Chapter 1 – Three Months Later . . .
Chapter One
GRACE
THREE MONTHS LATER . . .
T he morning paper slaps down beside my coffee cup, and I flinch. Protesting, the worn wooden dining seat creaks with the sudden movement.
I wish . . . I was invisible.
“How long does it take to have a cup of coffee, Grace?” Joel snaps. He drops into the seat opposite me at the small round dining table, the morning sun beaming in through crystal clear windows behind him. A thrift store find, the old table looks how I feel. Scarred, weathered, and all the while standing on wobbly legs, one of my feet sometimes not touching the floor. “You have errands today. And we need more toilet paper, don’t forget it again .”
I nod and sip my coffee. It burns my throat. But I like the pain, it reminds me this isn’t some passing nightmare. These here are my waking hours. Between mouthfuls, I fidget with the charm on my bracelet. The one Mama gave me, before she cut me from her life. My fingers rub the smooth shine from the tiny silver painter’s palette.
“You need to write that down or something?” He swipes the newspaper, the Clarion-Ledger , up from where he dropped it. The malice that’s lined his eyes for the past eighteen months is strong today, darkening them. It isn’t going to be a good day for me. Who in Mississippi reads the newspaper anymore? Apparently, the people of Raymond do. At least this Raymond-dweller. I stare at Joel and his paper, letting my hate sear into the back of the creased ink and pressed pulp between us.
I should have left the first time.
I have nothing. Literally. Not a cent to my name. If eighteen-year-old me could see me now, she would be horrified. I thought I was making a smart decision, getting the chance to paint and not have to work. We’d had a plan. I paint. He works. Then in a few years, I could start selling the art I create. And things were fine for a while. While Joel had a job. But like everything else this monster of a man does, he ruined that, too.
Lost his temper at work. Never saw a paycheck from then on. Benefits aren’t conducive to a happy life. Or a happy relationship. We have been living on them for almost eighteen months to the day. I begged and pleaded for him to let me get a job. Every time, he took that to mean he was less in my eyes, weak, and I wore those bruises for a week. As if that would show me how strong a man he is.
Today, on my birthday, if I had a candle to blow out, freedom would be what I’d wish for.
Nothing else.
“Pick up a carton on the way home. Timmy’s gonna be over tonight for cards.”
“But—”
“Just fucking do it. God, no wonder your parents disowned you.”
He turns the page on the paper. Pretty sure he can’t even read. Big man in a small town. I tamp down the smile that threatens to push up on my lips. Thinks he’s smart. What I wouldn’t do to tell him otherwise. But I don’t want to start another fight, one I know I won’t come out on top of. So, I down the last of my coffee and take the plates to the sink.
“You better be out of whatever this female mood is of yours when Timmy rocks up, Grace.”
I look over my shoulder. His eyes hover above the paper.
I nod.
Swallowing, I run the water in the sink and add the dish soap. The bubbles grow as I swirl a hand around the burning liquid. Washing up, I stack the plates, mugs, and cutlery on the rack to dry. As the water drains, I wipe down the counter and every bubble from the stainless-steel sink. “No bubbles, Grace. No mess.” Joel doesn’t do mess or out of place .
I would spend days once, before him, doing just that. Making a mess, painting. Creating. Being who I am. Happy.
Before Joel.
A clump of bubbles refuses to slide down the drain. I swipe them up. They sit on the side of my hand the way a ladybug would. Or one of those fluffy things that you make a wish on. Glancing over to Joel, who’s still face-deep in the sports section of the paper, I blow on the bubbles. Closing my eyes, I make a wish.
A sliver of hope.
If only fleeting.
Please.
“What are you doing?” The harsh words snap me from my quiet state.
“Nothing, just thinking.”
His hard stare doesn’t waver. “Fix it, Grace.”
Yes, drill sergeant, I want to banter back. Be a brat.
I won’t. Being sassy hurts.
So, I clear my throat and wipe down the sink for a second time. When no trace of the frothy detergent remains and the kitchen is spotless, I make my way to the porch. The flag is up on the mailbox. A whisper of joy slides my veins. It doesn’t last long. Hope, always hiding just out of sight as it waits for the chance to be part of my life, fades. Probably bills.
I take my time to travel down the four stairs and along the path. The neat, fresh-cut grass glistens under the morning dew. Post is early today.
Reaching the mailbox, I pull down the back and slide the letters out. Junk mail from a realtor. Phew. I flip it to the back. A bill for electricity. Heart in my throat, I slip a finger under the flap and rip it open. Less than last time. A tiny glimmer of relief curls in my chest. The cold showers and trying not to use appliances paid off this month, at least. The last letter is not commercial. I flip it over and gasp.
The return address is my parents’.
This is the first letter, first communication, I’ve received from them since the day I left with Joel. My breaths turn shallow as I run my bottom lip through my teeth. Did they remember my birthday? Is it a letter or an olive branch?
I slide a shaking finger under the wide flap and pry the envelope open.
A pink, glittery card sits inside. I double-check Joel hasn’t come outside then pull it out. It’s beautiful. Under glittery embellishment sits an easel, a girl facing it, hand raised, her back to me. Her long dark hair hangs loosely in a ponytail down her back. Happy 21st Birthday, my favorite work of art! the inscription reads. I slap a hand to my mouth. Mama used to call me her little work of art when I was small. I was her constant companion, even as a teenager. Until Joel.
Opening the card, fifty-dollar notes flutter from the center to the ground, surrounding my feet.
Shit!
I scramble to gather them up, gaze locked on the front door. Praying Joel doesn’t choose this moment to come out. Or the money is gone. He will drink it away with his buddies. The thought sends my gut plummeting. I don’t think I could take that.
My bubble wish came true. A two-faceted silver lining. A connection with my mama. Some money to squirrel away for something, someday.
“Grace! Where’s my wallet?” The muffled words tell me he is in the front room. His wallet is always in the drawer in the kitchen. Was he watching this whole time? I stuff the notes into my underwear behind my belt at my back and cover it with my shirt. I leave the card and envelope out. That can’t hurt.
I jog back inside.
“What’s in the mail?” Joel says, leaning on the door. His belt runs through his hand. I force my gaze to meet his and not linger on the leather and buckle.
“Electricity, junk mail, you know...” I say, letting the last few words fade.
“Where’s my wallet? I have to meet the guys at the bar to talk strategy.”
“The guys?”
“Last time I checked, Graceless, I didn’t need to tell you who I’m hanging out with.” He pushes off the jamb and stalks toward the bedroom.
“Your wallet’s in the kitchen,” I offer.
He turns back, threading his belt into the loops on his ripped jeans. I release a breath; thankful it’s on its way to secure around his waist. “Don’t forget those errands. And clean up while you’re doing nothing all day. Can’t have Timmy thinking we live like pigs.”
“I’ll need some money for the store.”
I wait, holding my breath.
He grunts and tosses a twenty at my feet.
“I don’t think that’ll be enough, Joel.”
“Well, I guess whatever that doesn’t cover will be free.”
He wants me to steal. Again. I swore I would never—not after last time.
“Keys?” I whisper.
He slides my car keys from his pocket where they live and throws them into the air. I catch them in one hand, heart in my throat, tears on the verge. I refuse to let them fall.
Not for him.
He slaps my ass as he walks past, wallet in the other hand. Snatching up the keys to his old, busted white Volvo from the small front table with one too-short leg, he’s on his phone, tapping out a text before he disappears through the front door.
I slump against the wall and blow out the air in my lungs. The cash digs into my spine, sticking to my skin. The early morning heat is catching up with me already.
Happy to be left alone, I tidy the already neat living room and vacuum the entire house. Dreaming of all the ways I could spend the money from my mama. Dreaming about throwing caution into the wind and calling her up. Wondering what I would say. What would she say to me?
What would be the point?
I lost all respect from my parents when I chose this pathetic existence over finishing my college degree and taking the internship at the art gallery in Pennsylvania that I’d been guaranteed as part of my scholarship.
I can’t blame them.
I hate myself for that decision on a daily basis these days.
Once finished with the chores, I grab my keys and push my hair into a ponytail. The singlet top I have on is smeared with dirt from cleaning. I rush to the bedroom and find a button-down shirt. Tossing the singlet into the hamper, I pull on the shirt and button it up.
The short denim shorts I have on accentuate my toned legs. My long light brown hair sways as I turn on my heel and check my ass for stains. Light blue eyes stare back at me in the long mirror behind the door. Plump lips and dark eyebrows that seem to always be pulled down these days are the only parts of me I recognize now.
The driven, exuberant girl that was full of life is nowhere to be seen. That girl who was happiest when covered in paint and elbows-deep in a new project. Zoned into her creative mind, and hard to reach.
Now, the most beautiful thing I work with is watching bubbles die a slow death as they slip out of existence with water’s demanding force. A little yoga when Joel’s not around or passed out. I used to go to classes when we first arrived. I was competent at it, too. Thought about teaching it a few times.
My phone pings.
Joel.
Toilet paper. Ciggies.
Ugh. Alright, already. Men and their butts. Seriously.
I lock up and jog to the car. My 1960s Beetle sits in the sun, light blue paint blistering. It breaks my heart to see her in this condition. She should be taken care of. Have a proper home, like a carport or maybe a garage. She’s a classic, after all. Precious.
I slide on the black velvet seat and pump the gas a few times before turning the key in the ignition. She splutters a little but purrs to life. I run a hand over the steering wheel. “Attagirl, Blue.”
Backing out of the drive, I let her idle for a little before tweaking the radio. When I hit a catchy song, I shift her to drive, and we head to the store.
The parking lot is busy, and I grab one of the last spots. Locking Blue, I head toward the store. People pass me with a nod and smile in that guarded way they do when they don’t want to talk to you. In the small town of Raymond, gossip travels fast. Questionable gossip, much faster.
The looks of pity started around a year ago. It was the first big fight Joel and I had. The first time I ended up on the wrong end of his temper. Judging by the sympathetic stolen glances that followed in the days after, what goes on behind closed doors is nobody’s secret.
The sliding doors give way as I enter the cool shop. The wash of the air-conditioning is like heaven on my skin. This heat has the most even-tempered folk on edge. I stand in the doorway and bask in its bliss for a moment. I head straight to the toilet paper. No need for another fight. Wandering, I find a sign—whole chickens, half off. I close in and place one in the cart, then head for the fruit and vegetable section.
I miss my mama’s Sunday roasts. Her food was delicious, but her company was the greatest comfort. Hindsight is funny like that... You never see what you’re giving up until it’s in your review mirror. What I wouldn’t give to put our makeshift house in my rearview mirror for the last time.
I reach the checkout with a handful of items in my cart. The realization that I forgot to count the cost as I went hits me. The checkout girl grabs the items, scanning them as she goes.
“Oh and, Marlboro Reds, please.”
She twists and grabs the pack, scanning it with the rest.
“That’ll be twenty-two fifty.” Her face is pushed up with another pitying smile.
Shit.
Heat crawls up my neck as the space caves in around me. I’m short.
“Oh, I forgot. You can use a second coupon today,” she says quietly as she taps on the screen in front of her. “So, that comes back to nineteen ten.”
I huff a strangled breath and hand over the twenty. “Thank you.”
She gives me a sad smile.
Hey, at least I didn’t have to steal it this time. I’ll take humiliation over theft any day of the week. I leave the store like it’s burst into flames and make my way home.
When everything is squared away, I start on supper. Roast chicken and a few veggies with a twist, herbs and lemon marinade. Extra butter under the skin for delicious crispiness. I rub the raw chicken like a trained masseuse, taking the quiet time for myself before the guys get home.
The front door slams. Two slurring voices bounce down the hallway and into the kitchen.
Oh great.
With the oven preheated, I pop the chicken in with the tray of vegetables and wash up.
“Hey, there she is!” Joel holds his hands in the air. A cocky smile lights up his face, as if he’s happy to see me.
Timmy rounds the table and dumps himself into a chair, not bothering to look at me. “Grace.”
“Timmy.” The guy gives me the creeps. Too calm, like he’s set to explode any second. Dark eyes that just follow every move I make. I suppress a shudder.
Beer breath and clammy hands invade my space. “Something smells half-edible in here.” Joel’s all over me, his lips hunting mine. The alcohol on his breath hits my face. I wince, trying to break free. A sloppy kiss lands on the side of my lips before he swats my ass, hard.
“See”—he turns to Timmy—“always so fucking frigid.”
Timmy laughs, sucking back another mouthful of his beer. “We can fix that.” Malice lines his hooded eyes. From the alcohol or something else, I’m not sure.
Joel walks into my space, and I back up against the oven.
Bracing my shoulders back, I hold my chin up. “I’m going to go have a shower. Supper will be ready in an hour or so.” I hold each word like a weapon, hellbent on not letting either of them sense my fear. The second they do, I’m prey.
“Wash up so we can get dirty after supper.” Joel runs a hand through his hair. The tattoos on his bicep move over the muscle. His arms aren’t overly bulky, but if they’re set on hurting something, I won’t stand a chance. I rush to the bedroom and shut the door. Leaning on it, I flick the lock. Chest plummeting, I shake my head.
He wouldn’t . . .
Something in the kitchen crashes. Glass smashes.
Fuck.
Fear snakes its way through my limbs.
Double-checking the lock, I dive to the floor by the bed and pluck out my overnight bag. Heart flinging against my ribs, I stuff clothes, underwear, and anything else I can find from my side of the dresser into a duffle. I grab the envelope with the money I stashed away earlier today and toss it in, too.
A fist thunders on the door.
“Fuck.”
“Grace! Get out here!”
He’s pissed.
If I leave this room, it’s going to hurt. A fresh surge of fear prickles over my skin. My breaths, choppy and short, turn raspy. The door rattles under a new siege of anger and knuckles. I grab up the bag.
The door busts open.
Eyes catching on the half-packed bag, Joel stalks into my space. “What the fuck?”
I drop it to the bed and close my eyes, hands pressed into my chest, fingers tight around the charm Mama gave me.
Dear God, if you can hear me . . .