Chapter 47
MARTA
Marta felt her face go numb as Bernie invoked her husband’s name. What was that supposed to mean?
Bernie continued, “I’ve been honest with you, so it’s only fair that you return the favour. Are you ready to tell me how you killed your husband?”
Blood on the floor, drip-dropped on the white-and-blue tiles. Blood on the countertop, smeared against the granite surface.
Terrified, Marta followed the trail into the study—clutching her cellphone in one hand, finger poised to hit Dial on 911—where she found a figure slumped on the couch. She almost wished it were an intruder; an intruder would be easier to deal with.
“Derrick? What the hell is going on? Why are you bleeding?” Marta edged closer, her knuckles white around her phone.
Derrick was sitting on the battered leather couch with the lights off, his face in his hands. He pulled down on his cheeks as he lifted his head to look up at her. “Oh, hey.” Derrick seemed to see her properly now, and he looked confused. “What’s up?”
“Jesus, Derrick. I heard the door open, but you never called out hello and then I came downstairs and there was blood all over the kitchen! Honestly. Did it never cross your mind that I might be alarmed by something like that? You haven’t answered my question.
What happened to you?” Marta was numb with rage.
She’d been waiting for him to come home so she could confront him but hadn’t expected him to arrive in this condition.
She felt a flash of jealousy toward whoever had worked him over.
“I . . . I fell.” Derrick looked at his hands, which were covered in dried blood. His hair was matted to the side of his head, dark and sticky, a nasty goose-egg visible. There was an oozing gash on his forehead, almost black against his skin.
“You fell.” Marta wondered if he could hear the coldness in her voice. Normally, she’d have been running to get the first-aid kit, brew a cup of tea, anything to make her man feel better. “How did you fall?”
“Look, do you think you could get me the frozen corn?” That bag of corn had seen some shit—they’d been using it to ice injuries since they first moved into their house. “My head is really starting to ache.”
“I bet it is. It looks pretty bad.” I hope it hurts like hell. Marta didn’t move toward the kitchen. Instead, she turned on the overhead light so she could get a better look at him. “Tell me how you fell.”
“Jeez, the light, can you turn it— Ugh, I just fell, okay? I don’t know why you’re being like this. Can I get a little sympathy?” Injured puppy dog eyes. Marta wanted to kick him and make him yelp.
“You know where the freezer is, don’t you?
You bled on it on your way in here.” She’d never spoken to Derrick like this in the entire course of their relationship, and it might have been thrilling if her world hadn’t fallen apart.
“I asked you to tell me how you fell. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like someone hit you, and I bet you deserved it. Who did you piss off this time?”
Derrick’s expression changed quickly from poor sad boy to henpecked husband, a look he liked to pull whenever Marta asked him to do things like not put empty milk cartons back in the fridge or stop leaving his sweaty socks on the bathroom floor when he got back from a run.
“I don’t know why you’re being like this, Marty.
I’m hurt, okay? I might have to go to the hospital.
I really don’t feel well. Can you just .
. . I need to ice it and I need a water and some extra-strength Advil and then I’ll be able to think straight and I’ll tell you what happened—not that it matters, it was just a fall—but I can’t . . .”
He trailed off, waiting for her to rush in and make it nice the way she always did. Not this time, asshole. Marta almost smiled, she had surprised herself so much with that thought. She’d never called Derrick names, not even in her head.
Marta stared at him with her arms crossed, her love for him receding like water about to return in a tidal wave of anger. “I need to talk to you about something serious.”
“Not now, can’t you see I’m in pain? We can talk later. Please, Martyparty? I’m feeling kinda dizzy. Get me the stuff?” He wasn’t even looking at her. He couldn’t even do that much.
Martyparty. Derrick’s use of her nickname, the one he’d come up with when they were in college and used whenever he wanted them to hit the bars (she always agreed to go out, because god forbid she be boring, or that they do what she wanted for once), sliced through the hot rage, leaving a cold sense of detachment that was somehow even worse.
He was using her to get what he wanted, just as he always did. How did I never see this before?
“Sure. I’ll bring it to you. You stay put.” She wondered if he would notice the change in her voice. To her ears it sounded as if someone else was speaking, someone she wouldn’t trust.
But he didn’t. Derrick’s face broke into a grin, streaks of dried blood cracking in his smile lines, and he reached out to pat her hand. Marta almost recoiled at his touch but managed not to flinch. “You’re the best. It was such a stupid accident. It’s not even a great story.”
“Be right back.” Marta dimmed the lights on her way out of the study and heard Derrick groan in relief. She went to the kitchen and got the frozen corn, a couple of pills, and a Corona—Derrick’s favourite.
Derrick cocked an eyebrow at her when he saw the beer.
“Thanks, babe. I could use a drink to settle my nerves.” From the smell of him, he’d already had more than enough to drink.
Derrick popped the painkillers and chugged down half the bottle in one go.
As he settled in on the couch with his feet up over the armrest and the bag of corn on his head, Marta sat down across from him to observe.
She felt like she was acting in a play, but she couldn’t remember the stage directions and she didn’t know what to do with her hands now that she wasn’t holding her phone.
“Is the corn helping?” Marta asked. She thought that Derrick probably needed stitches, not just ice; the skin on the side of his forehead was split open. She hoped it would leave a scar.
“Yeah, it feels good.” He let out a long sigh.
“I’m going to rest for a little before I shower, so could you close the door on your way out?
” Derrick’s eyes were already closed, so he didn’t see Marta scowling at the way he’d dismissed her.
She knew that normally you’re not supposed to let people sleep after they’ve cracked their head open—have an aneurysm in your sleep, you bastard, it’ll make my life easier—but she didn’t say anything as she stalked out of the study, closing the door behind her.
She would wait to confront him. She wanted his full attention. Deserved it.
About an hour later, Marta heard Derrick go upstairs to shower. She was sitting at the kitchen table, where she’d been since she left him. On the table in front of her was the iPad. She was ready. But when Derrick came downstairs, he called to her from the hallway that he needed to step out.
Marta shoved her chair back from the table, the legs screeching against the floor, and rushed to the front door.
“What do you mean you’re going out? Come in here, I need to talk to you.
” She found him wearing a freshly laundered shirt and lacing up his boots.
A large beige bandage covered the cut on his forehead, but there was no disguising the lump on his head, which was now an angry reddish purple. “Where are you going?”
“I lost my new fucking phone when I fell. I’m going back to look for it.” Derrick’s jaw was set in a firm line.
“Now? No, I’m sure it can wait. I need to talk to you about something.” Marta put her hand on his arm, but he shook her off and grabbed the quilted vest that made him look like an urban lumberjack.
Derrick shrugged on his outer layer and opened the door. “I’ll be back later.”
Marta was silent as she watched him leave, her hatred for him flowing through her like molten lava.
Whether or not he was lying about his phone didn’t matter—he’d already lied to her so many times.
Marta went back to the kitchen and resumed her position, sitting sentinel in front of the iPad.
Feeling self-destructive, she opened up the messages again.
Two days ago, Marta had been googling a recipe for pumpkin spice loaf when a text from one of Derrick’s buddies popped up on the tablet, something about fantasy football.
She forgot to mention it to Derrick, who she assumed had accidentally set his new iPhone to sync with the iPad.
But then, this afternoon, she had received a call from the bank.
At that point, she remembered the iPad. Without a shred of remorse, she tore through Derrick’s messages to find out what else he was hiding from her.
The messages he’d exchanged with a woman named Georgia were bad enough, definitely grounds for divorce.
But it was the other messages that had made her throat clench like a fist.
Close to midnight, Derrick came home through the garage door and entered the kitchen hugging a McDonald’s bag to his chest. She knew what was in the bag without having to ask—he’d had one go-to order since he was twenty-one: Big Mac (hold the pickles), large fries, large Coke, and a baked apple pie.
“Oh, you’re up . . .” Derrick did not look happy to see her.
He tossed his keys onto the counter beside a pile of unsorted mail.
“Sorry, I couldn’t message. I didn’t find my phone.
Goddamn, what a pain in the ass.” He pulled out a fry and shoved it in his mouth.
“I, uh, thought you’d be asleep, so I didn’t get you anything.
But look . . . I’ll let you have the bag fries.
” He gave her a twinkly smile as if she should be so grateful for this gallant gesture.
Marta glared at him. “I know,” she said.