Chapter 18 #2
We both laugh. “I loved the first year of Cain and my marriage. But the third year?” I make a face.
“That was a doozy. Cain and I rarely stumbled to bed at the same time, and we had no time to talk about real things that meant anything beyond who was going to change Trudi’s diaper.
We were so, so exhausted. But that’s normal.
The problem was that instead of reaching out to each other, we both pulled inward.
After they passed away, I used to want so bad to go back and erase every single imperfect part of our marriage.
But now?” I shake my head. “Nope. The imperfections made us grow and become better spouses and parents. We got our groove back and had some really great years, even if life unfairly cut our time together short.”
Danni, Emma, and I chat about Danni’s new book and Emma’s editing business before Danni starts gathering up everything and tossing it into the picnic basket.
“Please do this again with us?” Emma says. “We’re both surrounded by guys.”
“It’s true,” Danni says. “But we have to invite Lacy next time. And Skye and Reagan, if they’re available.”
“And Monster and Presh need to meet properly,” Emma adds.
“And Meatball!” Danni exclaims, dancing around happily. “I can’t wait!” She flips off the pavilion lights, and I realize they seem brighter now because the sun is setting. While Emma lugs the bag of cushions to the pickup, Danni skirts over to me. “I didn’t find anything posted anywhere.”
I sigh in relief.
“I’ll keep looking, though.” The second I see anything, I will tell you.”
I hug Danni and Emma before we get back into the pickup for the short trip to John’s. “I had a wonderful time.”
Although every light in the house is on, John and Monster are gone when I return. There’s a note on the table. Be back soon. Monster and I walked to Bear’s. Make yourself at home.
In my bedroom, I notice a small gold lamp on the dresser. It wasn’t there before. And another, placed on the marble-topped bedside stand. They’re both switched on, casting a warm glow in the small room.
John remembered what I said about being afraid of the dark.
I sit on my bed and fumble nervously while dialing Cat’s flip phone. I’m late, and she won’t be in her car, and she’ll be anxious. I let it ring once, hang up, then call again. She answers on the first ring.
“I was worried,” she says, her voice strained. “I was just getting out of the car.”
“I’m sorry. I’m fine. Things got thrown off today.”
“You’re okay, though?”
“Yes.”
She sighs long and loud. “Swear it?”
“I swear it.”
“Swear you’ll call me tomorrow, our regular time, when we’ll have more time to talk?”
“Cross my heart. I love you.”
I pull the shoebox onto my lap. I slide the top off and slide out the next letter in the pile. I study the neat blocky script, run my finger over the faint ring of a coffee mug on the edge of the paper before unfolding it.
To you. Yes, you.
If you haven’t read the other letters yet, then maybe you don’t know but we’ve all been where you are right now. We’re all starting again.
It’s my one-month anniversary of my new normal. But it still doesn’t feel right. This peace that I’m feeling. This calm. Everything good right now feels wrong.
I was thinking about this, about how I grew used to chaos stress, anger, sadness, neglect. My body got used to being hurt over and over again.
My body got so freaking mixed up.
Right feels wrong.
Do you feel that way also?
I think we just have to keep fighting, keep reminding our bodies that this wrong is where we should be.
Sometimes I have to remind myself every minute.
Sometimes a day goes by and I wake up the next morning, anxiety pulsing through me because something is missing.
But what’s missing is the turmoil I got used to.
The pain. For some stupid, mixed-up reason, my body wants to scrabble back to it.
I’d say more than half the time, it feels like I’m failing. And that I’m doing this all wrong. All of it. Waking up in the morning to silence, brushing my teeth, putting on my clothes, sitting out on the porch with a cup of coffee, reading in bed, taking a nap, cooking dinner.
When will it start feeling right?
I know that some of the other letters are more positive. Sorry but I’m not there yet. Maybe you need to hear that, to know that if you’re still struggling, it’s okay.
Rachel
I tuck the letter back in the shoebox and curl up on the bed, blotting at my eyes with a fistful of tissues. When Monster noses into the room and cocks his head at me, I reach over and rub his big muzzle.
In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and stare at my red eyes, thinking about Katrina and Rachel. Wondering where they are right now. Wondering if they’ve found a new, happy normal.
I grab a cardigan from my bag then join John in the kitchen, and I’m so happy to see him that I want to hug him, but I hold back instead, watching him.
He turns and smiles at me. “Is it too cold in here?”
“No. That’s what cardigans are for. I found this in the closet. You think anyone would mind if I wear it while I’m here?”
“I’m pretty sure nobody would notice if you kept it.” He grabs a glass from a cabinet and fills it with ice. “Can I feed you anything?”
“Danni and Emma fed me. I had a good time.”
“I figured you would. Even if I did want to keep you for myself.” He pours some lemonade into the glass of ice and hands it to me, then studies my face. “You were crying.”
“I read a couple letters from the shoebox. I think each letter is written by a woman who stayed in Cottage 15. For the rest of us—the other women that were going to stay after them.”
He nods at the table, and we sit. I stare down at the table, trying to make sense of what I want to say.
“The letters… they’re sad but full of hope as well.
They make me realize how fortunate I am, even if I feel so very broken at times.
I was only in a bad relationship for a short time.
I’m also fortunate because I have the money and the opportunity to start over.
If I wanted to move to France or Alaska or…
anywhere, I could do that. Starting over for many people is not financially possible.
But also, I’m fortunate because I experienced real, true, deep love, and I know what real love looks like.
Even if my ex made me forget for a short while. ” I look up at him.
He nods solemnly. “What does it look like—real, true, deep love?”
I bite my lip, thinking of Cain. Cain and me.
Who we were together. “Patience. A whole lot of patience. Selflessness sometimes, but sometimes letting each other take turns being a little selfish also? Kindness even when you’re annoyed as heck.
Grumbling and grumping once in a while but knowing that the other person can take it and that they’re okay with you being human and will help you rather than…
”—I meet John’s eyes—“rather than shove you into the wall and yell at you.”
His gaze is steady on mine. “I wish I could take the bad away and leave you with the good.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. I wrap my cardigan around me to ward off a chill that’s only in my heart.
“The first time my ex hit me, it happened so quickly that for a few seconds, I thought I had misunderstood what had happened. Like he had tried to hit something else but got me instead. I was simply in the way. It was…” I stare down at my lemonade then push it away, my stomach churning.
“It was surreal. I called the relationship off after he hit me. I went home, and we didn’t see each other for weeks until he showed up on my doorstep and begged me to forgive him.
He told me he had made a mistake and had never done anything like that in his life.
All the excuses he gave me, I took them because I wanted them to be true.
I didn’t want to be a woman who had been hit.
And I didn’t want him to be a man who hit me.
And then I felt stuck. Glued in place.” I rub my hands over my face.
“It seems impossible to describe how that can happen. I needed my Aunt Birdie to help me get away from my ex. He beat me down so quickly, I didn’t know how to walk away. ”
“If you don’t want to talk about this, you don’t have to.”
“I want to. I need to.” I meet his eyes. “Is it too much?”
“Never.”
I put my hand to his cheek, and he takes it and kisses it.
“My husband was a writer,” I tell him. “He wrote thrillers and mysteries. His imagination was dark. Only his imagination, though. We used to do this thing when he was writing a new book, and he wanted to brainstorm. I’d pull out my notebook, and we’d make a list. A hundred ways to kill someone.
He only hurt people on paper.” I pause, meet John’s eye.
“When it got so bad with Trey, my ex, that I wasn’t able to untangle myself from him, I made a list. One hundred ways to kill Trey.
It seemed easier to kill him than to escape our relationship. ”
He smiles wryly. “I guess I should pay attention if you start scribbling something in a notebook and shooting me dirty looks.”