43. Bambi
Bambi
The house smells of pork fat and Spanish spices.
The sticky thickness of grease burning hits her as the clang of an iron skillet banging the stove makes her sit upright.
Jason is home. For a split second, she pictures his face, his vengeful and bitter expression just before he hit her, and wishes she were gone already.
She picks up the small ice pack, now room temperature, and looks at herself in the mirror above their dresser.
The eyes that once lit up when Jason was around are sunken and dark, the bridge of her nose sharpened by the deep bruising, making her appear bird-like and strange.
A wave of sadness overcomes her, and Bambi braces herself against the edge of the dresser, turning her face away from her reflection.
Whoever she was before is gone. She can see that now.
In her place is someone different, someone new who she doesn’t yet recognize.
Downstairs, the scent of bacon and grease is heavy in the air. Paprika and oregano cut through slightly, hitting the back of her palate. Bambi’s stomach lurches, and her mouth fills with saliva. She feels an instant urge to vomit but controls it as she makes her way into the smoke-filled kitchen.
Jason looks up at her as he pours a bowl of egg batter into a searing hot pan. “Morning, babe!”
She avoids his eyes and goes to the coffee machine. “It’s smoky in here,” she says.
“Yeah, sorry. I was going to open a window, but I couldn’t find the skylight control. Do you know where it is?”
Bambi fixes herself a cappuccino. Jason turns slightly from the stove next to her, lifting the pan off the burner and flipping the frittata over. “I said, do you know where it is? Did Martha take it?”
A note of hostility in him. Her shoulders stiffen. She looks at the ground. “I don’t think so.”
He smiles and flips the frittata again. “Well, she must have done something with it. It’s gone.”
Bambi stirs her coffee, the white foam circling like a tiny hurricane in her cup. “She didn’t take it.”
Jason nods. He sets the pan down. A long sigh barrels through his lips at her. “When are you planning on introducing me to your new helper?”
Bambi shrugs, a weak, suggestible movement that she instantly hates in herself. “I don’t know. I didn’t think you were interested in meeting her.”
Jason shuts off the burner and transfers the frittata onto a plate. He reaches for a knife and cuts it into two servings. “Why wouldn’t I be interested? This is my home.” Jason’s hand jets out and clamps around her wrist. “Bambs?”
Bambi looks at his hand on her wrist and up into his eyes.
“Jason, you’re hurting me.”
He shakes her, spilling hot coffee onto her skin. She yelps out and staggers away from him, but he keeps a firm grip, pushing her into the counter. “Bambs?”
“Christ! Jason! You’re never here. It wasn’t intentional.”
He leans toward her, pushing his full weight into her, his breath pungent from the liquor he must have drunk the night before. “I don’t like you keeping things from me.”
Bambi pushes back with her full strength, but it’s not enough. She can’t move all two hundred thirty pounds of Jason. He smiles at her as she struggles to move, pinned against the kitchen island and his body. “Jason, stop! Let me go!”
He pushes harder. Bambi feels something in her pelvis start to ache, the handle of a drawer digging deep into her womb. “You’re hurting me!”
“I’m hurting you? You’re hurting me, Bambs. Marriages are supposed to be built on trust and loyalty.”
His face is so near, she can spot every clogged pore, every ingrown hair on his unkempt beard. She hates him. It’s true. The words bubble up, and she cannot hold them back. In spite of herself, she shouts, “Were you thinking about trust and loyalty while you were fucking Lauren LaMonte?”
He slams her against the counter, harder this time. “You know that isn’t what happened.”
Her teeth grit with pain, and she steels herself, ignoring it. Nothing could be worse than what he’s already done to her, what he’s already taken. “Then what did happen, Jason?”
“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“I’m your wife!”
His hand clamps over her mouth. Bambi feels her cheek ache as his fingers push into her.
Behind her, the second knife rack. She angles for it, arm outstretched, and lunges for the nearest knife—a large butcher’s knife with a silver handle—and raises it up to his beard, trembling.
Jason grabs her hand in his and pushes the knife away from him, up to her throat, until the cool blade is against her skin.
Bambi holds her breath. The scent of his armpit sweat mixed with pig fat is enough to make her sick. She wishes she could be sick, but nothing comes. The cold blade presses against her.
“See what you make me do?” Jason breathes.
The sound of a key in the lock. Jason releases her and steps back. The knife clatters to the floor. She darts to the side to keep it from cutting her bare feet.
“Hola! Good morning!”
She watches her husband’s face change, the actor’s smile growing over his expression like a mask.
Bambi steadies herself against the counter and turns as Lucita comes into the kitchen. She stops, her face blank, like she’s just seen a ghost. She pauses for a moment, taking them in like a painting before saying, “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Redfern. You want I start upstairs?”
He nods. “That would be excellent, yes, Lucita.”
Lucita smiles, unsure. “Okay, Mr. Redfern. I will go upstairs. Mrs. Bambi, you want a coffee or something?”
Bambi’s hands are shaking. She wants to run toward her. To grab her, to stop her, and tell her not to leave. She needs the hours to tick by faster, for Martha to arrive. For everything to be over. Instead, she swallows and says, “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
Lucita takes off her shoes and puts on her blue house slippers. “You want I open some windows?”
Jason’s eyes narrow. “No. Upstairs, please, Lucita.”
She nods, and Bambi watches her disappear into the shadow-filled hall.
Bambi stands stoically against the sink, clutching the edges. She runs the water and dabs her face lightly. Behind her, she can feel Jason standing, watching her. “I’m sorry about that,” he says. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Bambi doesn’t turn. She can’t face him, can’t even muster one of her big, fake model smiles, the kind she reserves for commercial shoots and front-cover campaigns. She reaches for her cup of cold coffee. The bitterness washes down the bile collecting in her throat.
“Look at me,” Jason says, his voice stern once more. “I said I’m sorry.”
Bambi turns slightly. “I know,” she mutters.
Jason studies her. “You’re different since you hired her, you know.”
“What are you talking about? No, I’m not.”
Jason shakes his head, unconvinced. “I want you to get rid of Martha. She isn’t good for you.”
Her whole body is tight, like a wire is being yanked from deep inside her core right through her midsection. She sips her coffee, swallowing her own scream.
“If you need a PA, I’ll tell Agnes, and she’ll get you one.”
“Fine,” she says. “Whatever you want, Jason. Whatever you want.”
Upstairs, the box Martha left her says Results in less than 3 minutes. Bambi stares at the little white applicator a moment longer, then repackages it and sets it aside. Not now.
In the bedroom, she fills her suitcase with her least expensive clothes, some toiletries, sensible shoes, and her ID and passport.
In a zip pouch, she stows a wad of cash—small bills and no credit cards.
Everything else has to stay. The designer pieces and jewelry.
The bags. The expensive makeup and perfume.
You don’t have room, she reminds herself as she passes up her Louis Vuitton for two pairs of old running shoes that she wouldn’t be caught dead in normally.
She thinks about taking the little bottle of Ambien and some of her other pills but leaves them all behind.
There’s just the one suitcase, and now it’s full.
Bambi remembers something and finds the stack of magazines in the guest room with her featured on the cover.
Martha said only the essentials, but now, as her life is fading all around her, she longs for just one reminder of who she once was before Jason Redfern.
The model. The beauty. The little Swedish girl without her mother.
She chooses one—the Marie Claire spring edition she always loved—and adds it carefully to her suitcase.
Satisfied, she zips it up and slides it under the bed.
Bambi gets up and catches herself in the mirror.
Blackened eye, bruised cheek, a tender spot on her upper arm where Jason just grabbed her.
The ache in her pelvis and a slight bulge in her abdomen that she never had before.
She holds it, her palm against her skin under her robe.
In the bathroom, she takes out the test again and unwraps it. She pees on the stick and waits, a timer on her phone counting down. When the alarm dings—a vacant little trill—Bambi scoops up the test. Two red lines in the window.
So that’s what she meant by plans.
Everything makes sense now.
Martha’s hand on hers.
Her cloying stare.
The pained expression in her eyes that said, I know. I know.
She checks the box again, just to be sure, then dials Martha.