Alone, As Always - 2

By Jennifer Gardner

Tuesday AM, three days before...

He slept beside me, his arm draped over me. The hair on his arm tickled my naked stomach as it rose with each labored breath I took. But now his arm seemed lighter. Softer.

Against what? That's what I ask myself when the debate goes this far between the esoteric me and the flesh and blood me that dictates to Dick where we will eat, what movie we will watch, what time we go to bed. I resent his easiness, his indifference to detail, his oblivion, taking instructions and punching a time clock at my command.

As my eyes adjusted to the morning sun through the window, they caught the glimmer of something gold on my night table. Slowly I recognized it as my wedding ring.

The body beside me rolled over, awake enough to ask, "What time is it?"

"Dawn," I said but couldn't be sure.

"And this isn't Chicago," she mumbled. And she wasn't Danny.

She crawled from beneath my sheets, naked and asking to use my shower.

At first I thought I dreamed one of those dreams about waking up when you're still asleep. I tried waking up all over again, this time for real to the sound of water running in the bathroom.

Danny wasn't home and when I investigated I found a naked woman in the shower. A naked woman I last remembered picking my ring up off the bedroom floor.

Memories are funny things. I remember some things clearly, like yesterday's grocery bill, 43.38. As if that has some special meaning to my life. And yet I couldn't remember spending the night with the woman in my shower. I couldn't remember how we got from the floor to my bed.

The water stopped and if I listened hard enough I could hear her dressing. The smooth fabric of garments brushing her sleek skin. The clip of her bra. Slowly and vaguely I remembered helping her out of those clothing restraints the night before. But I couldn't be sure that I wasn't making it all up. And that's all there was, vague clips of memories, almost segments of a dream that comes to you periodically throughout the day, seeming neither real nor logical.

"I don't mean to run," she said, quickly stepping back into the room, "but I have to go." Her unbuttoned white blouse exposed the tan bra that covered her small breasts. She moved across the room, grabbing shoes and a purse as if it were her room and she knew by instinct where to find everything. "I left my number on your night table." Before I could look, she kissed me on the lips and sped out the door.

As quickly as she'd come, she was gone.

All she'd left was her taste on my lips.

Friday PM, the night of...

How long ago and innocent that seems now. Three desperate days later and everything's changed.

After I cooked Danny breakfast this morning, bacon and eggs and three strong cups of black coffee, I sat quietly and watched him eat. I shouldn't have watched him eat but I couldn't bear to do much else. I was supposed to get the gun out of the bathroom but I couldn't. So I didn't. I just watched him go off to work and then was alone. Alone, again, with my thoughts. Not that I can remember them.

Hours pass. The whole day, almost. Before I know it, he’s home.

His car pulls into the driveway shortly after six. Suddenly, as if this is my last chance, I hurry into the bathroom and lean against the sink. There, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and am shocked at how awful I look. I barely recognize myself. There's something familiar about the reflected wounds, but they seem worse now, lip twisted into a purple balloon, eye almost swollen shut. The monster staring back at me reminds me of my mission. I lean down and pull open the drawer. There, inside, is the metal shine of a gun. I don't know whose gun it is and don't care. Picking it up, it feels like it fits my hand, and that's more than enough reason to go on holding it. My actions seem somewhere familiar, as if I've practiced them many times, although I don't remember doing so. Also familiar is the urge I feel inside. It's knocking on my brain something awful, daring me. I want to put my finger on the trigger.

The woman in the mirror watches me. She also has a gun, a shiny one like my own. She puts her finger on the trigger, so I do too. And when I do, we both smile.

What is it about holding a loaded gun that makes you feel so powerful?

Loaded? I check and it is. Of course it is. You certainly can't kill someone with an unloaded gun, now can you?

The front door opens and closes. "Vicki," Danny's voice rings out. "You home?"

Silent, I count his steps to the bedroom. I know his entire routine without even seeing him. I know he's thrown his briefcase on the bed and is loosening his tie. He's taking off his watch when he steps in the bathroom.

My finger is on the trigger.

Tuesday, three days before...

Our TV showed football. He wanted another beer and sent me to get one. When my head was stuck in the refrigerator, the phone rang.

"It's me," she said as soon as she heard my voice. "I wanna come over."

"Not tonight," I whispered though I desperately wanted to see her again.

"Tomorrow night then. Will he be home?"

"He'll be gone."

"Where's he now?"

"Watching the Steelers."

"I want to be with you tonight," she said, louder.

"I already said-"

"Touch yourself for me."

Her forwardness shocked me and turned me on. "Stella-"

"Please. Pretend it's me."

I slid up onto the counter and spread my legs.

"Are you?"

"Yes," I answered, flustered and embarrassed. The fingers of my free hand found the insides of my upper thigh and began a circular motion, first outside my panties and then beneath them.

"I need to see you."

"Tomorrow night. Late," I said, between hurried breaths.

"Faster," she whispered and I rubbed with frenzied chaos.

"Baby, what the hell are you doing?"

I dropped the phone at the sound of Danny's voice. He'd walked into the darkened kitchen, a sly smile on his face because he'd caught me doing something dirty. When he saw the phone, the smile fell from his face.

"What the hell?" Angrily he picked up the receiver and stuffed it to his ear. "Hello? Hello, is anybody there?" He slammed it down. Turned to me. "Who was that?"

I didn't answer him. I couldn't.

"Who was on the goddam phone, Vicki?"

I stopped remembering the moment before his hand met my face.

Wednesday, two days before...

I didn't see Danny off the next day. He left for Wisconsin around mid afternoon and I busied myself with gardening and housework. Before I knew it, the sun had set and night had fallen. I routinely looked at the clock, not because I couldn't wait for Stella, but because with each passing minute I was relieved she hadn't arrived. It wasn't as if I didn't want to see her, but rather I didn't want her to see me.

The bedroom was nearly dark and silent except for the ticking of the clock. I'd pulled the sheets up to my chin and lay beneath them fully clothed. I knew I sent mixed messages but I didn't care.

A car pulled into the driveway. I could hear the beautiful hum of her engine. Then the shutting of the car door and quiet footsteps up the hall. They stopped and though I could barely see her, I knew she stood in the doorway. She reached to turn on the light.

"Leave it off," I said.

She obliged, walked in, and sat on my side of the bed.

"What's wrong?" she asked, and I pulled the bed sheets a little closer to my chin. "You seem mad." She touched my cheek the way a mother might. "Or scared."

"Confused. About what happened between us."

She seemed short when she answered. "What's confusing about it?"

"I don't know. I just... I can't remember any of it."

This was only partly true. Since she'd arrived I remembered, little by little, making love to her, but my memories seemed like another world. Or a dream. And when alone I remembered nothing.

"You can't remember or you won't remember?"

I couldn't explain it to her. I could barely explain it to myself. I seemed to exist on two separate planes of reality. When Stella wasn't there, I doubted everything. When she was there, I doubted nothing. But it was as if my mind could not accept what my body knew to be real.

"I'm sorry," was all I could say. She seemed rejected, a faraway look in her eyes, eyes I now remembered kissing as her fingers floated down my naked body the night before last. "It's like you're not real. It's like I'm dreaming," I said, but I knew I wasn't.

She pulled the covers down to my waist and saw that I was dressed.

"I'm real," she said, starting to unbutton my shirt. "I'm more than real."

I remembered clearly this time. The feel of her clothes, the touch of her skin. She kissed with her lips more than her tongue, lips soft and wet. She whispered little commands in my ear, as if it were our first time. "Lay back. Relax. Open your legs. Don't be scared."

All the while, I was scared. Scared I was dreaming. Scared I was crazy. I did as she asked, trusting her, like a rag doll beneath her probing hands. The feathers of her fingers teasing the insides of my thighs before they plunged between my legs.

Thursday AM, the day before...

When I awoke she was facing me in bed, eyes wide open and staring. I smiled and leaned in to kiss her but she pulled away.

"When were you going to tell me?" she asked coldly.

"Tell you what?"

She paused and looked away. "What he did." I didn’t understand and my confused look must've shown it. "What he did to your face," she said with a hint of sympathy.

I realized what Stella was talking about. I'd forgotten Danny had hit me, why I hadn't wanted lights the night before. "It really isn't that bad," I told her as she reached out and touched my cheek. "I'm surprised you even noticed."

Something in my words riled her, because she immediately rose from the bed and pulled me with her, dragging me into the bathroom, pushing me hard into the sink. Standing me in front of the mirror.

The first thing I noticed was we were both naked, but that wasn't what Stella intended me to see. She put her hand underneath my chin and with a rough lift, made me look at myself.

Starting back at me my reflection, jaw swollen, lip fat and distorted, my left eye a seductive shade of purple. I remembered Danny had hit me, but I didn't remember the damag. It seemed like looking at someone else in the mirror. Someone weak and broken. Instinctively I reached up to touch my wounds, almost surprised at the tenderness of my own skin. Yes, it was me. I winced more than once.

"I'm gonna kill the fucker," said Stella, but I was hardly aware of her presence. I was too busy trying to remember how it happened, how my husband had beaten my face to a bruised pulp without my remembering it.

Barely aware of her hands on my shoulders, moving down around my stomach, my own hands moved around my face, navigating my wounds as if they were a roadmap to my memories. Stella peered down in the mirror at my reflection. What did she see? My injuries? My body? I couldn't tell. She held me from behind, the bangs of her dark hair stabbing the eyes that peered at me. This time she whispered it. "We're gonna kill the fucker."

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