Whisper Me This(76)

In some perverse spell of self-punishment, I undress in front of the mirror, forcing myself to notice every defect, every sign of aging. The soft pouch to my belly, the dimpled cellulite on the backs of my thighs, the beginning of a sag to my breasts.

And on the right side of my rib cage, four purplish oval marks, lurid against the winter pallor of my skin. I stare at them, my brain frozen and not processing, until I turn and see the fifth mark on my back.

Fingerprints.

All my rationalizations scatter like cockroaches do when the light comes on. I didn’t just feel commandeered, claimed, objectified; it happened. The evidence of Greg’s possessive behavior is imprinted on my flesh.

For a long time I stand there, breathing in a new reality. Realizations move through my head, clearing out debris. Memories reframe themselves. Beliefs transform. In the space of a few moments, I’m a brand-new Maisey. I even look different to myself in the mirror.

Stronger.

Braver.

More like my mother.

The tub is now full of water, but before I get in I do one last thing. Using my phone, I photograph the marks on my body from multiple angles, a reminder to myself in case I begin to forget.

I soak in the tub until the water cools to tepid, letting all my new pieces come together. When I get out, I picture emotional debris swirling down the drain.

I realize that I’m starving and think longingly of the plate I abandoned at Mrs. Carlton’s house, largely untouched. There’s plenty of food, though, and all I have to do is warm it up. Dad needs to be reminded to eat, and I go to his room to wake him. He’s not there.

My heart starts an anxious flutter all over again. What if he’s wandered off and forgets where he is? What if he’s chosen to follow my mother and deliberately harmed himself?

I don’t have time to get worked up very much because he’s sitting at his desk in the study, sorting through papers.

“I thought you’d be sleeping,” I tell him, and he swivels around to face me.

“Every time I closed my eyes I saw . . .” He swallows and stops. “Well, you know, I expect.”

“I know, Daddy.”

He turns back to the desk, sorting papers into perfectly even stacks. He looks better, sitting at his desk. More focused. More like himself.

“I didn’t do right by you,” he says. “I’m deeply sorry.”

“Are you kidding? You couldn’t have been a better father to me if—”

“Not that. About Greg. I didn’t do right by you where it comes to Greg.”

My knees do that wobbly thing. Fortunately, there’s nobody to see or care, and I plop down right there in the middle of the study.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper.

He turns the chair to face me. “Neither did I, until today. Did he hurt you?”

My mouth opens and gets stuck that way, without any words appearing. I’m not sure what he’s even asking.

“Today,” my father says. “At Edna’s. Come here, Maisey.”

Obedience kicks in, and I get up and cross to his desk. He lifts my sweatshirt just high enough to see the marks where Greg has staked his claim. “I thought so,” he says, softly. “Let me see your back.”

So I show him that bruise, too, after which he says nothing, and I let myself sink back down onto the floor, legs crossed yoga style. My cheeks burn with shame and anger and even denial.

I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t my fault.

“I never liked him,” Dad says, interrupting my self-admonishment. “From the first time you brought him home. My very first thought when he walked in that door was that he was a fine young rooster in need of a little beak snipping.”

“Dad!”

“It was true, wasn’t it?”

“You never said anything. I thought you liked him. Everybody loves Greg.”

“Your mother loved him,” Dad says, very quietly. “She thought he was good for you—steady, balanced, decisive.”

I pick at the carpet, like I used to do when I was a little girl. One of the fibers comes loose, and I twist it through my fingers, wishing Mom was still here to give me a harmless smack on the back of the head and tell me to stop ruining things.

“I always thought there was something wrong with me,” I finally murmur. I glance up at my father’s face and then just as quickly away again. “It’s something about me makes him like this. He doesn’t do it to anybody else.”

“Not true,” Dad says, vehemently. “Don’t you let him make you believe that, Maisey. Don’t you believe it. What he did today, at the funeral? There was no excuse for that, even if you are sleeping with that nice young fireman.”

“Dad—”

“Are you?”

“What? No!”

“Pity. Him, I like. And his mother, too. Greg’s mother—let’s just say I’m glad she didn’t make it to the potluck. I always thought you did right, refusing to marry him. I never told you, and I wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Daddy.”

“If I’d known—if I’d realized that he was laying hands on you—well, of course I would have said something. Your mother, too. If she had known—”

“She’d have come after him with the broomstick. Or the frying pan. She didn’t know. You didn’t know.” I lower my voice. “I didn’t even know.”