Saturday, November 4
(Scout)
My phone beeps while I'm out running early this morning. I glance down at the screen. It's a text from Michael that reads, Pick you up at 11:30.
My stomach immediately clenches and I have to stop running. I feel nauseous. I don't intend to pick up a relationship with him again. His last visit was a moment of weakness, mixed with the closure I needed. Instead of running again, I walk back to Audrey's. A slow walk. A sad walk. A shameful walk.
Once home, I strip off my sweaty clothes, the entire time telling myself, I'm not going with him.
In the shower, I continue telling myself, I'm not going with him.
Combing out my hair, I'm not going with him.
Applying lotion to my legs and arms, I'm not going with him.
Slipping on my dress, I'm not going with him.
Strapping on my sandals, I'm not going with him.
Grabbing my purse at eleven twenty-five, I'm not going with him.
Opening the front door at eleven twenty-seven, I'm not going with him.
Standing in the driveway at eleven-thirty watching his rental car pull up promptly as always, I'm not going with him.
Climbing into the passenger seat, I'm not going with him.
I'm going with him.
But only because I need to tell him it's over. And mean it. Again.
Because in my heart ... it's finally over. I've let him go.
And now I'm trying not to think about Gustov.
He skips lunch and heads straight to his hotel. The same hotel within walking distance from Audrey's house.
He also skips the usual update on his life's successes to impress me; they're forgotten in his haste. I can't help but notice the bulge in his dress pants. He's usually more controlled.
He parks in the hotel's back lot and as soon as the car's in park his hand finds mine and brings it to his groin. He closes his eyes and hisses when contact is made. "Shit, I've missed you, angel." He's missed my body, not me. He releases my hand and frantically works at the button and zipper until he's laid bare. No underwear today; he's not messing around. Closing his eyes, he lays his head back against the headrest. "You know what to do."
I look around shocked. I'm not doing this. And even if I were up for it, it wouldn't be here ... in broad daylight ... in a fucking parking lot.
After a moment's pause on my part, his eyes snap open. They're fully dilated with arousal and anger. "Now, Scout." He roughly grabs a handful of hair at the back of my head and forces my face down to his crotch. "Suck me off, angel. Give me what I need."
He's hurting me, and suddenly I'm forcing back tears. I refuse to open my mouth. "No," I say forcefully.
He jerks my head back to look him in the eye, and in the process I feel a patch of hair ripped from my scalp. I've never seen him look this crazed. He looks psychotic, eyes narrowed in anger and speaking through clenched teeth. "What did you just say to me?"
I'm scared, and my brain's warning mechanism is screaming at me. Get away! Run! Tears are forming in my eyes, I don't know if it's out of fear, anger, or pain, because I'm feeling equally intense amounts of all three. "Let go of me, Michael. We're done. That's why I came with you today, to tell you I can't and won't do this anymore."
He releases my hair, and before I can even process what's going on, he's outside the car running around to open my door. I beat him to it and try to make a break for it, but he's already there. He grips both wrists tightly. Too tight. It hurts. He knows how to inflict pain. In the past it's been done for his pleasure, but there were always boundaries. This is something else. He's trying to hurt me and it's working. He's twisting the skin back and forth against the bone. A pained sob tears from my throat.
His mouth is pressed up against my ear now; his breath hot and unwelcome. "You're mine, angel. Only mine. You're a good little whore, now come inside with me and stop making a scene. I'm going to fuck you senseless. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way, it's up to you."
My skin is crawling and I can't hold back the sobs. I feel bile rising in the back of my throat from his threats, and before I know it, I've vomited all over the asphalt and his shirt.
He releases me immediately and recoils, but not before his hand meets my face. That was a closed fist. The force and sting takes me to the ground and has me seeing stars. I'm still crying, the tears streaming steadily down my cheeks.
"Stop the act, Scout. Crying isn't attractive on you." It's a flippant insult meant to hurt my feelings and my heart. As his words sink in, I realize I'm scowling at him. He's usually arrogant and self-centered, but I've never seen this side of him. And I'm still scared, but now I'm more mad than anything.
The menace is still in his eyes and I know he's about to say something awful before the words leave his mouth. "The crying only draws attention to your face." He smiles and his face twists into an evil grin. "Remember when I told you that you were beautiful?"
I don't answer. I do remember. He's the only person who's ever told me that.
"I. Lied." The evil smile spreads and it settles in his eyes. He's like a wild animal. "Why do you think we always fuck in the dark? Because I can't look at you and get off. You're easy. Easy," he spits at me. "And your pussy is so fucking sweet."
It's like another punch and my lips drop the scowl and part slightly. It's at that moment that I see this entire relationship for what it's always been. I'm prey. I've always been easy prey. An easy target. The damaged girl, inside and out. He must've seen it from the first time we met.
I scramble to my feet and I run. I run as fast as I can.
This time he doesn't chase me.
Halfway home my cell chimes in a text, I'll see you in a few weeks. Completely nonchalant, like what just happened wasn't completely psycho.
I don't respond.
I'll never respond.
He'll never treat me like that again.
No one's home when I get to Audrey's. It's just after noon. I've never been more thankful to be alone than I am right now. Inside my bathroom, I remove my dress. There's vomit on it, so I throw it in the trash can. My panties are next, I toss them in with the dress, wishing I could set fire to it all and watch them burn. Burn to ash, just like I wish I could do to the memory of him. To the memory of what just happened. This is the last time. Today was a twisted nightmare. I'm done.
I'm crying again. Or more likely, I never stopped. Standing in the shower under the scalding water, I let it burn my skin. The new pain takes my mind off the not-so-old pain. The physical pain that's still fresh. I hurt all over. He took no mercy on me.
The right side of my face is throbbing and tender.
My scalp burns where he pulled my hair.
My wrists are ringed in purpling bruises, a gift from his restraint. A telltale reminder of the size and strength of his hands. There's pain and tingling weakness.
I hurt.
I'm sobbing so hard that I'm nearly hysterical at this point.
I can't wash him off me.
I need to wash him off me.
I need to wash me off me.
I feel sickened by what happened. He's never gone that far before. Not even close.
But I can't help but feel responsible. I went with him, when I knew I shouldn't.
The blame keeps shifting from him to me. From me to him. I know it's all on him. I fucking know that. But my screwed up mind always turns everything back around on me. I'm always to blame for people treating me badly; it's how I've lived my life. People I love don't know how to love me back. They hurt me. That's how they love.
That's how they love.
When the water begins to run cold, I step out and just stand there dripping on the tile floor. I'm looking at myself in the mirror over the sink from afar. My right cheek is bruised, and my eyes are puffy and red. I tenderly touch my face. The bruises on my wrists look worse now that I see them next to my cheek, a vicious purple trio. As the wounds emerge, I gasp and take a few steps closer to the mirror. There's a fresh cut bleeding amongst the scarring and bruising on my right cheek. He punched me with his left hand. His left fucking hand. "That lying bastard." He was wearing a wedding ring and I hadn't even noticed, because everything deteriorated so quickly into a nightmare. His. Wedding. Ring.
My shoulders rise in a sob, but nothing comes out. I'm cried out.
I skip clothes and walk into the bedroom and climb in under the sheet. I need to sleep.
For days I need to sleep.
Maybe I'll wake up and realize this was only a nightmare. And when I wake up I'll never talk to Michael again. Ever.
Sleep comes for me quickly, my mind taking pity on my body and shutting everything off.
(Gus)
It's around midnight when I get home. Franco and I went to Joe's Bar to watch a local band play. They were good. We stuck to a booth in a dark corner in the back and no one recognized us. The whole night was mint.
Ma's sitting in the living room reading. "Hi, honey, did you have a good time?"
"Hey, Ma. Yeah, I did." The answer surprises me. I did.
She smiles. "Good. Do you want something to eat? There are leftovers in the fridge. I'll heat them up if you're hungry."
I yawn. "No thanks, Ma." I pat my belly. "Had three grilled cheese and a basket of fries at Joe's earlier. Tank's full."
She laughs. I love to hear her laugh. I'm hearing it more and more lately.
I walk over and lean over the back of the sofa and kiss the top of her head. "I'm going to bed. Night Ma. Love you."
She reaches up and pats my cheek with her hand. "I'm going to shower and go to bed, too. I love you, Gus. Good night."
As I'm walking toward the hallway she calls out, "Gus, can you check on Scout before you go to bed? She hasn't come out of her room all night. I knocked on the door around seven o'clock to see if she wanted to eat with me, but she didn't answer."
"She's probably sleeping, Ma, it's midnight. I don't want to wake her."
"Just make sure she's not sick or something," she replies.
I shrug, but do as she asked. I knock softly on the door. I really don't want to wake her, so it's a half-hearted effort. I know she didn't hear it unless she's awake and has her hearing aid in. I've learned her limits where hearing is concerned. No movement inside and no answer. I turn the doorknob slowly and push my way in. I feel like I'm breaking and entering, burglar-style, in our own home. With the door open and the moonlight spilling in, for an instant I see Bright Side standing there in a tank top and panties, just the way she looked on her last night here before she went to Grant. When I blink, the apparition is gone. Damn, I only had one beer tonight. I shouldn't be seeing things.
When I glance at the bed, I see her lying there, Bright Side, hooked up to IVs and oxygen. Fighting to make the most of her last days. I didn't sleep during her last weeks with us. I stayed up all night looking at her, not wanting to miss out on even a minute with her. I watched her, just in case she needed anything. I held her hand, just so I could feel her, so I knew she was still real. Still my girl. Goddamn, I don't want to be in this room with her memory. It feels heavy, claustrophobic.
Every thought evaporates into the air like a wisp of smoke when I catch sight of something—something that doesn't look right. I open the door wider and the light from the hall floods in. Stepping closer to the bed, I stop when I get confirmation and my stomach twists. There's a bruise on Impatient's cheek that spreads to the edge of her eye, and a cut runs down the middle of her cheekbone. The scarring stands out bold against the purple background. I let my eyes drift over the rest of her and the sick feeling amplifies when I see a solid bruise three inches wide circling each wrist.
"What the fuck?" I wasn't supposed to say that out loud. I was thinking it in my head. Over and over and over, but it wasn't supposed to pass between my lips.
She stirs and I cringe, because I don't want to wake her. But at the same time I want to find out what happened. Find out what I can do to help. And find out who the motherfucker is so I can hunt him down and kill him.
"Gustov?" Her voice is hoarse. It's always hoarse when she wakes up, but even more so now, like her throat's been brutalized.
I kneel on the floor next to her, so we're on the same eye level. I'm talking softly because I don't want to upset her, but loud enough that she'll hear me because I'm sure she doesn't have her hearing aid in. "What happened?"
Even in the dark, I see recognition flare in her eyes. She looks panicked. She's pulling the sheet up over her cheek and hiding her arms and hands underneath. I don't know if she's more self-conscious about the bruises or her scars. I've never seen her left arm bare before. The scars extend down from her shoulder almost to her wrist.
Spare Ribs was curled into her side, sleeping peacefully. She stands protectively and meows, probably sensing Impatient's stress. I shush the cat and pet her once before picking her up and setting her on the floor.
"Hey." I pull back the sheet so I can just see her eyes. They're shiny. "Hey," I repeat, it's quiet and coaxing. I need answers. I'm not sure I really want to hear them, but I need to help her. "What happened?"
She's staring at me now. The look on her face is determined. She doesn't want to talk. Slowly that fades and morphs into hurt and sadness as her forehead creases and the corners of her mouth turn down, tight with the effort of someone who's trying not to cry. And then the tears start, one or two before her strength crumbles and she's sobbing.
I don't know what else to do, so I sit on the edge of the bed next to her belly where the cat was tucked away. There's not much room. I start stroking her hair from the crown of her head down to her shoulder blades. Ma used to do this whenever I was upset as a kid, and it always worked. She's still crying, but I can feel her relaxing. When her eyes open, and the tears are no longer flowing, I don't know what to say to her so I run her soft hair through my fingers. Again. And again.
She sniffles and tries to smile at me. "You're not an asshole, Gustov."
I didn't expect that. I shrug. "Sometimes I am."
She shakes her head. "No, you're not. You're one of the good guys. Believe me."
I don't know where she's going with this, but I need to steer her in the direction of answers. "So, who is the asshole?" She knows what I'm asking, and my mind keeps going to fucking Michael.
She shakes her head.
I touch her cheek gently and her instinct to hide her scar is paired with pain. I pull back my fingers quickly. "Sorry. You want some ice?"
She shrugs. "Doesn't matter."
"Pain matters. Swelling matters. Let's help both with some ice. And then we'll talk."
Ma's in the shower when I head back out to the kitchen. I can hear the water running. I don't want to worry her until I know what's going on with Impatient, so I decide to hold off until the morning to tell her anything because she'll sit up all night worrying if I only give her the few details I have now.
After a stop in the kitchen for a baggie of ice and a kitchen towel, I head back to Impatient. I'm almost there when I hear it. I'd say someone's knocking on the door, but the level of noise that's coming from the foyer would imply someone's pounding the shit out of the front door and skipping polite knocking.
The pounding is quickly fueling a fire that ends with me in a rage. By the time I reach the door I'm ready to pull the motherfucker off its hinges and go ripshit on whoever's on the other side. I swing it open, yelling, "What the fuck?"
And then I see him. Fucking Michael. My blood is boiling now.
He's standing there in his three-piece suit trying to look all composed and professional, except that he's practically vibrating and a vein at his temple is throbbing. I can smell the gin on him like he's been marinating in it instead of drinking it.
He hasn't answered me, so I try again. "Jesus Christ, was all the pounding really necessary, dickhead? We have a fucking doorbell."
"Where is she?" he growls.
I laugh, although that question is anything but funny to me. I know this guy put those bruises on her even if she won't admit it yet. He's bad news. Standing before me now, he's a head case on the verge of psychopathic. "As soon as you laid a fucking hand on her you lost the right to ask that question. I should beat your ass right here, right now, you sonofabitch. But I'm not gonna do that because, believe me, motherfucker, if I get started I won't stop until you're lying face down in the driveway, no longer breathing. Leave."
He shakes his head and his body sways to right itself. He's drunk off his ass. "She's mine."
I shake my head and take a step over the threshold so I'm nose to nose with him. "What the fuck kind of creepy stalker talk is that? Leave her the fuck alone."
"Are you fucking her?" The temple vein throbbing has amped up in intensity.
"None of your fucking business."
A short burst of disgust flares from his nostrils. "I knew it."
"Listen, I don't know what you think you know, jackass, but you need to leave Scout alone. If I find out you've contacted her in any way, shape, or form, I will find you, you piece of shit. And I will annihilate you. Are we clear?"
Before he can answer I've stepped back in the house and slammed the door in his face.
"Goddamn, I need a cigarette," I say to myself as I march through the living room toward the hallway. I need to get back to Impatient.
The bedside table lamp is turned on when I return. It's dim, but lights the room in a soft glow. She's dressed in a long-sleeved pajama top and shorts. The pillows are propped up against the headboard and she's leaning back on them. Her legs are pulled into her chest and her chin is resting on her knees. Her hair's messy and tangled and her eyes are puffy, like she's been crying for days.
"Here you go," I say, handing her the ice pack. My hands are still shaking with anger from the run-in with fucking Michael, and I'm trying to calm myself.
She takes it and presses it to her cheek, wincing against the pain.
I sit on the bed next to her. She seems relaxed, but not in a peaceful way. It's more like all of the energy has been drained out of her. "So. This is the part where I ask questions and if I'm lucky, you answer them."
She nods.
"When did you meet fucking Michael?"
"Fucking Michael?" she questions, though it also sounds like agreement. One hundred percent agreement.
"Yeah, that's what I call him in my head. Seems especially fitting tonight." I'm trying to hold back my anger, but it's proving difficult.
She takes a deep breath and heaves it out, and just when I think she's going to keep quiet she says, "I met him a little over two years ago. I was at a coffee shop near my subway stop, killing some time. There was a storm outside. He came in, bought some coffee, and asked if he could sit with me because every other chair in the place was taken. Against my better judgment, I said yes. I thought he would just sit there and ignore me, because that's what people usually do. They don't want to stare at my scars, so they pretend I'm not there."
"But he didn't ignore you?"
She shakes her head sadly. "No. He talked to me. About normal stuff. It was small talk, I guess, but it didn't feel small to me. We talked for over an hour, and in that hour I never once felt ugly or broken." She's talking quietly, but her voice carries so much emotion. And it's the kind of emotion that could flip at any moment only you don't know which way it's going to go. Sad. Mad. Defeated. Vengeful.
"You're not ugly. Or broken."
Her eyes find mine, but there's no agreement in them and she continues without acknowledging my comment. "He asked for my phone number when I had to leave to catch my train." She shrugs. "And I gave it to him. He was handsome. And he was interesting. And he had on a nice suit. And he was charming. And I didn't think he'd actually call. No one had ever asked for my number before. I was sure he'd throw it in the trash on his way out the door."
She stops there, so I prompt her to continue. "But he did call?"
She nods and exhales a long, slow breath. "He did. He called a month later. He lived in Florida and traveled to New York for a few days every month for his business. He took me out to dinner that night." A faint smile crosses her lips, but instead of joyful, it looks disgusted. "I remember how nervous and happy I was."
"Did you sleep with him that night?" I don't know why I just asked that, but the thought of fucking Michael taking her virginity from her makes me sick.
She shakes her head. "We didn't have sex until his third visit. He took me to his hotel. Over the next few months his visits were a combination of dinner and sex. After that it was just sex."
"But, you loved him?"
When she nods this time, her expression darkens. "I did. And I was fool enough to think he loved me, too. He talked about us being together and getting married someday." She looks at me and the look on her face is heartbreaking. Fucking Michael played her for years. "He talked about it all the time, Gus. I was so fucking stupid that I believed him."
"You're not stupid, Impatient. You trusted him. He's a fucking bastard." Hearing her belittle herself because of this prick makes me want to throttle him.
She shakes her head and stares straight ahead out the window on the other side of the room. It's a blank stare. "And then I got pregnant." Her voice has lost all of the anger; the only thing pouring in now is sadness.
What? I try to let the shock pass quickly and I keep my mouth shut.
She's quiet, just staring out the window lost in it all, until her face drops and tears pool in her eyes. "It happened on New Year's Eve. I found out mid-February." She sniffs trying to hold back the tears, but they break free and start rolling silently down her cheeks.
I want to hug her but I'm scared she'll quit talking, so I take her hand in mine and squeeze so she knows I'm with her. That she's not alone.
When she starts talking again the emotions drain away, even though the tears are flowing. It's the face of shock and devastation, the kind of devastation that leaves you hollow. "I called him to tell him the news, because even though I was scared, I was happy, too." She shrugs. "I never thought I'd have kids. That anyone would want to have kids with me. So, to me the accidental pregnancy was miraculous. A gift." She pauses and sniffs again. "He didn't feel the same way. That's when he told me he was married. And my world fell apart." She wipes the tears from her face with her free hand. Defeat is creeping back in on her. Like she's living it all over again and it's so painful she's shutting down. She shakes her head. "I didn't know .... All that time ... I didn't know." It's like she's pleading with me to believe her.
I nod to let her know I believe her.
"I think every bad feeling known to man hit me during that conversation. I felt sad. I felt betrayed. I felt angry. So angry. I felt like an idiot. And I felt I deserved every single one of those emotions, because most of all, I felt guilty. So fucking guilty. Because I'd been with someone's husband for two years and I had no idea. The guilt was unbearable. Marriage, relationships, should be honored ... and I'd been having sex with a married man. I felt dirty and used, but I also felt like it was my fault. Like I should've somehow known. I ran back through all of the conversations we'd had, and every time we'd met, looking for clues. And I didn't find any. The days that followed were lonely. I had no one to talk to about it."
"What about your aunt? Couldn't you talk to her?"
She shakes her head. "Not that I would've wanted to put my problems on her anyway, but February was brutal for my aunt. My whole family. Jane tried to commit suicide in early February. She was held under psychiatric evaluation for a couple of weeks after that." She loves and worries about her aunt, you can hear it in her voice.
Huh, that's why Hitler had to leave the tour. I feel bad for the dude now.
She continues. "Anyway, after a few days of drowning in the guilt, I realized that I was better off without him. I could raise a child on my own. I'd love the baby enough for both of us ... I already did." Her voice brightens when she mentions the baby and my stomach drops because I don't know how I know, but I know she lost the baby. She's staring at me now and the smile she's wearing is slowly torn apart by agony until it's nothing but grief. Her voice is only a whisper through the tears she's fighting. "I loved that baby so much. I would've been a good mom, Gustov."
I swallow back the lump in my throat before I agree. "You would've been a good mom." She would've been. She's one of the most focused, responsible, intensely passionate people I've ever met.
She attempts a smile at my confirmation, but rests her head on my shoulder instead. It's heavy, like her heart. She's letting herself lean on me now. "I miscarried on March twenty-ninth. That's the day I discovered what loss really felt like. Losing Michael was nothing compared to losing the baby. You know that saying, 'everything happens for a reason'?"
I nod. She can't see me, but she can feel me.
"I wonder if the person who said it had ever lost someone." It's not a question.
I find my voice and answer anyway. "Probably not. Loss fucking sucks."
"Yeah. It does. I still feel guilty. Like I did something wrong, you know. The doctor's said there was nothing I could've done differently, but I still feel like it's my fault, the miscarriage."
I squeeze her hand again. "Miscarriages happen a lot. It's not your fault. How did fucking Michael take the news?"
"I texted him the next day and told him because I thought he deserved to know. It was the first contact I'd had with him since our split. It was from a new phone number he didn't have. He called me back within minutes and left message after message telling me how sorry he was. That his wife found out about the affair and left him, which I doubted was true. He told me how much he loved me. How much he wanted to see me again. That went on for a week. I changed my number again and never heard from him until he showed up here a few weeks ago."
"And you went with him this time."
She sniffs again. "I did. I'm not proud about that. I think I just needed closure. To everything. I wanted to end it on my terms once and for all. That, and despite it all, a little piece of me still loved him."
"How'd that go? The closure?"
She squeezes my hand like she'd rather do that than talk. "Same as always. I got fucked and fucked over."
I'm seething now. "That sonofabitch."
"No. It's my own fault. When I left his hotel room, I knew without a doubt in my mind it was over. That whatever old feelings I'd had for him, it wasn't love. It was more like habit, if that makes sense. It was something I'd done so many times that I'd associated it with love, when that's not what it was at all. It may have started out that way in the beginning, at least for me, but it morphed into something else entirely. So, when he came by earlier today, I met him only to tell him it was over. Because for me it finally was. Obviously ... he didn't take the news very well."
I drop her hand, because now I'm fucking raging. I need a physical release for this fury and I don't want to be anywhere near her when it happens, so I leap from the bed. My hands are clenched into fists and I want to hit something so fucking bad, preferably fucking Michael's face. "Motherfucker. He did that to you, didn't he?" I'm pointing to the bruises on her face.
She nods and the tears are in her eyes again.
I'm pacing the room. "What kind of sick sonofabitch hits a woman?" And then I turn back toward her. "You need to get a restraining order. He was just here looking for you."
She looks terrified. I hate that she looks terrified. "What? He was here?"
I nod. "When I went to get the ice, he was banging on the front door. Drunk off his ass, looking for you. I told him to leave you alone or I'd fuck him up. I should've beat his ass."
She doesn't say anything this time. Her eyes are as big as saucers.
And now I'm scanning her room. "Where's your phone?"
She looks to her nightstand first. That's where she always charges it. It's not there. "I think it's in my purse." She crawls off the bed and picks up her purse off the floor by the bathroom door and rifles through it. When she finds her phone she types in her passcode and she hands it to me.
She has thirty-two missed calls and fifty-three text messages. I start scrolling though the texts. They're all from him. I swear the dude is psycho. Over the past few hours he's ping-ponged back and forth between threatening her, to declaring his love, to telling her to fuck off, to groveling. Again. And again. Throw in the random dick pic, too. This guy is sick.
I open up the missed calls and recognize his number. All thirty-two calls. I nod to the phone. "Restraining order should've happened yesterday with this dude. He's certifiable. Put your shoes on. We're going to the police station. After we stop at the ER."
She shakes her head. "Police station, no ER."
She files a report for the physical abuse first. They record her statement and take photos. After that she fills out the necessary paperwork for a restraining order.
It's three-thirty in the morning by the time we get home.
He will never touch her again. I promise.