Chapter 12 Dinah
Dinah
Joe arrives, all smiles and apologies and with a present for Izzy, which I hadn’t asked him for but am not surprised by. My husband always remembers things. Every anniversary, every to-do item, every misstep.
There’s an encyclopedia inside that head of his, with a heading and tab for each subject.
His Dinah section could encompass three volumes, and includes every conversation we’ve ever had, any story I’ve shared, successes I’ve had, mistakes I’ve made.
My preferences, my health details, my shortcomings and flaws.
He loves it all, the good and bad parts of me, and while most husbands bitch about their wives’ shortcomings, Joe would never speak negatively about me to someone else.
It’s one of the promises of our marriage, one I obey as staunchly as he does.
Of course, my biggest flaw—the fact that several chapters of his Dinah encyclopedia are all lies—is the one flaw he’ll never discover. A secret worth killing for.
Isabel takes Joe’s gift into the living room and sits on the couch, opening the small, perfectly wrapped box.
It’s a pair of saltwater pearl earrings, and she stares down at them, her mouth open in shock.
When she finally looks up, her gaze darts to me.
“Th-they’re beautiful,” she stammers. “But too generous, Joe. Honestly.”
In the best brother-in-law race, Joe just increased his lead.
I’m certain Eric didn’t get anything for her, certainly not anything like this.
Joe walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. I tilt my head back, and he presses a kiss on my lips, then refocuses on Izzy.
“You lost a pair like that a few years ago—in South Carolina, right? On your honeymoon?”
“How did you know?” Izzy pulls one pearl free from the velvet and works it through the tender lobe of her ear.
“You mentioned it at Christmas, when you told the story about the roller coaster.”
If she did, I don’t remember it. But again, that is Joe.
On our first date, I asked our waitress for no avocados or carrots on my Cobb salad, and just last week, he got me a to-go order from Elmo’s Garden and ordered one just like that, even though we’ve been married for eight years and I haven’t eaten a Cobb salad since our first date.
Joe sits down next to Izzy and asks her about her job and if she is still working with isotope permutations.
She launches into a yawn-worthy explanation of her newest findings, and I excuse myself and go into the kitchen, where Sal is standing with Eric, a beer in one hand, chocolate chip cookie in the other.
My brother’s earlier accusations don’t seem to be an issue as cookie crumbs spray out of his mouth.
“Grab me another beer,” he says as soon as I open the fridge. “So, this prick asks me for a continuance— me —and I said, ‘Fuck you and your deadbeat client.’ Said that to him right to his face.”
I have no doubt he did. Sal, bless his soul, was one of the only people who stuck up for me after my social exile.
He was only thirteen, but he punched Gary McKeegan in the nose for writing Dinah Franzeta is a fat slob on the bathroom wall, then told him he’d face-fuck his mother if he ever said my name again.
Sal was five inches shorter than Gary, with arms barely bigger than broomsticks. The senior carried him above his head through the halls and tossed him in the cafeteria dumpster, then leaned in and punched him in the mouth. Sal had his jaw wired shut for five weeks while it healed.
I grab Sal a Budweiser and two bottles of Guinness for Joe and myself. After shutting the fridge, I pass Sal’s bottle to him, kiss him on the cheek, then use the opener on the wall to pop the Guinness caps.
My brother is already on his verbal victory lap as I ease around him and return to the living room, where Izzy is laughing at something my husband has said.
Joe turns to watch me enter, and I take the seat next to him and pass him his beer.
He clinks his bottle against mine, and the memory of my first beer pushes, uninvited, into my head.
Shhhh. I don’t want anyone to hear us. Just take a small sip and see if you like it. There.
A stupid decision, that first sip. Then the next, then the next. A few pebbles that caused an avalanche.
They took me away on a Tuesday morning, right after everyone boarded the bus for school and my father left for work. He didn’t say anything to me on his way out. His face was stone, his steps quick, and his gaze swept everywhere but in my direction.
Then it was just me and my mother, waiting for the van, her mouth tight and drawn, her arms tightly crossed over her chest, just in case I tried to hold her hand.
When they drove me away, I watched her out the window, hoping she would change her mind, would call them back—would give me a hug, if nothing else.
She didn’t even wait for the van to round the corner. She speed-walked back into the house and shut the door.
There had been no beer after that. My diet had been strictly regulated, as had every other aspect of my life. No more hidden moments. No secrets. No privacy. On my first night there, I was stripped naked, my legs pulled apart, a stranger’s face between them.
I take a small sip, but my stomach revolts at the taste. Joe reaches out and grips my hand, his touch warm.
So much love between us. The relationship I’ve always dreamed of come to life.
But he can never find out the truth of that year.