CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
I tear down the stairs, slipping as I round the corner to the third floor. My hip smacks against the edge of a step before I can catch myself on the railing, sending pain radiating up the left side of my body. Yanking myself upright, I press on with barely a pause. If Richard decides to take the stairs rather than the elevator, we will run right into each other.
The thought propels me even faster, and I burst out of the stairwell into the lobby just as the elevator doors press themselves together. I want to watch the numbers flash on the panel above the elevator to see if it stops on Emma’s floor. But I can’t risk taking even a few seconds to check. I race onto the street, where a cab is pulling away from the curb. I bang on the trunk and the red brake lights flash.
Scrambling in, I lock the door before collapsing against my seat. I open my mouth to give the address of Aunt Charlotte’s apartment, but my words catch in my throat.
The aroma of lemons surrounds me. It winds through my hair and permeates my skin. I can feel the sharp citrus notes invading my nose and trickling down into my lungs. Richard must have just exited this cab. Whenever he was agitated—when his features tightened and the man I loved seemed to disappear—his scent always grew stronger.
I want to flee again, but I can’t afford to wait for another taxi. So I roll down the window as far as it will go as I give the driver my destination.
My letter is only a page long; it will take just a minute for Emma to scan it. I hope she has time to do so before Richard makes it to her door.
The driver turns onto the next block, and after a final glance out the window assures me that Richard isn’t following, I lean my head back against my seat. I wonder how I’d missed the flaw in my plan to escape my husband. I had so much time to formulate it; after his office holiday party, it became my full-time job, then my obsession. I was so careful, and yet I’d made the greatest possible miscalculation.
I didn’t think about how I would be sacrificing an innocent young woman. I could only desperately latch onto my getaway. I’d almost given up hoping it might be possible. Until I realized he’d never let me go unless he believed it was his idea.
I was certain of this because of what he’d done to me before when he’d thought I was trying to leave him.
I had begun to withdraw from my marriage right before the Alvin Ailey gala. I was still relatively young and strong. I hadn’t yet been broken.
Immediately after the gala, when Richard confronted me in the kitchen, he’d looked down at my right wrist, which was turning white in his strong hands. It was as if he didn’t even realize he was twisting it; as if someone else were responsible for the birdlike cry of pain that had escaped from my lips.
Richard hadn’t hurt me bad before that night. Not physically, anyway.
At times he’d paused at the brink of what I now recognize as the edge. I’d recorded each of those episodes in my black Moleskine notebook: in the cab after I’d kissed Nick at my bachelorette party; at Sfoglia when a man at the bar had bought me a drink; and on the evening when I’d confronted Richard about Duke’s disappearance. At other times he’d come even closer. Once he’d thrown our framed wedding picture to the floor, shattering the glass and also hurling a ludicrous accusation at me: that I’d been flirting with Eric, the scuba instructor, during our honeymoon. I saw him stop by our room, Richard had yelled at me, as I recalled how my husband had left bruises on my upper arm after helping me out of the boat. Another time, shortly after one of our visits to the fertility doctor, when he’d lost a big client, Richard slammed the door of his office so hard a vase fell off an étagère.
He’d also seized my upper arm on a few more occasions, squeezing it too tightly, and once when he was questioning me about my drinking and I dropped my eyes, he grabbed my jaw and yanked my head upright so I was forced to look at him.
In those instances, he’d always been able to contain his fury; to retreat into a guest room or to leave our home and come back once his anger was spent.
The night after the Alvin Ailey gala, it seemed at first as if my high-pitched whimper had cut through to him.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said as he released my wrist. He’d taken a step back. Run a hand through his hair. Exhaled slowly. “But why the fuck did you lie to me?”
“Aunt Charlotte,” I whispered again. “I swear I just went to see her.”
I shouldn’t have said that. But I worried that admitting I’d gone to talk to someone about our marriage might cause him to erupt further—or ask questions I wasn’t prepared to answer.
My repeated lie made something snap within him. He lost the struggle.
The sound of his palm against my cheek was like a gunshot. I fell onto the hard tiled floor. Shock suppressed my pain for a moment as I lay there in the gorgeous dress he’d given me, now crumpled around my thighs. I stared up at him, holding my hand to my face. “What—how could you—”
He reached down and I thought he was going to help me to my feet, to beg my forgiveness, to explain he’d meant to strike the cabinet behind me.
Instead he grabbed my hair in his fist and yanked me upright.
I stood on my tiptoes, clawing at his fingers, desperate for him to release me. It felt as if he were tearing my scalp from my skull. Tears streamed out of my eyes. “Stop, please,” I begged.
He let go but then leaned in to pin me against the edge of the counter. He wasn’t hurting me now. But I knew it was the most dangerous moment of the night. Of my life.
Everything in his face compressed. His narrowed eyes darkened. But the eeriest part was his voice. It was the only piece of him I still recognized; it was the voice that had soothed me on so many nights and had vowed to love and protect me.
“You need to remember that even when I’m not there, I’m always with you.”
He stared at me for a moment.
Then my husband reemerged. He took a step back. “You should go to bed now, Nellie.”
Richard brought me a breakfast tray the next morning. I hadn’t slept nor had I moved from the bed.
“Thank you.” I kept my voice quiet and even. I was terrified of setting him off again.
His glance fell on my right wrist, which was already bruised. He left the room and returned with an ice pack. Wordlessly, he placed it on the injury.
“I’ll be home early, sweetheart. I’ll pick up dinner.”
I obediently ate the granola and berries. Even though my face was unmarked, my jaw felt tender and chewing was painful. I went downstairs and rinsed my bowl, wincing when I unthinkingly pulled on the dishwasher door using my hurt arm.
I made the bed, being careful to not jar my wrist when I tucked in the corners. I took a shower, flinching when the heavy spray hit my scalp. I couldn’t bear to shampoo my hair or aim a blow-dryer at it, so I left it damp. When I opened my closet door, I found the Alexander McQueen dress hanging neatly right in front. I couldn’t remember even taking it off; the rest of the night had been a blur. I only recalled the sensation of trying to shrink; of wanting to become as physically small as possible. Of willing myself to be invisible.
I walked past the dress and reached for layers: leggings and thick socks, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a cardigan. From a high shelf my suitcases beckoned. I stared at them.
I could have packed some of my things and walked out then. I could have booked a hotel or gone to my aunt’s place. I could even have called Sam, though we hadn’t spoken in a long time, since a rift had cleaved us apart. But I knew leaving Richard wouldn’t be that easy.
When he’d departed that morning, I’d heard the beeps that meant Richard was activating our alarm, then the thud of the front door closing behind him.
But what I heard loudest of all was the echo of his words: I’m always with you.
The doorbell rang while I was still staring at the suitcases.
I raised my head. It was such an unfamiliar sound; we almost never had unannounced visitors. There was no need for me to answer; it was probably a delivery person leaving a package.
But the bell chimed again, and a moment later the house phone rang. When I lifted the receiver, I heard Richard’s voice. “Baby, where are you?” He sounded worried.
I looked at the clock on the nightstand. Somehow it was already eleven. “Just getting out of the shower.” I could hear someone knocking.
“You should go answer the door.”
I hung up and descended the stairs, feeling my chest growing tight. I used my good arm to deactivate the alarm and unlatch the lock. My hands were shaking. I had no idea what was on the other side, but Richard had told me what I needed to do.
I shivered as the winter air blew against my face. A courier stood there, holding an electronic clipboard and a small black bag. “Vanessa Thompson?”
I nodded.
“Please sign here.” He extended the clipboard toward me. It was hard to grip the pen. I wrote my name gingerly. When I looked up, I saw that he was staring at my wrist. Bruises the color of an eggplant were peeking out from beneath the sleeve of my cardigan.
The courier caught himself quickly. “This is for you.” He handed me the package.
“I was playing tennis. I had a fall.”
I could see the relief seep into his eyes. But then he turned and glanced at the snow blanketing our neighborhood, and he looked back at me.
I closed the door quickly.
I untied the ribbon on the bag and saw a box inside. When I lifted the lid, it revealed a thick gold cuff from Verdura, at least two inches in diameter.
I reached into the box and held it up. The bracelet Richard had sent would perfectly cover the ugly bruises ringing my wrist.
Before I even had the chance to decide if I would ever be able to wear it, we got the call that my mother had died.
For years, I have allowed fear to dominate me. But as I sit in the cab, I realize another emotion is rising to the surface: anger. It felt cathartic to unleash my rage at Richard after absorbing his for so long.
I suffocated my feelings during our marriage. I doused them with alcohol; I buried them in denial. I tiptoed around my husband’s moods, hoping that if I created a pleasing enough environment—if I said and did the right things—I could control the climate of our household, just as I used to Velcro a smiling sun to the weather chart in my Cubs’ classroom.
Sometimes I was successful. My collection of jewelry—the Verdura cuff was the first of the items Richard had delivered to me following what he called our “misunderstandings”—reminds me of the times I was not. I didn’t consider packing those pieces when I left. Even if I sold them, the money I received would feel tainted.
During my marriage and even beyond it, Richard’s words would echo in my mind, causing me to constantly second-guess myself, and limiting my actions. But now I remember what Aunt Charlotte said to me just this morning: I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship.
I close my eyes and inhale the June air streaming through my open window, clearing away the last of Richard’s scent.
It’s not enough that I’ve escaped from my husband. And I know it won’t be enough to simply stop the wedding. Even if Emma leaves Richard, I am certain he’ll just move on to another young woman. Yet another replacement.
What I must do is find a way to stop Richard.
Where is he at this exact moment? I see him folding Emma into a hug, telling her how sorry he is that his ex is targeting her. He pulls the letter out of her hand and scans it, then crumples it into a ball. He is angry—but perhaps she thinks it is justified given my actions. What I hope, though, is that I’ve convinced her to reexamine their past, to look at their history through a new lens. Maybe she is recalling times when Richard’s reactions had seemed slightly off. When his need for control revealed itself in subtle ways.
What will be his next move?
He will retaliate against me.
I think hard. Then I open my eyes and lean forward.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I tell the cabdriver, who is taking me to Aunt Charlotte’s apartment. “I need to make a different stop.” I pull up an address on my phone and recite it.
He drops me off in front of a Midtown Citibank branch. It’s where Richard keeps his accounts.
When Richard left me the check, he told me to use the money to get help. He even alerted the bank that I’d be depositing it. But with my delivery of Duke’s photo and the letter to Emma, I’ve shown him I’m not going to quietly disappear.
I suspect he will try to stop payment on the check today. This is how Richard will begin my punishment; it’s a relatively easy way for him to signal he won’t tolerate my insubordination.
I need to cash his check instead, before he has a chance to tell the bank he has changed his mind.
There are two free tellers; one is a young guy in a white shirt and tie. The other is a middle-aged woman. Although the man is closer to me, I approach the woman’s window. She greets me with a warm smile. Her name tag reads BETTY.
I reach into my wallet for Richard’s check. “I’d like to cash this.”
Betty nods, then glances at the amount. Her brow furrows. “Cash it?” She looks back at the piece of paper.
“Yes.” My foot begins to tap against the floor and I still it. I worry Richard may be phoning the bank as I stand there.
“Can you take a seat? I think it would be better if my supervisor helped you with this.”
I glance at her left hand. She isn’t wearing a wedding ring.
It isn’t difficult to dodge questions once you learn the tricks. Tell colorful, drawn-out stories that deflect attention from the fact that you aren’t actually sharing anything. Avoid specifics. Be vague. Lie, but only when completely necessary.
I lean as close to the window as possible. “Look, Betty . . . Wow, that is, I mean it was, my mother’s name. She passed away recently.” This lie is necessary.
“I’m sorry.” Her expression is sympathetic. I chose the right teller.
“I’m going to be honest with you.” I pause. “My husband—Mr. Thompson—is divorcing me.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeats.
“Yeah, me, too. He’s getting remarried this summer.” I smile wryly. “Anyway, this check is from him, and I need the money because I’m trying to rent an apartment. His pretty, young fiancée has already moved in with him.” As I speak, I picture Richard jabbing the bank’s numbers on his phone.
“It’s just that it’s such a large amount.”
“Not to him. As you can see, our last names match.” I reach into my bag and pass her my driver’s license. “And we still have the same address, although I’ve moved out. I’m in a dingy little hotel a few blocks away from here now.”
The address on the check is our Westchester home; any New Yorker knows that suburb is exclusive.
Betty stares down at my license and hesitates. The photo was taken several years ago, roughly the time I first planned to leave Richard. My eyes were bright and my smile genuine.
“Please, Betty. Tell you what. You can call the manager at the branch on Park Avenue. Richard alerted him that I’d be cashing this check.”
“Excuse me for a moment.”
I wait while she steps to the side and murmurs into the phone. I feel light-headed from the strain, wondering if Richard has outmaneuvered me yet again.
When she returns, I can’t read the expression on her face. She clicks on her computer keyboard, then finally looks up at me. “I apologize for the delay. Everything is in order. The manager confirmed the check was authorized. And I see that you and Mr. Thompson used to have a joint account here that was closed only a few months ago.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. When she comes back a few minutes later, she holds several stacks of cash. She runs the money through the bill counter and then tallies each one-hundred-dollar bill twice as my insides clench. At any moment I expect someone to hurry toward her and pull it all back. But then she slips the money through the shallow opening beneath the window, along with an oversize, padded envelope.
“Have a nice day,” I say.
“Good luck.”
I zip my purse shut, feeling the reassuring heft against my ribs.
I deserve this money. And now that I’ve lost my job, I need it more than ever to help my aunt.
Besides, it is exquisitely satisfying to think of what Richard’s reaction will be when a bank official tells him his money is gone.
He kept me off-balance for years; whenever I displeased him, I suffered consequences. But he also clearly relished being my savior and comforting me when I was upset. The dueling sides of my husband’s personality made him an enigma to me. I still don’t completely understand why he needed to control everything in his environment as precisely as he organized his socks and T-shirts.
I’ve regained a bit of the power he took away from me. I’ve won a minor battle. I am filled with exhilaration.
I imagine his rage as a tornado, swirling and rotating outward, but at the moment, I am beyond its reach.
I exit onto the sidewalk and hurry to the nearest Chase branch office. I deposit the cash into my new account, the one I opened after Richard and I separated. Now I’m ready to go back to Aunt Charlotte’s. But not to the safety of my bed; I am determined to shed that defeated woman like a husk.
I am suffused with energy at the thought of what I will do next.