Chapter 3
Three
March 1, past midnight
Jack left last night after rocking my world. I never knew sex could feel like that. He was such a sweet, attentive guy. I’m so glad I chose him to be my first after Ben.
I have so many questions about Jack. I wonder what brought him to the island. Why did he leave Tennessee? What does he do to allow him to spend so much time on the island? Was he married? Did he break someone’s heart? Or was his heart broken?
I don’t know anything about him except that he’s a great swimmer, he’s really funny and makes me feel good, he has beautiful blue eyes, and he’s great in bed.
I giggle. I haven’t had time or energy to feel attraction to anyone, not for years.
My stomach rumbles, and I wonder if the villa staff stocked the kitchen with a few snacks yesterday like they said they would. Throwing the sheets off, I turn the light on and swing my legs onto the floor. It’s too early to get up, but I’m wide awake. Perhaps a snack will help me sleep.
I wonder where Jack sleeps. Does he live in a tent? He seems to live a kind of “beach bum” lifestyle. His clothes last night were old and worn, and I bet he rides a motorbike like I’ve seen a lot of people using on my library commute. Well, I guess I’ll ask him tomorrow morning when we go to breakfast.
In the kitchenette, I find a box of crackers and some small bags of chips. The small refrigerator contains bottled waters and sodas. Thank you, whoever did this! I take a ginger ale and a bag of chips and sit down at the table to eat my snack.
Sitting here by myself reminds me of sitting in my old kitchen and the many nights I stayed up late to wait for Ben to come home. I would call him, and he would say he was still at work and would call when he was on his way.
The call wouldn’t come.
The following morning, the phone would ring from its place on the kitchen wall, and I’d have to scramble from the bed to answer it before the shrill tones woke up the boys. It was always Ben, saying he fell asleep in the back room or it got too late and I didn’t want to wake you . I was so naive, I believed him when he told me he was working. After reading those books about divorce recovery, I’ve realized it’s more likely that he was going out on the town after his shift and picking up women while I worried at home.
I pull the top of the chip bag apart and pop a few chips in my mouth. “Ben is such an ass,” I declare between bites of the salty snack.
It feels good to say it aloud.
Several of the self-help books suggested journaling as a way of recovering. Now is as good a time as any to get started. I’m here to heal, right?
I kept a diary when I was younger and happy. Before Ben whirled into my life and overwhelmed me. It seems the more unhappy I became, the less I wanted to journal. If I didn’t write about what was happening with my marriage, it was like it never happened. I’ve always been grateful I didn’t keep a record of those days. The five-inch scar along my hairline itches with phantom pain. At least, no written record.
The drawers of the desk provide a pen and a notepad that says Cinnamon Bay Villas across the top. I make myself comfortable at the table and stare at the pad’s white expanse, suddenly unsure of what to write.
I’ve been out of Maine for only ten day, but everything I’ve been through doesn’t seem real. I came prepared here to forget and to move on from my marriage to Ben, but now I realize I should be learning from my mistakes, not forgetting them. I feel like a different person than I was even a few days ago. A much stronger person. No matter how painful the memories, I need to write them down. My scar throbs again. Might as well start there.
May 25, four years ago
Not a happy Memorial Day. And not a happy birthday to me. I thought turning twenty-five would be a milestone in my life, A day to remember. As it turns out, it was a day I would like to forget.
Everything started out the same as any other holiday weekend. We woke up and had a quick breakfast with no mention of my birthday. I was pregnant with Cole, and Ben and I had planned to take Luke to the public beach. Ben was in a grumpy mood when we started packing the car up. I thought that once we got to the beach, he would enjoy himself. But I was wrong.
Ben used bungee cords to put Luke’s wagon on the roof so there would be plenty of room in the cargo area for our cooler, towels, beach toys, and the umbrella before running back into the house. I packed lots of water and juice pouches so everyone would stay hydrated. I buckled two-year-old Luke into his car seat and took my place in the front seat of the car. We sat there with the air-conditioning blowing, waiting for Ben so we could leave.
When he came back out, he had a paper bag. He opened the back of the car and put the bag in. I had no idea what it was. Maybe it was a birthday gift? I smiled; I didn’t want to ask and spoil a surprise.
We got to the beach and unloaded everything into the wagon. Ben pulled it, and Luke ran ahead of us. We looked like a cute, happy family about to enjoy a day at the beach. We found a nice spot on the sand away from other people who were laying on their towels. Ben set up the umbrella, and I set up the chairs, then Luke and I walked down to the water so I could see how cold it was and Luke could play in the tide pools.
I looked up to where we had set up and saw that Ben was sitting in his chair going through his phone, sipping from his insulated cup. I realized later that he was drinking Canadian whisky from the bottle in the paper bag. Within ten minutes, Ben was refilling his cup.
Apparently bored with only my company, Luke climbed the slight hill to his dad and begged him to play in the water. Ben snapped at Luke for dripping water on his phone and made a big deal of drying it off before carefully hiding it away.
When he and Luke joined me at the water’s edge, I could smell the whisky on him. A feeling of doom crashed over me. I tried to distract Luke from his dad, but Ben grabbed him away from me. He put Luke on his shoulders and waded into the water.
Luke was laughing as the waves hit Ben and splashed up on Luke. Ben waded in way too far and then they were gone. Dragged under.
I screamed. People who heard me jumped up and ran down to me. A lifeguard came running and swam out with his rescue board and found them quickly. He paddled in with them, Ben and the guard holding on to the board and pushing Luke, who was riding on top.
It all happened so fast. They were OK but shaken. Luke was coughing. He had swallowed a lot of water.
Someone called the police; I guess it’s protocol when there’s a rescue. A policeman went over to Ben while I was carrying Luke to the umbrella. I wanted to get Luke wrapped up in a towel and warm him up.
Ben and the policeman walked up to us. I could see Ben was about to explode, but he refrained because there was an audience. An audience that included a policeman who introduced himself as Officer Chabot. He lectured Ben about how lucky he was and that it’s very dangerous to be drinking and taking a young child into the water. He told us this could have turned out a lot differently if either of them had gotten caught in the undertow.
The lifeguard came up to check on Luke, who I was holding on to for dear life. “Thank you so much for saving my family,” I said to the rescuer.
“How are you doing, buddy?” the lifeguard asked Luke and held his fist out for him to fist-bump. Luke thought that was great, and with a huge smile, untangled his arm from his towel and bumped his fist with his.
Officer Chabot made eye contact with me as he and the lifeguard left. His face was full of sympathy as he saw me hugging my son, tears still falling from my eyes.
I thought it was a good idea to pack up and go home. We’d had enough excitement for one afternoon. Besides, if we stayed, Ben would drink the rest of his whisky. We repacked the wagon and headed back to the car.
I got Luke buckled in and helped put the wagon on top of the car. Ben and I were tying it down when he let go of the stretched bungee cord I had just fastened, and it came flying over the wagon into my face. He just let it go.
My reflexes must have been honed by raising a toddler and kicked in just in time. I turned my head so the hook end of the bungee hit my temple, not my teeth or eyes. The skin instantly split and blood sprayed the side of the car. I caught Ben smirking as I winced with pain and dripped with blood.
Officer Chabot was in the parking lot. I tried to hold back my sobs, but as he came over to me, I started crying. He had grabbed his first aid kit from his police car and used its contents to stop the bleeding. Ben stood there while the officer worked, explaining how the bungee slipped out of his hand and catapulted over and hit me.
Ben put on a show in front of Officer Chabot and apologized up and down, making up how this “accident” ad happened. But Ben and I knew this was not an accident. Officer Chabot said it looked like I needed stitches and told Ben to take me up to the ER in Biddeford to see a doctor. Ben said he would take me right then. I guess Officer Chabot thought Ben was sober enough to drive.
Ben took me to the emergency entrance at the hospital. He told me to call him when I was ready to get picked up. He wanted to get Luke home and changed. Now he wanted to be dad!
When the doctor was finished giving me fifteen stitches from my cheek across to my scalp, he said I might be in a lot of pain and he was going to prescribe me something to help with that. When the nurse came in with my discharge papers, she handed me a bottle of some pain pills. I had her call Ben to come pick me up. Ben didn’t answer, so she left a message. She had me sit in the waiting room.
An hour and a half later, Ben walked into the waiting room and told me to hurry, Luke was in the car.
“Don’t you look pretty.” Ben laughed.
My hair was a mess, my clothes were damp, sandy, and bloody, and I had a large bandage across my bruised and swollen face. I looked down and asked him quietly to please take me home, that I didn’t feel good.
But Ben got on the turnpike and headed north to South Portland. When I realized which direction we were going, I asked him to please take me home so I could go to bed. Ben responded, “What? You don’t like my parents? They invited us for dinner.”
Ben’s parents don’t like me. I’ve never measured up, never been good enough for their precious Benny. I never seem to say or do the right thing. The first time he took me to their house for dinner, I used the wrong fork to eat my salad, and Ben’s mother never let me forget it.
“That gets the serving fork, Isa dear,” Carol had cooed when I took the platter of sliced roast to the table at one memorable dinner. “Tongs are for cafeterias.”
Now I just wanted to go home and go to bed. I was sore, pregnant, and exhausted. Instead, Ben drove to South Portland and dinner with a bunch of people who really couldn’t care less if I was there.
Fixing my hair the best I could, I followed Ben into their house. To look like a doting father, I guess, Ben carried a sleepy Luke.
Carol met us at the door and raked me over with her gaze from head to toe. “You look terrible; you should really be more careful.” I just nodded. The local anesthesia was wearing off and I was too sore to talk. She didn’t want to listen to me anyway.
I wasn’t hungry and didn’t feel like eating. Ben said I was insulting them by not eating the meal they cooked for us, but I didn’t care.
After everyone had finished eating, Ben and his dad had their usual after-dinner drinks. My head was throbbing, but with Ben drinking, that left me to get us home. I couldn’t take the pain meds from the ER doctor. I slouched in a wingback chair in a corner to rest my head while Luke played quietly at my feet. I think he was feeling the exhaustion of the day too.
At one point, Carol came over and pushed an old stuffed clown with stains on it into Luke’s face. It scared him, and he started shrieking, and then Carol scolded me for leaning my head on the chair because I might get blood on it. “But of course that doesn’t matter to you.”
Ben lurched over to us and demanded I quiet “the brat” because he had a headache. I wanted to lose it, to cry and scream out all my pain and weariness, but as always, I pushed my feelings aside, picked up and cuddled Luke, and went out to the car. The cool night air helped to dry my threatening tears, and Luke calmed down. He was asleep by the time I had him secured in his car seat.
The only good thing about the night was when Ben fell asleep—or, rather, passed out—on our way home. I didn’t need to listen to him complain about me.
We pulled into our driveway, and I was tempted to leave Ben there to wake up on his own, but that would get me into more trouble, so I woke him up to go inside. I was expecting him to say something mean, but he just got up and went inside and to bed. I collected Luke and put him in his toddler bed. I slipped in beside him, contorting myself to fit, so as not to disturb Ben.
Happy birthday to me.
I’m amazed by how many details I can remember. Your husband forgetting your birthday might not be memorable, but your husband almost drowning your child and then deliberately hurting you leaves indelible marks.
As I wrote, the words flowed as much as my tears. Even though the scar on my head is healed and is easily hidden by my hair, writing down what happened ripped open the emotional scar. The words are like salt being rubbed into the wound to make it sting and hurt. It’s a good thing my villa is near the ocean. Now that I’ve remembered, I will never forget this happened.
I stretch and look at the clock. Morning will be here in a few hours, long enough for me to go back to bed. My head is throbbing from remembering how awful Ben is and what I accepted to keep our family together.
Tidying up the kitchenette, I collect the looseleaf sheets of memories and tuck them safely under the fruit bowl in the center of the table. The next time l go into town, I’ll get a proper journal. The villa’s first aid kit has ibuprofen, so I swallow several pills with a glass of water and return to bed.
This year my birthday will be special. I will have cake, and I will do whatever I want.