Michele

 

My paranoia was getting the best of me.

This morning, I had woken up abruptly, drenched in sweat, in the middle of a nightmare. In my dream, I’d been back at that house, trying to get out. The doors had disappeared. I was clawing at the windows and walls, my fingers bloody from the effort, all the while aware that he was close behind, reaching for me. I was screaming in my dream, asking for someone, anyone, to help me, searching for the strength to escape. But I couldn’t, because everything was made of concrete, even the windows, and when I felt his warm hand on my neck, I woke up.

Now, I was so shaken, I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder as I headed toward the drugstore. The day was gray, and heavy clouds were rolling lazily above, threatening snow. I huddled in my coat, wiggling my fingers in my gloves. I took extra care to really look at the people that walked past me. Searching for him in their faces.

All the while, I was telling myself that it was only a dream.

At the drugstore, I found what I was looking for. I couldn’t sleep well at night, so I finally gave in and bought the melatonin that Shannon had recommended. Its bright packaging promised a good night’s sleep and a well-rested feeling that lasted throughout the day. I put it in my basket quickly, not quite falling for it but willing to try.

An ambulance sped down the street, sirens blazing, catching my attention. A toddler shrieked as his mother pulled him close, and two teenagers flew past the shop on skateboards, not technically allowed, but nobody stopped them. A man in a suit stared at his giant phone, fingers scrolling and scrolling. A woman with wild, curly hair passed him, talking into hers, her words muffled but her tone unmistakably angry.

Somehow, none of this felt real, this life of mine.

“Miss, you need help finding something?”

Startled, I turned to look at the young cashier at the counter, staring at me with the sort of expression you normally reserve for the people shouting about Jesus in Times Square. I’d been staring out the window for at least two minutes.

“Uh, no. I’m ready to check out.”

I handed him cash and declined a bag, shoving the pill bottle into my purse and leaving the store. It was only about nine in the morning, and I didn’t have to be at the bar until five. I had a lot of time on my hands, which was never a good thing. Time has always been my enemy.

On the street, a blast of cold wind hit me, stinging my eyes and making them water. I turned toward the direction of Shannon and Evan’s apartment. It was too cold for sight-seeing today.

 

xxx

 

“Michele, is that you?”

I closed the apartment door behind me and locked it, ensuring the chain was in place.

“Yeah, just me.” I made my way into the kitchen to see Shannon in the middle of cooking, apron and all, chopping up celery and onions, the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board echoing in the tiny space. Shannon’s Brooklyn apartment was adorable and stylish, but extremely cramped.

“Where’s Evan?” I asked. Shannon’s boyfriend worked odd hours as an art consultant, and I didn’t see him much.

“He went in already. Some up-and-coming artist is on display tonight and he wanted a head start.”

“Good luck to him.” I shoved my gloves into my empty pockets and took my jacket off and hung it on a hook against the wall.

“Where’d you get off to so early?” she asked when I returned. “You never venture out before noon.” She scooped her cut vegetables and dumped them into a giant stock pot on the stove.

“To the store. I got that melatonin you kept saying I should try.”

Shannon nodded, a small smile on her face as she continued to work. Her cheeks were slightly red, her curly brown hair barely restrained in a clip against the base of her neck. Thoughtful brown eyes landed on mine as she asked, “Did you have another nightmare last night?”

I blushed. I thought I’d been quiet. Having to explain yet another nightmare to Shannon was not on my list of fun things to do.

“I - yeah, but not a bad one. Don’t worry about it.”

“C’mon, Michele,” she pressed. “Don’t you think it’s time to see someone?”

I shook my head. “You know that’s not possible for me right now. I can’t afford it.”

I’d been saving since I got here four months ago. I’d opened up a checking account, the first bank account I’d had in years that was only mine. I needed to save as much money as possible so that I had plenty of it when I finally decided what my next move would be - and seeing a therapist, which would be very expensive since I didn’t have insurance, was not a priority.

“You know I’d help,” Shannon said.

“God - no, Shannon. I mean, thank you, of course, but I really couldn’t accept that. You’ve already done so much for me as it is.”

She didn’t immediately reply, and I grabbed a glass from the counter, filling it with water from the tap. I took a couple of sips, hoping this conversation was over. Shannon has never been pushy about my situation, which is a miracle in itself since she barely knew why I had shown up on her doorstep. But I knew that everyone’s hospitality has a line, and even though I paid rent to live here, I couldn’t help but feel that I was bordering on it.

“You haven’t heard from him, have you?” she asked then, almost a whisper. She was slicing carrots now, the clink of the knife against the cutting board loud and intrusive on my thoughts.

Him. My husband.

“No.” I set my glass down, clearing my throat. “Thank God.”

“Do you worry that he’ll find you?”

I froze at her question. She never asked me about him, never prodded. I tried to imagine my life before, when I was still living in his house, under his rules. I thought of my nightmare, of his hands closing around my neck.

I was a caged bird; I was a starving bird. I looked at my left hand, the ring finger bare and pale against the countertop.

I found my voice.

“I pray to God he won’t.”

 

xxx

 

“I’ll take another beer, sweetheart.”

I stopped washing glasses and turned. It was nearly closing time, and most patrons had left by now, but not the bar’s most regular customer, Clint. He was standing against the bar holding his glass in his hand, tilting it, wiggling his eyebrows at me. He was totally sloshed.

“Already? I feel like you’re drinking ’em like water tonight.”

He gave a dramatic sigh as I took the glass from his hand, then ran a hand through his graying hair.

“To be honest, it’s my wife.”

I stilled, uncertain of how to proceed. I’d only been working at Catfish Tavern for about three months, and in all that time, Clint had never said anything to me other than to order his beer. In my opinion, he drank too much. A lot of the guys who came in here did, but that wasn’t my business.

“I’m sorry,” I said, lamely. I turned to grab a clean pint glass, but his words stopped me again.

“Married for twenty years. Was gonna be twenty-one next month. Isn’t that some shit?”

“What happened?” I bit my tongue, but it was too late. I’d already asked.

Clint clicked his tongue, looking away from me. His eyes scanned the dim surroundings, focusing on a young couple slow dancing by the jukebox. They were practically glued together, moving so slowly that it could hardly be called dancing. I looked away from them quickly.

“She called me at work, ten minutes before my shift was up. I’m a dispatcher, you know. She never calls me. So I thought it was an emergency. She told me that when I came home, she wouldn’t be there. She had met someone else. Said…it was over.”

He slumped against the bar now, either overcome by what he said or too drunk to stand upright anymore. In my slim experience with slinging drinks, I figured it was a combination of both. I set the empty glass down and tentatively patted his shoulder.

“Hey now. How about we settle your tab and I call you a taxi? You should get some rest.”

He mumbled something incoherent. I went to the computer, closed his tab out, and brought the receipt over for him to sign. His signature was chicken scratch.

“Okay, Clint. Time to get up. Let’s get you home.”

I signaled the bouncer over, a burly, dark-haired guy named Jacob. His services weren’t usually necessary, but the owner, Anderson, was obsessed with ensuring the safety of his establishment. It was also helpful for when drunken middle-aged men needed help leaving the building.

Jacob appeared in a flash, helping Clint stand. Jacob was ogling me, not even attempting to conceal the fact that he was doing so. I’d been a few days since I’d seen him, and I’d almost forgotten that he had a bit of a crush on me. It was cute, but it would never happen. I wasn’t looking.

“Sweetheart…” Clint slurred, locking his eyes on mine. I smiled politely, hoping he wasn’t about to throw up everywhere.

“What is it?”

“Love doesn’t exist. It’s a fuckin’ lie.”

His words struck me. I struggled to hold my polite smile in place but couldn’t. My face turned to stone as I remembered the way my husband had looked at me on our wedding day, all love and passion and fire simmering in his dark brown eyes. That look had taken my breath away; the world had ceased to exist outside of us. That look had felt so real, I could have held it in my hands. But it wasn’t. It was turned to ash, blown away by a frigid wind.

“I know, Clint.”

He seemed supremely satisfied with my response and allowed Jacob to lead him out. I scanned the bar, trying to calm my beating heart. The couple of customers still left this late were finishing up their drinks, and none of them were familiar. I took a deep breath, forcing my mantra through my mind whenever thoughts of my husband took over, when I found myself unable to stop thinking about the worst. I was safe.

I’d been in Brooklyn for four months. I’d heard nothing from or about him, not even a whisper. I was safe, as safe as I was ever going to be. I was in the one of the biggest cities in the world. I was safe.

I was safe.