6. 1995
Chapter six
1995
Three Days Later
My Dearest Maria,
It’s been less than twenty-four hours and I already miss you. I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty. I just want you to know. And if I’m being honest, you never gave me a chance to tell you how I feel about this whole thing. You took the easy way out. And maybe that’s because Chad was there. He was there, wasn’t he? I know he was. I saw his obnoxious car parked out front. I mean a Corvette for crying out loud. You always hated flashy sports cars. Anyway, after you gave me the letter, I bet you went right back inside and the two of you celebrated.
That was mean. Forget I said that.
I can’t for the life of me figure out why you would do this to us. I’m sure he’s richer and better looking. But I know he can’t possibly treat you better than I did. There’s no way. And I know I can’t give you everything materially, but I would have died for you. Given up everything for you. I can’t help but wonder if Chad would part with his Corvette for you. Doubtful. If this is about the money, then I guess I had no chance.
I am so mad at you. Yet, I’m so in love with you. I’m not used to feeling this way. Granted, we’ve had our arguments, but this. This new feeling of anger I have towards you. Well, I don’t like it. And I don’t know how to fix it. There is no fixing this. Because you broke us. I’m sitting here seething, knowing that you are kissing and touching him. I don’t understand. And I never will. No explanation will be good enough. I’m not sure I can ever forgive you.
Anyway, this is probably the last time I will get to communicate with you. I mean, I’m not going to beg you to come back to me. I have some dignity and pride. Your letter told me all that I need to know about where you are in life. But I want you to know how I feel. Maybe I didn’t tell you enough. God, I hate all of this self-doubt and questions that are swirling around in my head.
So if I can’t get answers, I’m going to tell you what I need you to know. Maria, loving you felt impossible. It felt surreal. It felt explosive. It felt illogical. But it felt worth it. You were the one woman that was worth it. I know that sounds weird to say but, when I’m with you, I lose all rational thought. You are the one thing in my life that I would give up everything for. Everything I thought I knew or wanted to be. Everything I own, or would own. Everything I needed or desired. I would have traded it all for you. I love you, Maria. Now and always. I truly hope you are happy. Because your happiness means more to me than my feelings for you. But mostly, I’m sad that this is the last letter I will write to you.
Yours,
Sam
Maria
As tears stream down my face, I delicately fold up the letter, holding it close to my heart.
In the darkness of my room, I sit on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by the weight of the pain I’ve caused Sam. When I got home from work, I saw the letter resting on the counter, waiting for me. It’s been three days since I broke up with Sam. Three days of lying and pretending like this is what I wanted. Three days of packing up my things because, after Sam left, Chad handed me a key and told me I was moving into an apartment he was going to rent for me .
Essentially, Chad will have control over all aspects of my life. My job, my schedule, my money, and now, where I will live.
I don’t want to move, of course, but I have to. But for reasons that I am not yet ready to accept responsibility for, I am going along with it all.
Whenever Chad touches me or kisses me, it’s like needles stabbing my skin, and I have to fight the urge to run. It’s like a death sentence and a constant reminder of the choice I made. My flight or fight response kicks in, but I push it down. His touch feels foreign and borderline painful. Nothing like how Sam feels.
And honestly, since that day, Chad has been treating me with kindness and tenderness. The intimidating, scary person who was there that night seemed to disappear. I mean, why wouldn’t he be happy? He got what he wanted.
Me.
But that doesn’t mean I want any of this.
Despite the blur of tears, I force myself to read the letter again, trying to fully grasp what Sam has said.
He thinks I want money. It’s of no importance to me.
He thinks I don’t love him. My love for Sam will endure until my final breath.
He will not fight for me. Why would he? I broke his heart. I wouldn’t fight for myself, either.
Looking at his handwriting is unbearable. I can’t take it anymore, so I get up from my bed and walk to my closet, the old blue carpet from my youth soft under my feet. I slide open the door, and I’m met with empty hangers and some odds and ends that I’m not taking with me. But there is one box that’s staying.
With a heavy heart, I navigate to the back of the space, lowering myself down onto my hands and knees. Along the back wall is a small door that looks out of place. This door serves no purpose and was here when my mom and dad bought this house when I was a kid. It was my secret hiding spot for the things I wanted to keep hidden as I grew up.
As I turn the gold knob, the door opens with a creak. Resting on the floor is a floral box. I open the lid, and years of Sam’s letters stare back at me. As I place this letter on top, a sudden pang of sadness grips my chest, knowing that this is the last time I will place a letter in here.
I kiss the tips of my fingers and then rest them gently on the stack of letters. “Goodbye, Sam,” I whisper. With a gentle tug, I unclip his watch from my wrist, the one he gave me as a gift at graduation. I flip it over to read the inscription on the back for the last time.
The etching stares back at me. Yours, Sam. Tears pool in my eyes at his words. I place the watch in the box, effectively closing my time with Sam. But I hesitate as something stops me.
The memory of the day he gave it to me fills my head, replaying like a vivid movie. There’s no way this watch is going in that box. It doesn’t belong there. So I shove it into my front jean pocket. I’ll hide it from Chad. I’m not ready to shut the door on Sam.
Not yet.
Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, I sift through stacks of CDs, feeling the smooth plastic cases in my hands. Keys jingling and the door opening alerts me Mom is home from work. She walks through the threshold with heavy footsteps, looking tired from a long night. She’s a janitor at a local hospital.
“Hey, sweetie,” she greets me in a weary tone. She places her purse on the chair and sits on the couch facing me. The dark circles under her green eyes are visible against her pale skin, and her dirty blonde hair is a mess. Proof that she worked her butt off. She’s also looked thinner lately. More than likely, she’s not eating much because of stress. Like mother, like daughter.
“Hey, Mom. How was work?” I ask, even though I know the answer. She cleaned up vomit, poop, and blood. I’m sure it sucked. But she won’t admit to that.
“Good. Not too busy tonight.” She sounds exhausted, and yet I can feel her intense stare on me .
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur in response as I study a Celine Dion CD, trying to decide if I want to take it with me. Chad loves Celine Dion, so it’s staying. I sit it back on the CD rack.
“So, did you see the letter that I left you on the counter?” She knows I saw it.
“I’m not doing this tonight, Mom.” I keep rummaging through CDs, hoping my curt tone gets my point across.
“Maria, you know you don’t have to do this. I’m working, your father is looking for work. I’m sure he will find something soon. We will be fine.”
I stop what I’m doing and toss the CDs onto the floor in a pile as they clank together. Frankly, I don’t want any of them. I stand and head to the kitchen, trying to send a message that I don’t want to talk. She doesn’t take the hint. “Maria, honey,” my mom pleads, following me, “you don’t need to take care of us!”
My mom and I have had this same argument for the last few days. It started when Dad gambled away my parents’ whole financial means of living. And by that, I mean they have lost everything. Their current savings, their retirement, and now they are drowning under a mountain of debt. They may even lose the house. The house I grew up in. On top of it all, my dad got fired. Another job, gone. So yes, now my mom has been working as a janitor. It’s gross, back-breaking work that she wouldn’t need to be doing if it wasn’t for my selfish father.
Thankfully, it’s only temporary. My mom started taking night courses at Ohio Northeastern about a year ago to be an LPN. She knew she needed to work outside the home since my dad was in and out of jobs all the time. She should graduate soon, and when she does, hopefully, she can find a good-paying job as a nurse. But as of right now, this is where we are at.
Thanks, Dad.
I’ve never blamed my dad for losing jobs due to his disability. Employers can be cruel and not very understanding. They would always view my dad’s slower processing and memory loss as him being lazy. But he’s not. Far from it. When you give my dad a job to do, he will give two hundred percent every time because he wants to prove himself. But sometimes, his brain has other plans .
However, instead of trying to find more work, what does he do? He gambles. My mother would always defend him, even though the gambling caused a lot of tension in their marriage. It’s the wash, rinse, and repeat of my life, and I’m so over it.
This time, he has gone too far.
Which leads me to my current life dilemma. Chad came onto me soon after I started at the warehouse. Obviously, I rejected his advances, but he didn’t stop. His sexual harassment was intense and constant. I didn’t dare tell Sam. I was embarrassed and scared. Plus, the money was good—great actually—and I was trying to save for our future. One I knew was coming.
But then he threatened to fire me if I didn’t date him at the exact time my dad screwed up. There is no way I’m leaving my parents destitute. Even if that means making the ultimate sacrifice in losing Sam. I hope someday I can explain it to him. And that he will understand.
In anger, I turn to face her. “Yes, I do, Mom! Who else is going to help? I’m your only child, and I refuse to watch you guys lose this house, your car, or struggle to buy food and medication. Medication Dad needs. And how else am I going to pay for school? You know it will take Dad a while to find work. It always does. Chad pays really, really well, better than I deserve, and if I can do this for you, please just let me!” The words come out strangled.
My mom places both of her hands on my face. “Not if it means sacrificing your happiness,” she whispers. Hearing my mom say this causes my chest to break open. And that’s when the tears flow. I fall into my mom’s arms and let the loss of Sam come out in a way that I haven’t allowed to happen yet since the bathroom the day I gave him the letter. Mostly because Chad is always by my side, and he can’t know how much this hurts.
“Maria, look at me, please,” my mom demands. I pull my head away from her work shirt, now wet from my tears. “What did the letter say?”
We walk back to the couch. I lie down as she guides my head down onto her lap and rubs my hair. Just like when I was a child. “He thinks I left him for Chad’s money. He said the most beautiful things about how he felt about me. I hurt him deeply, Mom. I’ve ruined him and the life that we had planned.” The sobs become louder.
Her body stiffens, and she stops rubbing my hair. “Does Chad treat you well?”
What an odd question to ask. But then I realize why she’s asking. She is reluctant to fight me on ending things with Sam anymore. It’s pretty obvious that I’ve made my decision, and she feels as trapped as I do. As long as he treats me well, she is okay with allowing her daughter to live a life that she won’t be happy in. For money.
My parents will never look the same to me again. Ever.
“Yes,” I lie. My mom tenses up because she knows I’m not being truthful.
But what else am I supposed to say? If she’s willing to go along with this whole charade, then who am I to tell her that Chad is manipulative and emotionally abusive with tendencies toward violence?
“I’m always here for you if you need anything,” she whispers as she continues to rub my head.
“I know.” Another tear falls.
She nudges for me to sit up, and as I face her, tears stream down her cheeks. “I’m going to go shower, and I’ll come back down and help you pack, okay?” She kisses me on the forehead, then she disappears up the stairs.
I peel myself off the couch and stand up, feeling the weight of my life choices in my bones. I kneel back down in front of the CD rack and weed through them again. Wondering what Sam is doing right now.
Wondering if I will see him again someday.