Dear Wife(85)

Except it’s not fear that has me shaking.

It’s fury. Righteous and determined rage. The gun tingles against my hip, cradled in my lower back, and my fingers itch to grab for one, but you’re armed, too. Your service weapon hangs in your shoulder harness, and that’s only the one I can see. There are more, probably, in your pockets, at your ankle. And I’m not crazy enough to think that I could beat you at quick-draw.

“You shouldn’t have run, Em. You shouldn’t have left.”

I shake my head, because what other choice did I have? Staying would have gotten me killed eventually. Leaving, too. I didn’t see any other way.

“What did you tell everybody? Where does your mom think I am right now?”

“I told her you were at a retreat. That you were mental and needed to get away.”

“And she believed you?”

You shrug, a gesture that’s not quite a yes. “You haven’t been gone all that long. I would’ve come up with something.”

“And Sabine?”

“Sabine.” You spit the word, and your lip curls in disgust. “That bitch was butting into something she had no business with. I did some research on her, you know. She was a board member at the women’s shelter in town. She bragged all over town about how she’s some kind of victim’s advocate, about how she was helping women get away from their husbands. I bet she made you think you were one of them, didn’t she? A victim.”

Did you do it? Did you kill her? The questions bubble up, but I can’t make myself force them out. I see your face, hear the fury fueling your words, and deep in my gut I already know the answer.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you say. “This isn’t my fault, it’s yours. You’re the one who left. This is on you.”

I imagine Sabine’s face when you came up on her in the Super1 parking lot, how scared she must have been. She would have known what was coming, and she would have been terrified.

“So now what?” I don’t sound scared. I sound genuinely curious. “What do we do now?”

How do you plan to kill me? Because I’m not stupid enough to think there’s any other option for you. You can’t cart me back to Pine Bluff like nothing ever happened. Surely by now someone besides your mother has noticed I’m gone. Your friends and family, the ever-watchful Ms. Delaney next door. What have you told them about where I’ve been? Or maybe I’m like that wife of the Scientology leader who’s not been seen in public for more than a decade. If my husband doesn’t report me missing, am I really gone?

Then again, your mother knows what you’ve done to me, and so, I suspect, does your sister. For the longest time, I hated them for looking the other way, for studiously ignoring my bruises and pretending not to see, for not lifting a finger to try to save me. “Why?” I wanted to beat on their chests and demand. “Why do you not tell him to stop hurting me? Maybe he’d listen to you.”

And then I saw your mother’s face at Easter, after I mistook a pack of napkins for your fist and let out that terrible scream, and I realized why she didn’t.

Just like me, your mother has been laboring under the delusion that I could save you.

I tried. God knows I tried. I thought if I was nice enough, agreeable enough, competent enough, I could return you to the man you were when we met, the one who took out the trash for the wheelchair-bound man in the apartment under us or who helped put down wood floors in the church nursery. But that was the fake Marcus, the sweet and helpful Marcus, the guy you are when you know people are watching. No one can save you, and I’ve paid with bruises and broken bones to come to that understanding.

You wrap a hand around my head and yank me forward so fast I screw up my eyes, expecting an explosion of pain, my nose connecting with your forehead. But nothing happens. I crack open an eye, and your face is an inch from mine.

Your fingers press into the base of my skull, not painful but uncomfortable, a hint of what’s to come. “Now you and I go to your shithole room upstairs. We have a pleasurable—me—and tearful—you—reunion. After that, after we are thoroughly spent—again, mostly me—we take a nap. You will wait for me to doze off, and then you will slip out of bed, write a sad note begging for forgiveness from me and God, and shoot yourself in the head with this.”

In one swift move, you snatch the gun from my waistband. I blink, and it’s gone.

“A Sig. Nice choice.” You check the safety, eject the magazine, look up with a laugh. “You didn’t even load it? Jesus, Em, have I taught you nothing?”

My heart pumps hard and fast, beating against my ribs. If you pat me down, if you reach a hand into my bag, I’m done. I arrange my expression into something scared and defeated, and I do a good-enough job of it that you look pleased. After all, I’ve had plenty of practice.

You heave a disappointed sigh, your breath hot on my cheeks, and slide the gun into your waistband. “I’m going to have to confiscate this thing, as I’m guessing you don’t have a permit. I’m sure you understand.”

Oh yes, I do. I understand perfectly. I understand that no matter what happens next, I will not go into that hotel room. As soon as I cross that threshold, I’m dead.

“Let’s go.” You tilt your head across the pavement, gesturing in the direction of the stairwell. I don’t budge, and you lift your brows. “The sooner we get upstairs, the sooner we can get this over with.”