What a winner, John. Good choice. I can see why you like her so much. No wonder she’s okay with just the mattress on the cement floor of a warehouse. She makes you take her there instead of inviting you back to this dump because she’s ashamed of her neighborhood. I wonder if she has John fooled into believing she came from money, as well, and that’s why they don’t use her apartment that doesn’t have a roommate as her email said. Another stretch of the truth from Anna. I should keep a tally mark of lies and compare John and Anna to find out who has the most.

  I wander down the rest of the hallway. All that’s left is Anna’s bedroom. This apartment is tiny, but it works for a single girl working twenty minutes away. She doesn’t have any animals to keep her company—no one to miss her when she’s gone. I push open the bedroom door; it’s made of white wood and covered with scarves dangling across the top so that it cannot shut properly.

  I gasp.

  Here is where she saved her personality. A forgotten bedside table light illuminates the one bright red wall the headboard butts up against. Making the bed the main feature and first thing your eyes are drawn to. The frame is an extravagantly detailed king-size mahogany wood housing. The posts shoot up above the mattress, and she’s fashioned a proper canopy across the top. White tulle hangs down in a seductive way instead of looking like a tacky teen’s room, and it reaches down to the foot of the bed. Her sheets are silky red underneath a luxurious black comforter. Down. Real down. I’d bet my life on it. It’s underneath a duvet cover, but I can tell. She has matching nightstands harboring on either side of the bed. The reason why a single woman would need two is beyond me until I open them. Sex accessories galore. Toys and lubes and condoms. Sweet God. Jezebel.

  In the corner, she has a hammock chair hanging from the ceiling instead of a traditional sitting chair. Scattered along the macramé cord seat are fuzzy pink handcuffs and a whip. There is trunk underneath the only window in the room. The window is fashioned with a double curtain rod that completes the look of the room with both red and black thick light-blocking curtains. There is a white shag area rug against the hardwood floor that aids in pulling the whole place together. So, Anna’s personality is sex.

  A trunk sits alone at the foot of her bed. Inside is where Anna has her private possessions tucked away. Neatly placed with care are photos and journals. Memories she strives to keep safe, alongside her sins of today. I pick up a picture of her and John that tops one tower of possessions. I hold it to the window to have light from the street lamp illuminate his frozen face—a moment in time that they captured forever. They look happy. It’s evident to the naked eye that they just finished having sex. The bed sheet seductively pulled over her breast, her hair disheveled but it’s clear she ran a quick hand through it so that the picture would give a look that she was longing to achieve. John is smiling his sleepy sated smile after he’s had an orgasm—selfishly, usually without asking if I finished. It’s clear he’s the one holding up the camera to take the photo. I look for some clue as to what he sees in her. Her makeup is smudged, and she doesn’t look like the done-up supermodel I see all the time. She’s wrecked, and he loves it. He gets to know this side of her as if it is a gift from the heavens, something she doesn’t show anyone but him. He’s privileged.

  I’m surprised John likes a girl that has two nightstands full of goodies. I could hardly get him to take a shower with me through the years of our marriage. Any time I dared to ever suggest anything outside of the box when we were making love, he ran off and lost his nerve to finish. Now, I barely make it through the ten minutes of missionary style without throwing up all over him. Sleeping with the enemy.

  I take the photo and jam it into my pocket. It may be foolish. Anna might look at it every night for all I know, longing to be the wife he so desperately needs. The one he has now is not fulfilling his needs, and she would never let that happen. She is just showing him the love he deserves. She may look at this picture and see her future alongside him.

  I plan on studying this picture until it talks to me, tells me all the reasons I lost my husband’s love and why she has earned it. If it would just tell me what makes the two smiling into the camera so deliriously fucking happy, maybe there could be peace in my heart. What makes another so fascinating that they’re worth ripping your spouse’s heart out?

  Why is it worth dying for?

  A slam against the outside door makes me jump. Fuck. I dart off into the bathroom and climb into the tub, drawing the shower curtain half closed. When the door opens all that fills the apartm
ent is sounds of Anna’s moaning and the feeling of déjà vu.

  “Hold on. Hold on.” She demands.

  “Come on, baby.”

  “No, my bedroom. Not here.” She breaths between kisses and attempting to shut the door behind her.

  Their shadows pass by the doorway as Anna leads a new man to her sex treasure chest. Not John. Not Thomas. Not Michael. I exit out of the tub and grab the lipstick off Anna’s shelf.

  “Holy shit. Your room is sick.” The guy has more of surfer dude tone in his voice than John’s professional one or Thomas’s easy going one.

  I roll my eyes at the continued moaning as he kicks the door shut. This is my chance. I slink out, careful not to put myself in the sliver of the light from the door that won’t close because of those damn scarves.

  “Let me freshen up.”

  Fuck. This girl. I dart to the kitchen as I hear Anna’s heels on the floor again. She flicks on the bathroom light, and I hear the faucet running. It feels like forever before the water kicks off and she’s heading back to entertain her guest.

  “Where were we?” She puts on her best seductive voice for the man.

  “Bring that sweet ass over here.” She giggles and I hear her jump on the bed.

  I duck around the half wall of the kitchen into the living room space and stare down the hallway. A part of me wants to watch and see what Anna does to drive these men insane. Why can’t I even hold on to my husband and she has four guys eating out of the palm of her hand? I don’t go. Instead I make my way to the front door. I take a deep breath before I turn the knob and allow only enough room to squeeze myself outside.

  Anna is a greedy whore.

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  Your red lipstick looks better on me. I swiped it from your bathroom. It seems fabulous with my skin tone. I’ve seen you wearing it lately. It must have been your new favorite. You looked like a drowned heroin addict when you wore it. You should thank me for stealing it. I’m saving you. You could lose John with that look.

  Speaking of John, he hates the lipstick on me. I loathe you and the oxygen that finds its way into your lungs and sustains your pathetic life.

  As for me, I look like a 50’s movie star. Unfortunately, I’m playing the most tragic role.

  Twenty

  “Mrs. Moore.”

  “Medeia, please.” The irritation hums through my veins at the lawyer’s exasperation for me daring to retake a moment of his time today.

  “Well, frankly, it’s going to be Mrs. Moore because I feel like you need a reality check about what you’re trying to accomplish here. There’s no way in my professional opinion that you’ll be able to come out of this divorce with anything.” He taps his pen off his desk. He looks younger than me and too fresh in the world yet, but I have a terrible feeling when a lawyer looking for experience won’t take a case. He should be the greediest looking for work, shouldn’t he?

  “But he’s cheating on me!” I hold my phone up in protest, showing the screenshot of their night together in the warehouse.

  “Might I suggest that you consider that an indiscretion and go on with your marriage. Better than being a poor, single woman.” He looks at my clothes up and down. “Are you ready to give up what luxuries his money affords you?” He shuffles the papers I’ve brought him back into the folder and holds them out for me to take home.

  “That’s it?” I’m baffled. “You told me to get proof; now you say just to ignore his infidelity?”

  “Afraid so.” He shakes the folder impatiently, waiting for me to grab it. I rip it from his hands and flip the strap of my purse around my shoulder.

  “Thanks for nothing.” I bite out.

  “No offense, Mrs. Moore ─” he says the name with such irritation ─ “but what did you expect when you signed that prenup?”

  “Fidelity. Like an asshole, that’s what I expected. Good day, Mr. No Good Useless Lawyer.” He salutes me, and I slam his door behind me.

  I throw the papers in the garbage outside of his office. “What good are they anyway?” I shout at the can.

  “Ma’am?”

  “What?” I shout at the receptionist. She’s an older lady cowering behind her ancient computer monitor.

  “Are you alright? Would you like some tea?”

  “I want some fucking vodka. A whole bottle as big as that man’s ego in there.” I point at the door that I just exited containing the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.

  “I, um.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I shout at her and take off for the exit. I’d slam that door, too, if it let me.

  I make it home in record time and pour whiskey into a mug and take it to the sunroom. I don’t even shed my purse or shoes at the door. Fuck it, what’s the point? All I want is to get drunk. I chug the mug down in a few seconds. The alcohol burns my throat and brings tears to my eyes. I want more. I throw my purse on the floor and spin in my seat to head back to the kitchen for the bottle.

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” John encompasses the doorway before I can get out.

  “What?” I notice my work lanyard dangling from his left hand. “No, I just─”

  “Oh, I want to hear how you explain your way out of this Medeia. I specifically told you no job.” He advances toward me and chucks the lanyard at my face. It bounces off my shoulder and lands on the table behind me. I fall back into my seat.

  I look for the words as I stare down at my nametag─ another thing of mine for him to take. I wipe my forehead, praying the lie comes to me, but John has had more time to prepare than I.

  “Let me tell you this, Medeia.” My name sounds like a curse. “No job. I told you no job. You make me look weak. The world will peer in here and think that something is wrong, that I can’t provide all of a sudden. You don’t care what kind of risk that puts on us, do you?” He moves his hand, and I flinch, but he grabs the lanyard and chucks it across the room. Something is wrong here, but it’s not our finances. “Quit.”

  “John, it’s just a job.” He lunges forward so that his nose is touching mine, and it’s the most violent feeling I ever felt by another human’s face.

  “You’re so stupid. You don’t get it, do you? No man in my position has a wife that works. You’re just meant to sit here and look pretty, and you can’t even manage that.” He flicks his wrist into my hair indicating the style not being suitable.

  “I look just fine.” I clench my teeth.

  “You smell of alcohol. Bad day at your job?”

  “No. Just a bad day.”

  “Why don’t you take some pills? Does Dr. Janson know that you like to drink in the middle of the afternoon?” The devil inside John smirks at me.

  “Why are you home?”

  “I had to deal with this.” He points at me.

  “John,” I start.

  “Quit.” He finishes.

  He storms off, and I’m left alone, lonelier than before. I hold my face in my hands and cry. I’m fucked.

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  Thanks for telling John about my job. I know it was you. You heard my name spoken and you lead him on to it. Thanks, bitch. You’ll get yours. Trust me. I’ll find a way.

  Twenty-One

  “Medeia. I’m worried. You haven’t said a word in twenty minutes.” I scooch down into Dr. Janson’s couch further and bring about my large sweatshirt around me. My hair is unwashed, and I have no makeup on. I’ve chosen the most massive sweatshirt in my closet.

  “Please, Medeia.”

  “He made me quit.” I sniff.

  “Who made you quit? Quit what?” Les is concerned. His voice is not a distant professional; he’s invested. It makes me feel a small light in the dark.

  “John.” I sigh and wipe the tear rolling on my cheek. “I got a job. Secretly. He won’t let me work. He said it makes him weak.”

  “You were working? I’m sorry, Medeia. Why did John make you quit?”

  “I didn’t know that wanting to
feel independent was such a dirty thing.” I ignore his questioning, lost in my own mind.

  “It’s not.” Les drops his pad into the side of his chair. He’s not taking notes right now. “Tell me about it, Medeia. Get it off your chest. I can see in your eyes that you’re living in a past moment, and I can’t help you if you don’t let me come there, too.” I shift in my seat taking in his face. He wants to know.

  “Did I ever tell you about my siblings?” I push the brim of my baseball cap up so that Les can see me.

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “I have a younger sister and brother, Ophelia and Hank.” I smile mentioning their names.

  “What do they do?”

  “I don’t know.” My smile fades. “John made me agree that they were worthless to our lives. Our rich lives.”

  “Tell me about the past. I don’t want to hear about John.”

  My eyes fill with tears. “Me either.” A sad smile lifts Les’s lips.

  “When I was eighteen, I moved out. God, I couldn’t stand being in that shack any longer. I told my mother that I was taking Ophelia and Hank with me. She tried to protest, but I packed their bags and told her they were going. She didn’t fight because at that second my father came in drunk and throwing his bottles. I think she was relieved that someone was getting her children out of there. She never believed that she could do it.”