Never Let You Go(30)

I toweled off and blew my nose, tossed the Kleenex into the can. Andrew had thrown out my People magazines again. Having a long bath used to be my one indulgence, my only quiet time. The day he grabbed me at the job site, I’d gone home and sat in a warm bath trying to stop my body from shaking. Should I get Sophie and flee? Would he hunt me down? I thought about the cement, imagined it flowing over my body. He came home while I was still in the bath, startling me as he whipped open the door and sat on the side of the tub. I pulled my knees up to my chest, too terrified to scream. This was it. He was going to hold my head under the water.

“I thought about what you said this morning,” he said. “You aren’t going anywhere. I don’t want to hurt you, but I might not be able to stop myself. I love you too much to let you go.”

I tried to speak, thought about all the things I should say. You can’t force me to stay with you. Love doesn’t work like that. The look in his eyes kept me mute.

“Just give me some time,” he said. “Things will get better.” He’d lowered himself onto his knees beside the bathtub, rubbed his hand across the nape of my neck. “Don’t break my heart.”

So I stayed. Not for him. I stayed for Sophie, because I couldn’t stop thinking about that hole in the ground. I didn’t want my daughter to grow up without a mother. To spend her life thinking I left her by choice. I would try harder. I would be a better wife. I would make it work.

That was over a year ago. Nothing had gotten better.



I glanced at the clock, felt an uneasy roll in my stomach as I stirred the cake batter. Three more hours until his lunch break. Would he be smiling when he walked in, or quiet and moody? I needed to finish his birthday cake and pick up groceries before he came home for lunch. Mentally I went over my checklist. The house was spotless, I’d hung the Halloween wreath on the front door, and the pumpkins were ready for carving when Sophie was home from school.

We usually went out for dinner on his birthday, but this year he’d said, “Let’s stay home. Don’t make a fuss.” I didn’t know if he meant it, or he actually did want me to make a fuss and would be angry that we were just having dinner here.

My fingers slipped on the metal spoon, slopping batter down the side of the cupboard. I wiped it up quickly. Then I sat back on my heels, pressed my fingertips against my temples, trying to ease the constant throbbing headache that followed me everywhere.

I thought of the small bit of money I’d hidden in a can in the garden under the maple tree, dollars I’d saved from returning items, cash I’d found in his pockets and squirreled away. It was the only area of the yard the video cameras couldn’t see, but even so, I always took garden tools out with me. I’d been thinking of other things I could do for cash. Housecleaning for neighbors, babysitting, but I couldn’t see how I could do them without getting caught.

I got to my feet and looked down at the orange batter, dipped my finger in for a taste. Four-layer pumpkin cake with cream cheese icing, like his mother used to make. I’d write his name on the icing, and wear the soft blue dress he bought me. But it still wouldn’t be good enough.



The eerie Halloween music in the store set my teeth on edge and the skeleton decorations at the end of each aisle with their red glowing eyes seemed macabre, not fun. I tossed items into my cart, rushed through the till. When I walked out of the store, a fog had moved in, erasing the mountains that had been ablaze with golds and russets and plums. The fall air was moist on my face. It felt like tears. I had to drive home slowly, focusing on the center line.

Andrew’s truck was in the driveway. I slammed the car into park so fast the seat belt cut into my stomach. He was thirty minutes earlier than usual.

When I got out I let my hand rest for a moment on his hood. It was cold. The truck was pristine white, not a trace of mud or dust from the job site, the tires oiled and the rims shimmering silver. When he was in his dark moods, he became obsessed with cleaning.

I jogged up the front steps, my arms full of groceries, and pushed open the door.

“Andrew?” No answer.

When I walked into the kitchen, he was sitting at the table, a bowl in front of him. The pot was still on the stove, an empty can of tomato soup beside the sink. He hated canned soup.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should’ve been home sooner. The store was a madhouse. I can make you a sandwich. The bakery said the bread is fresh.” I took out a loaf of sourdough and some slices of turkey cold cuts and quickly shoved the other groceries into the fridge. He was silent behind me. I risked a glance over my shoulder. He was staring at me, his eyes narrowed.

“You used too much nutmeg in the cake.”

Now I saw the other plate on the table, empty except for a smear of white icing. I turned and looked at the clear Tupperware container on the counter. I could see the cake inside. He’d gouged off a corner.

I forced myself to make eye contact. “I’ll make another one.”

“You look like crap.”

I touched my hair. “It’s damp out.…” He sat back in his chair, still looking at me. “I’ll fix myself up.” I walked down the hallway, trying to think. He was pissed off about something. Was it because I wasn’t home? Had I left something out? I’d been so careful to clean the kitchen.

I pushed open the bathroom door—and stopped. My cosmetics had been dumped everywhere, powders and blushes smashed onto the floor, the colors smeared on the white tile. The cupboard doors under the counter were wide open. Shampoo bottles, soaps, mouthwash, and lotions had all been tossed out. One of the bottles had broken open. Pale blue iridescent bubble bath leaked into the mess, and the scent, “Mountain Breeze,” hung sickeningly sweet in the air.