CHAPTER 31
*PRESENT*
“Head first with the truth”
Maya
I decided to follow my therapist’s advice. To go head first with the truth.
My husband deserved a truthful wife, and I was damn sure I wasn’t going to give another woman the chance to become it.
After asking our best private detectives for some signs, he sent me a link with all the information in less than a week. A week!
For him, it had been that easy.
It was true that I gave him what was left of my mom’s phone.
I was the only one in their wills. The only one left of the Amery bloodline.
I opened file after file, checked the photos, the dates, and read their conversations. In front of me were years of deceit. In an endless sea of betrayal, a message stuck out from the rest.
“She can’t know. She’s not ready.”
Did I know my mother, or was she a fragment of my imagination after having to spend so much time alone, dreaming of having a caring mom?
I kept looking at the texts until my eyes were dry and I had a headache. I closed them and tried to think of that black, impenetrable wall.
They didn’t matter.
She didn’t matter.
I kept checking my emails until I felt like my head would kill me if I had to read another document.
I grabbed my cup to drink water, but it was empty.
My dry throat made me rise from my chair, my muscles waking up. When I blinked again, the cup I was filling was overflowing. I felt the cold water between my fingers. It felt so good. I touched my fingertips and watched as the water drops fell to the countertop.
I put my hand in the cup and moved my fingers as much as the little cup left me. Then the other hand. With both hands dripping water, I felt the thirst again, and the idea of drops falling to my lips from my hands sounded divine. Before my lips could feel the water, I moved.
What was I doing with my life?
Disgusted, I put the cup on the counter and washed it with more force than necessary. The cup broke into small pieces in my hands. Blood poured out of my skin, filling the remnants of the cup with maroon water.
I threw the mug, cleaned the wound, and put pressure on it.
Luckily, I didn’t think I needed stitches.
Looking at the clock on the wall, I cursed, closed my eyes, and exhaled. I was late. Very late.
I threw the scrap that I had used to put pressure on my wound and went to my office to grab my things. I checked my phone, and the battery was mocking me with its 2% battery.
I didn’t think I had enough to call my husband, so I just sent him a text saying: On my way home. Sorry it got late.
Not even a second later, it turned off. I drove home, trying to make the least effort possible with my left hand. I parked my car, and the tiredness of the day felt heavy on my shoulders. I rested my head on the steering wheel and tried to focus on my breath.
In and out.
In and out.
A knock on the window woke me up. I looked around quickly and found my husband on the other side of the window. He opened the door fast and I almost fell to the ground.
“What has happened, my love?”
“What?”
I said slowly.
“Are you hurt? There’s blood on the window.”
He got my hand and started to check it out.
“Fuck, Maya. You drove with a bleeding hand?”
He was pissed.
“It’s a little scratch.”
He looked at me seriously.
“You fell asleep in the car, and there’s blood covering your arm. How did it happen?”
“My mug broke. The one you made me in your third year as a monitor in the summer camp. The one with a typewriter and stars. The water did taste better in it,”
I said wishfully.
I felt his hand on my forehead.
“Do you think you might have a fever? Did you get a hit on your head? Lightheaded?”
“No, I’m fine. I just really loved that mug.”
“I’ll make you another.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“It will be better,”
he said while helping me get out of the car.
“It can’t be better. We have history. Do you know how many cases I resolved thanks to that mug?”
“You resolved them because you’re smart, my love. The mug was just clay—”
“How can you say that? My husband made it for me.”
“I did, and I’ll make you a hundred more.”
He kissed my head.
“You don’t understand me. It’s broken. I’ll never get to use it again. Not even if I filled it with gold or tried to patch the pieces back. It’s over. It’s broken beyond repair.”
“Maybe I can fix it.”
“No, Aaron.”
I felt my hands shaking. “There are things that no one can fix. Not even you.”
“Maya, are you alright?”
“Don’t treat me like I’m crazy. I’m not okay. I’m mad, and frustrated, and I feel so powerless. Nothing I do can fix anything, no matter how much I work, how much I try not to think about it, there’s not enough land to run or places to hide, and I’m so, so tired. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair!”
I was screaming now and hitting the side of the car with my feet.
There was a defeated silence.
“I don’t know how to fix it, Aaron. I have tried, I promise I have, but I can’t anymore.”
He got closer and touched my face, caressing my cheek and making me look into his blue eyes.
“Don’t touch me, please,”
I said in whisper.
He retrieved his hand.
“Let me hug you,”
he said, coming closer to me, wanting me to have a safe space to break down. I refused him. I felt outside of my body. I wasn’t in control.
“I need space. I need time. I can’t deal right now with all this and with our marriage. I have tried to pretend that this doesn’t affect me. They shouldn’t affect me. I don’t want to give them power. Don’t want this to affect you, but I can’t. I love you, Aaron, but I need some time without having to fight to have a healthy relationship. I know it’s not fair to ask you, and the least thing I want is to hurt you.”
“I love you, too, Maya. Thanks for opening up to me.”
“You’re my husband. You shouldn’t be thanking me for basic communication.”
“Why don’t you go to sleep, my love?”