Dear Anna

by Katie Blanchard

  “Coffee?”

  I shift in the bed off my stomach where I was watching the sunrise and turn over to Jane’s smiling face as she sits on the comforter holding two mugs.

  “Yes, please.” I take the cup from her and mirror her position in bed.

  “Do you want me to come with you today?” I could tell she was nervous, the bruising on my cheek came almost immediately after the slap. I reach to touch the tender spot that she’s fixated on.

  “No,” I decide. “I can’t drag you anywhere near this. It needs to be clean.”

  She reluctantly agrees. “So, I was thinking.” She turns her mug in her hand and bites her lip.

  “What?” I sip at my coffee, already doing its job at waking me up this morning.

  “I hate living alone.” She is having a tough time because independence is now the anthem of her core and admitting that she is lonely out loud feels like a betrayal.

  “Can I have this room?” I interrupt her. “I love watching sunrises, and it looks gorgeous from this balcony view.”

  She sighs with relief and leans her head on my shoulder while I look out at the view some more.

  “I never had a sister. I was an only child,” she whispers.

  “I had a brother and a sister,” I admit.

  “Had?”

  “John ran them off.” I sip the coffee, hoping to warm the ice of the past.

  “Perhaps we need to make it our mission to find them.” It wasn’t a question, or a statement really; just Jane’s way of telling me what the future held.

  “I’d like that.” I smile into my coffee. “I really would.”

  After I get dressed, I bid Jane farewell and head back toward the house to pack up the rest of my things. I don’t have much, or at least I don’t want much. Now that I can be out of that house, I only wish to have what is dear to me. I didn’t have time last night to do a final sweep and make sure I had it all. Plus, Jane deserves her Christmas present.

  I turn right at the stop sign onto our street, and as I round the last bend to our house, lights catch my eyes. Police lights. Red and blue blaring in the driveway of my marital home. I slow the car to a stop nearby and get out. I don’t remember running, but I make it to the door in a hurry only to be caught by a police officer.

  “You can’t go in there, ma’am,” he says as he effortlessly lifts and sets me down in a new spot.

  “That’s my house. What’s going on?” Could John be dead? Did he kill himself? Why are there three cars here? Is that the number they bring to arrest someone or to a suicide?

  The officer signals to one of his buddies to come over and escort me off to the side of the yard so that I can no longer get in the way of their job.

  “Deputy Byers will fill you in, ma’am, but right now I need to ask that you step away from the entrance.” Sure enough, Deputy Byers is gripping my elbow and leading me away from the front porch while the officer at the door returns to standing guard.

  “What’s going on?” I repeat.

  “Hold on, ma’am. I’ll answer your question in just a moment, but first I need you to answer some of mine. What’s your name?” He is a younger officer, tall and built like he spends his mornings at the gym. The brown locks of his hair flow into his face, and I can tell he takes pride in not only his job but his appearance, as well.

  “My name is Medeia Moore, this—” I point to the front door— “is my house.”

  “Where are you coming from, Medeia?” He raises his eyebrow in question.

  “I slept at a friend’s house last night. I fought with my husband, and I left,” I state. I don’t give more away than he’s asking, but I know sometimes it’s not about the words you say, but more the ones that you don’t.

  “Is that how you got that bruise?”

  “The what?”

  “That bruise.” He points to my face. “On your cheek there.”

  “Yes, I slapped him back, though.” I want clear transparency when it comes to the cop’s impression of me. I don’t want him believing I can lie to the authorities.

  “That’s okay, ma’am.” He touches my face for a closer inspection. “You’re saying your husband struck you, though?”

  “Yes.” His hand is pinching my chin, moving my head from side to side looking for other marks.

  “Why?” He’s bent down oddly so that he can square up with me eye-to-eye. It’s a little unnerving and comforting all at once, and I’m not sure what the effect is supposed to be out of the two options.

  “I confronted him about the affair he was having at work.” I look toward the sky. “Look, tell me honestly, is he dead?”

  “No, ma’am. He’s alive.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief and bend my body in half. I don’t want John to get out of this that easily. “The detectives told me he was cheating on me with his secretary, so when they left the house, I called down to his office and asked for Regina. She’s the nosiest bitch there, so I knew she’d have the scoop. Sure enough, she sent pictures. Pictures. Can you imagine?”

  He shakes his head at me. I plop down in the grass on my butt, and he follows in a squat.

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, I forwarded the photos to the detectives because they mentioned proving their suspicions, and I gave them Regina’s number. I was just so mad, I wasn’t trying to be an asshole, but I was. And they didn’t question everyone down there thoroughly as they claimed, or they’d already have had the photos.” He understands and gives up the squat and sits down next to me. “So, he came home pissed off and in a mood. We argued a little, and I saw Hannah’s car outside of the window, so I came downstairs to greet her and send her home. I never shout, but, well, this time I did. I shouted and scared her, too.”

  “Hannah?” he interrupts.

  “Our chef.”

  “Oh.” He lifts his eyebrows.

  “Look, don’t fucking judge me. Yes, we had a chef. I can cook, John will tell you otherwise, but I know how to do it. He’s the one who hired her.”

  He holds his hands up in defense. “I apologize. I meant nothing by it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Anyway, she quit. Said she couldn’t work for him. I understood that. I mean, shit, he screwed his secretary. Who would want to work with a man who did that? And then—” I point around— “obviously something bad happened to his secretary. I asked the detectives if she was dead, and they just looked at each other in this weird way. Clearly, they told John that she died because in our fight when I accused him of being a murderer, all he said was that he didn’t kill her. She’s dead, right? And why would I stay the night here after that?”

  “The secretary or the chef?”

  “The secretary.” I slam my head into my knee. “This is a horrible game of Clue.”

  “You didn’t hear it from me, but she’s dead.”

  “Oh.” I look up into his eyes. “Jesus. I figured that by the look on the detective’s faces, but to hear the words. Wow.”

  He bobs his head. “Is that when he slapped you?” He doesn’t suspect me. They all believe it’s John. I got away.

  “No, he slapped me when I told him he couldn’t keep his dick out of his secretary’s mouth.” I listen to the officer try not to laugh and fail, covering it up with a cough.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I know. I have a horrible sense of humor.”

  “Now answer my question.”

  He looks confused.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Your husband is resisting arrest for the murder of Anna Trayor.” He stares at the doorway the whole time, expecting John to be walking out at any moment lead in handcuffs.

  “Oh, Jesus.” I put my head between my knees again. “How long?”

  “We got here around six.”

  I look at my watch. “Three hours?” I peek at him from the top of my knee.

  He only nods.

  “You’re horrible at this. John doesn’t even own a gun. Just go in there and tell h
im that you’ll start breaking the door down if he doesn’t get out.”

  “He does own a gun,” he interrupts.

  “He what?” I shout. I slam my head down on the ground. What were you planning on doing with that, John?

  “Are you willing to give a signed statement of everything you just told me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Coming out!” I hear the man at the door shouting. My companion jumps off the ground and offers his hand to me. I take it, and once my feet are back on the ground, he places himself in front of me for protection.

  It happens in slow motion, the way John’s feet hit the sidewalk one by one and the way his head hangs lower at the brightness of the outside light. He’s ashamed. He’s flanked on each side by an officer, both larger than he is. I see another appear behind him with a gun that he places in a bag for evidence, no less. John’s gun. Why did you own a gun, John?

  They push his head into the backseat of one of the three cruisers parked haphazardly in our driveway, and he flinches from the pain. The other officer shuts the door on him with great finality. Suddenly the sounds come rushing back into my ears, and I hear the shouting and the officer next to me leaving my side.

  “I’m fine,” I mutter to no one in particular, not sure if anyone even asked.

  Then John looks up and spots me. He holds my stare. I find peace in his hollow eyes.

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  John will pay for what he did to you. I promise you that.

  Forty-Four

  I arrive at the prison right on time on Saturday. I receive a standard search and pat down. Items are asked to be removed from my person because they violate the code. My phone is taken, along with my purse. I no longer have the burner phone on me. Jane and I destroyed it last night since it is no longer valuable. I stand, stripped of everything but the divorce papers, waiting for my husband.

  It gives me a slight clue as to what John must be dealing with in here. He could never last without certain luxury items. It was a joke we ran in the house all the time. John isn’t the type who can live without a therapeutic mattress or memory foam pillow. Shit, he can’t sleep a night without his sound machine.

  Here he is in prison, and I’m a hundred percent positive that they do not provide those things. Not even if you fuck a guard for it. I hope the prisoners are lulling him to sleep, making fake wind sounds and teaching him how to fluff his paper-thin pillow to make something more suitable for the herniated disc in his neck. I’m sure they’re kind like that in here.

  I wait at one of the small tables in the visiting room with a name tag clipped to my shirt that lets everyone know I am just a visitor. I would hate to be confused as anything else in this place. The walls of the large room are cold and concrete, they let zero amount of heat into the room. I keep my cardigan sweater swirled about me for need rather than want or fashion. The smell of damp despair clings to the air and drowns everyone in misery. The walls are a faded chipped gray that I’m pretty sure was originally white. Behind a bulletin board that has shifted from the nail on the left side, I see a sliver of the room’s original color, which was more eggshell than dingy gray.

  It is easy to spot the first-timers, we are all nervously fidgeting as if we are in detention for the first time and don’t want to get caught even looking in the wrong direction. Especially me, because I know I’m about to see an innocent man. I’m too close to the place that should house me for the crime, and the fear causes my stomach to ache. If they find out they won’t let me walk back and get my purse and leave this hole.

  The ones who are veterans are relaxed in their chairs and staring at the door they know their loved ones will pop out from any minute. They’ve accepted that this place has become part of their life’s routine. The lawyers in the room shuffle their papers and put them in the area where their client will soon reside.

  We are all waiting for someone—someone that we love, someone who is our blood, someone who has wronged us, or someone who is paying us. I wait for closure, as I’m sure some of the anxious others are looking for, as well. There’s a young girl, obviously meeting with her father today, practicing her speech at the table near mine. She’s planning on getting the words out that have been suppressed by her teeth and tongue for too long. Today is her day for regaining a bit of the strength that her father stole from her. He still holds power over her because she stumbles through the words without confidence. I send out a silent prayer that she will find her voice before her father walks in.

  John finally enters the room behind five other prisoners all wearing the same tacky tan scrub uniforms. It screams that they are no better than the other—no matter their crime they’ll all be punished and treated the same in here. Murderers. Embezzlers. Thieves. Rapists. Molesters. They all follow the same conduct and rules inside these cold, hard walls.

  I see him before his hollow eyes can spot me. Dark circles surround those dead eyes, and his face has sunken in from weight loss. He looks lost. He looks fragile and weak. The hardened criminals surrounding him are a contrast to the hollowed man. When he catches eyes with me, his face lights up. I’m here to tell him that he can rot in hell and I’m not holding his name any longer. John is looking for the last chance of a friend, and I’m not bringing it.

  “Oh my god, Medeia, I’m so happy you came. I’d hug you, but that guard would knock my teeth out for touching you,” he exclaims as he rushes to the table.

  “That’s fine, John. I don’t think a hug is appropriate, anyway.” He misses what I’m saying. The tone isn’t set. He doesn’t bother to listen to the fact that I’m hinting that nothing is right between us, that the time that’s passed hasn’t brought us closer. He chooses to dismiss me as if I have a tiny voice that human ears can’t hear. He needs control over the situation, and for him to gain it, he pretends that it’s all going his way until everything around him conforms to the notion.

  We sit across from each other, papers in my lap waiting to take their place on the small rickety wooden table between us—the words Decree of Divorce in calligraphy on top. The weight of them bores holes into my lap as we sit across from each other, tension thick.

  “John, we need to talk,” I start, but as per usual, John can’t wait to interrupt me.

  “You look well, Medeia. I’m so happy to see you. Everything that the police are saying is just crazy. I’m glad you aren’t buying any of it. I knew you wouldn’t leave me, my sweet girl. You know the real me. You know I would never do such a thing or dare try to harm you in any way. I only look out for what’s best for you.”

  There it is. Like a shoe that you just took off the night before, slipping into it feels just the same in the morning. I’m being drawn back in with his smooth talk, his unique pet names and the way he makes me feel like he’s dripping me in attention when the reality is that John is painting an illusion in front of my face so he can steal something from me.

  “John, I do know the real you. That’s what you always forget.” I am exasperated. I am mad at him for even trying it again, but can I sincerely blame him? It’s all he has left. He’s in prison with an insurmountable amount of evidence against him in a crime that will put him away for a long time. He has nothing left to grab at but straws. I don’t want to be the last thing he grabs for when he makes the fall down the rabbit hole. He won’t take me along for this ride.

  “Yes, babe, you do.” He drums the table when he realizes that the conversation isn’t going his way and chooses to switch tactics. “I can’t believe the trial is postponed. It’s ridiculous. I’m innocent.”

  “It’s the holidays, John, people who didn’t kill their mistresses deserve to be at home opening gifts with their children.” I roll my eyes.

  “I didn’t kill her. She wasn’t my mistress.” He spits the words behind clenched teeth to keep the truth from falling out along with them.

  “That’s right. Anna was your girlfriend.”

  He shakes his head and allows his attention to
fall on the girl who is delivering the speech to her father, ignoring me.

  “John, I filed for a divorce.” I calmly set down the papers between us.

  “What?” The guard shushes him, reminding him to keep his voice down or his visit will end. “You did what?” he hisses.

  “I filed for divorce.” I grab the papers and push them closer to him. He jolts back like they’re going to bite him. “I believe under the circumstances that it isn’t that far-fetched of an idea, that someone wouldn’t want to be attached to a murderer who was plotting to have them committed to a mental facility.”

  He gasps.

  “What John, do you think because I’m not personally involved in your case with the lawyers that I don’t hear the stories and the gossip? That I don’t read Anna’s friend’s comments on all the news posts on Facebook? Or the articles that show the text messages for the whole world to see?”

  “I – ”

  “Save it.” I tap the papers. “I’m here to serve you.”

  “What are you hoping to get?” I watch the guilt shift to manipulation on John’s face. “You already signed a prenup.” The devil smiles at me. I smile back.

  “Which is nulled when not signed with equal legal representation. I never had a lawyer look over it when I signed it, so my lawyer is working to have it thrown out. Also, thanks for not being honest about your previous arrest records, I’m sure that will benefit the case. Shit, John, I almost forgot the best part about that prenup.”

  “What?” He’s scared.

  “You get everything; it’s lopsided. My lawyer said he works hard to get those thrown out, and it typically works.” I wink. “So, I want my share. Half.”