Dear Anna

by Katie Blanchard

  I hobble under the weight of my husband as we trek to the master bathroom on the second floor, the one that connects to our bedroom. I strain with every step under his full weight because he’s decided not to help me at all. Carrying the burden that is John feels like an ironic metaphor to our life together. I laugh.

  He scowls. “What’s so funny?”

  “Just thinking how I’m glad I skipped leg day at the gym this morning.” The lie comes quickly from my mouth, and I’m proud to have the skill of my youth returning with ease.

  “Oh.”

  I lean him against the sink once we reach the bathroom and start to walk away when he reaches for my hand like a tree’s roots jutting from the dirt and trying to trip you on your escape.

  “Medeia, you still look so sad.” He’s staring through me and not at me.

  You look like a piece of shit.

  I grimace. “I’m fine, John.”

  “I think you need the medication.” He almost plants his mouth on the edge of the marble counter but catches himself in time. Damn.

  “I think you need to sober up.” I turn the bathtub faucet over.

  “This is only one time. I’m upset by the day I’ve had,” he defends.

  “And I’m upset by my mother’s death.”

  He glares at me. I’ve matched him in wit. Most of my body, the repetition burned into me, tells me to hold my tongue, but I let the new part win — the old Medeia.

  “Fine.” He tries to shove me out of the way, but I dodge him with ease, and he stumbles into the wall. He uses the towel bar to steady his steps to the tub. He gets in with his clothes still on.

  Where is Anna now, John? She isn’t here to strip the wet clothes clinging to your body so that you can get clean. It doesn’t matter how hard you scrub in here, or how hard I do when I end up helping you because you’re too intoxicated to complete the task yourself, you’ll never be able to wash off the stain of your soul, John. For that, you will pay the ultimate repentance, for which I have scheduled the meeting.

  “Can you...” He pauses and rubs his pathetic hand down his equally worthless face. “Can you help me?” He seems embarrassed, the weight of his uselessness coming to light in the tub.

  I swallow back the bile at the thought of being this man’s crutch any longer. I nod and move from my perch on the toilet lid to the edge of the tub. I take the washcloth from him. Sure, darling, I’ll help you. Your whore isn’t here to see you in your crippled state, no. You save that version for your wife.

  It takes effort, but I get John dried and into bed. I rub the pain in my back and move to the closet to change my soggy clothes. When I come back into our bedroom, John’s loud snoring signals he’s finally asleep. I sigh. I turn out the light and make to close the door when I notice a light shining from John’s phone. I walk back and check the screen.

  Anna.

  I don’t condone the violence you showed today, John. I talked Kalen into not pressing charges, but this better be the last time.

  So, Anna’s the reason the bottles ran dry so fast today. Your girlfriend was mad at you, John. I back up the text messages in his cloud to make sure they stay there for when I need them. No one will be shocked by your violent ways.

  “Idiot.” I toss the phone down and hit him square in his unconscious face.

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  You required a Mercedes SUV to date your old boss. Free expensive groceries for Michael at the store to talk to you. Free gym membership for the trainer’s fiance’s ignorant bliss. Yet, you are satisfied with a mattress on the ground when it comes to John.

  You love him.

  I hate you.

  Not because you fell in love with my husband, that I believe you couldn’t control. The legs you held open for him you could, but that’s a different story. What I hate most about you is that you are less than me; there is nothing I could have done better to hold onto the attention of my husband. I gave him everything, took his every comment to heart and molded myself to become the perfect bride for John.

  But he still chooses you.

  That’s why I hate you.

  Twenty-Six

  Intercepting text messages from Anna has been easier than I thought it would be. I can’t do a thing about them when he is at work when she’s right in front of him, but at home, I do my best. It works out perfectly to spark self-esteem issues in Anna. She notes to John several times that she realizes he’s home with me and wondering if he’s changing his mind.

  I know your wife may be at home, but that never stopped you from texting me before.

  John, naturally, is taken aback by this, considering she was the one not texting him. Only, he didn’t see the messages she was sending him because I deleted them before he could read them. The misunderstanding leaves enough room for doubt in Anna’s mind, and she starts a quarrel to make John prove he loves her. John doesn’t like to be told what to do.

  Maybe you need to relax. You already know my feelings for you, why do I need to prove it over and over?

  That’s what people do in a relationship.

  I’m married, Anna. What do you propose I do?

  Dead silence on her part. Or at least—that’s how I make it look. I delete the paragraph rant about how she wants to be needed considering all that she is giving up in her life to be with a married man. It was compelling stuff. She made some persuasive points. Too bad John won’t see them. He believes he’s getting the silent treatment, so he serves her the same platter.

  They play into the game like easy pawns. Anna doesn’t even try to use a code for the fact that she wants her lover to lock up his wife in a crazy house. Maybe I am insane, but at least I won’t be dead in a month.

  I watch as my husband obsessively checks his phone all night while we are watching a movie in the living room. He wants to remain silent and not be the one to break first, but the wait is killing him. The fact that Anna has no permanent attachment to him leaves him nervous.

  “Expecting a call, hon?” I ask as I throw some more popcorn into my mouth.

  “Mind your business.”

  I lift my right shoulder at him; I don’t care enough to give him a full shrug.

  “I was just wondering if everything at work is okay after the fight with Kalen.”

  “Huh? Oh. It’s fine,” he mutters, slamming his phone down on the cushion.

  “Good. Good.” I turn my attention back to the television, thankful for a funny part in the movie so I can laugh out loud at the pouty toddler of a grown man on the couch beside me. “Isn’t this nice, John?”

  “What?” he grumbles. He is not finding the movie funny at all because he’s missed all the jokes.

  “You and me, sitting on the couch watching a movie. Just like old times.” I want to jam a fistful of popcorn in his mouth and hold it there until he chokes on it and gasps his last breath.

  “You mean listening to you chomp down on popcorn and miss every line of the movie?” He growls. “Your nails are chipped, too. It is like old times.”

  “Huh.” I stare down at my nails, and sure enough, three of them are sporting chips in them, and I hadn’t noticed. Working and going to the gym have taken a toll on my appearance. I smile down at my nails. They’re fucking beautiful. Perfection.

  I place the popcorn bowl on the table in surrender. “I think I’m going to go take a walk around the neighborhood. Do you want to come with me?” I stand up from the couch, tugging down my shirt.

  He looks at his phone again. Nothing.

  “Fine.” He stands up and flicks the television off.

  “Perfect. Then I can pick your brain to get ideas for your birthday coming up.”

  John turns to me and genuinely smiles. “Birthday? Planning something?” He winks. Anna is forgotten just like that. This is him. I knew I didn’t marry an evil creature; it’s what he became. I see my John staring back at me now, and I lose my breath. It is like old times.

  “Um. Maybe,” I stutter.


  He laughs. “You never were good at keeping a secret.” He ruffles the top of my hair. “Come on; let’s go.” He holds his arm out for me to take and we walk, linked together, to get our jackets and shoes.

  “So,” I start to stumble in my speech under the careful watch of John. He sees me. He’s looking at me again. “I was thinking of planning something, but I want your input if you’d prefer for it to be small and intimate, or large and extravagant.”

  “Intimate,” he whispers in my ear, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I zip my jacket up farther to protect myself from any more of that nonsense. So much of my body betrays me, telling me I want to lean into him, but the logic side needs to win.

  “It can be done,” I chirp.

  “Do it at the house. Make it easier on yourself to plan.” He drops his arm and links his hand in with mine as we turn to the right out of our driveway and head instinctively through our old routine of walks. This was something we used to do all the time when we were first married.

  “Good idea.” His hand feels foreign yet good in mine. I want to melt in, but his hand has held another’s, and I need to keep telling myself that over and over.

  “Don’t you just love this plan, John?” I smile clinging to my husband’s arm. It’s been a month in our new home, and I’m still floating on cloud nine.

  “Mmm.”

  “This could be our thing, John─ walking at night.” He smiles down at me. Everything feels simple and easy.

  To the neighbors peeking out while we retell old stories from our dating past, we look like a happy couple spending time together, and that’s what I want them to see. A part of me aches in grief that it isn’t what we are. John was the love of my life, my best friend. Life and money changed us. Power took over John, and he needed to implement it in every aspect of his life, until one day he woke up and I didn’t hold his attention anymore, his secretary did.

  Was it my fault for being able to be manipulated? I thought I was merely making my husband happy. Was it all John’s fault for seizing the opportunity to make me weak? Or could the whole thing be blamed on Anna for recognizing the qualities in John that made it easy for her to get what she wanted?

  “Remember the crazy neighbor that used to live there?” He points at a house on the corner that has sat with a for sale sign in the yard for two years now.

  “Yeah, they’re never going to sell that house after the newspaper article they printed.” I wince.

  “Shit on the walls. Painting an entire room with human feces.” He screws his face up in disgust as I imagine mine looks, as well.

  “That’s the kind of people who belong on medication. Not me,” I whisper.

  John drops his head and the conversation.

  We make it back around to the house, the fresh air feeling excellent and dizzying. I feel like a young girl again. This was the first night in a long time that I didn’t hate everything about John. Maybe he could change.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come to your mom’s funeral.” He whispers it into the night sky—not at my face.

  “It’s okay.” He would never be able to repair the damage that leaving me alone at a time like that caused, but his remorse felt soothing. We stand in the front yard and look at the night around us.

  “I’m going to stay out here for a little bit.” He looks worried. I know when John has that face that it’s best to leave him alone with it.

  “Okay. Good night, John. I had a nice time walking with you again.” I don’t even have to lie.

  “Me too, Medeia.” He looks confused by it. “Me, too.”

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  You didn’t know John before, that John will always be mine. The new John you can have.

  Twenty-Seven

  John sent a text to Anna before he came to bed, telling her that he didn’t know if he wanted to go through with the plan anymore. It was the first line of communication between them since the silence fell, and I can’t believe John was the one to break it.

  She responded at two o’clock in the morning, waking John from his sleep. She called him a coward. It was odd to read the words of someone playing John’s usual role of twisting words to him. I hated her with each curse word she threw at him. I read them while he showered in the morning, washing away the things she called him.

  End it then, John. Be a big man about it and end it with me. Since suddenly you have a conscience for what you’ve been planning on doing. I didn’t start this. You’re the one who did. And look how far you are in. If you end this, I’m telling.

  I don’t want to do that, Anna. I’m just saying she doesn’t deserve this.

  If you leave me now, I’ll make sure the whole world knows about us and your plan.

  Don’t do that.

  Are you going to go through with it or not, John?

  I don’t know.

  There’s no other way. You’re a coward. I love you more than she does. I deserve the life with you.

  He stopped texting her after that. I was nervous for his response, but two things were for sure either way — I’m not going to a damn mental facility, and Anna will die. I throw the covers off me and jump out of bed for coffee — a victory for me. Anna threatened him. I have motives all around.

  It doesn’t matter if John has grown a conscience toward me or not, Anna sure hasn’t, and I damn sure wasn’t about to give up my freedom for either of them. I am not going to be the stepping stone they push into the dirt to build the foundation for their new life together.

  As I wait for the machine to brew, the knife slab on the countertop lures me away. I raise one of the knives to my neck and press down just a little. I debate if this will do the trick. Nah, too small of a handle for control of the blade. I put it back into the slot of the knife slab. The butcher knife is the only one I can think of, but it’s more noticeable when it’s missing. I’m looking for a strong second that could pass the inspection of my husband, but not an officer who is looking for the murder weapon in our home.

  I pick up one of the steak knives. No. I mean, it works for the fact that there’s always a slot missing a knife, so I could easily rearrange the knives from day to day to throw off the scent, but it’s not going to work to cut through a neck. It needs to be sharper. Besides, they can hardly cut through John’s well-done steak, how can it push through the layers of human flesh? Who eats a steak well-done, anyway?

  I look at the bread knife. No. Paring knife? No. What the hell? Butcher’s knife is the only one I want. The only one. How would I easily hide that it is missing? John would notice. Then when it all comes out, he’ll be suspicious of me and sell me out for Anna and for that night.

  Wait. I open the utensil drawer and find just what I want — the butcher knife from my grandmother. It’s a special knife that came only by itself in its own sheath. Thanks, Grandma. It lies now alongside the watermelon knife, cantaloupe knife, and another knife. So, I have options. Around every corner, there is a rainbow. Using her knife would be fitting, considering my grandma was a feisty old woman who threatened to cut the balls of any man that dare cross her. I guess she’ll get her wish after all, in a way. I’m going to metaphorically cut John’s balls off when I slit the throat of his mistress.

  I hear John’s loud footsteps enter the room. He drags his toes off the ground before lifting them to make a new footprint. The tops of his shoes are always a little more worn down than a normal man’s, and it looks atrocious and sloppy.

  “What are you doing?” He’s displeased, the moment we found last night is long forgotten. I nod at the drawer in solidification. This ends soon.

  “Trying to find the apple slicer. I wanted to munch on an apple and some peanut butter.” I smile while I think about what kitchen utensil that I would love to see jutting out of his neck.

  “It’s right there in front of you, don’t you look?” he snaps.

  “Oh.” I grab the apple slicer and hold it up proudly. He rolls his eyes. I want to take t
he device down his penis and cut it into five even pieces with the middle sorted out. Give Anna more things to suck on this evening when I thoughtfully send the parts to her in a large envelope mailer.

  “Great, now do you think you could make something edible for breakfast today? That would be a real triumph,” he giggles, but the cruel words aren’t covered up by the laughter this morning.

  I think about putting some laxative in his food, something that would cause him some pain tonight. I settle for spitting in his food the next time I fix his plate.

  “So, I’m not the best cook, but there are worse things.” I plan on putting the positive, smiling face on because I know how much it gets under John’s skin when he can’t get my goat. He hates when he’s trying to draw a fight to make me the bad guy and it backfires on him.

  He scoffs. “Like what?”

  “Well, at least I’m good in bed,” I venture.

  “Yeah, that doesn’t feed my stomach and sustain life, though.” At least I have the compliment of pleasing a selfish man in the bedroom.

  “Well, if my cooking is so bad, John, you can make breakfast,” I quip.

  “If I cook, I’m making breakfast for myself, and that’s it. I’m not serving you,” he warns.

  That used to get him what he wanted — threatening what would happen if I didn’t do something for him. It doesn’t now. The veil is off; these words bring anger to me instead of a morbid fear. Standing before him in the kitchen, I only see him for the little bully he is and think about grabbing the skillet and beating his head like it was a tennis ball. I would be the Wimbledon champion here in my kitchen. I’d stand over his lifeless body and accept my gold medal.