So Much More(35)

Those are the only words I see on the page. My sight shifts in and out of focus and suddenly I can hear my headache. Hear the cymbal crashing with each beat of my heart as if the blood rushing through me is keeping time for the disaster unfolding. I defiantly squeeze my eyes shut and will the world, and everything in it, except for the names on the paper in front of me, to burst into flames and burn white hot until they’re reduced to ash.

“Mr. McIntyre?” Bergman wants my attention.

I rub my temples with my eyes still closed, silently cursing his existence. “Yes.”

“Would you like me to summarize the document?”

No, I wouldn’t. “Yes.” I pry my eyes open, and Miranda is staring at me, her expression unreadable.

“Mr. McIntyre, Mrs. Buckingham is—”

I cut him off because his voice clashing with the thundering in my head creates a dissonance I can’t bear. “I changed my mind, I’d like a few minutes to read through this myself. Can I have some privacy?” Mutiny from within is upon me. I’m beginning to sweat, a light sheen that’s the predecessor to nausea. As soon as I think the word, I swallow hard and fast because my morning coffee is preparing for emergency evacuation. Backtracking the way it came in, rather than completing the journey to the traditional exit on the other side.

“Of course,” Bergman says politely.

Miranda takes her time standing to leave. I’m sure I look a mess, and she’s taking pleasure in having a front row seat to my unraveling.

The solid door shuts with an echoing click that signals privacy, and I turn in my chair just in time to grab the trashcan behind me and spill the liquefied contents of my stomach into it. My body purging it with authority like it’s trying to extract the evil I’m immersed in. My body relents and when it does I feel like the hate has been temporarily exorcised. The room smells. The unmistakable odor of undigested food mixed with stomach acid and an insufferable ex-wife. I tie off the bag and turn my attention to the papers.

My vision is blurry. I can’t see through my fury. It takes longer than it should to read them.

When Bergman and Miranda walk back through the door, I’m seething. My thoughts alone could rip them to shreds. They take a seat across from me. Bergman is on his game; he’s wearing a compassionate, but disheartened expression, just short of a predatory smile. Miranda, on the other hand, isn’t holding back. She looks triumphant and celebratory.

I know she’s waiting for me to shout and spew vengeance. I want to. I want nothing more than to crucify her to the wall behind her, driving my words through her flesh until she bleeds out and pleads for mercy. But I don’t. Because she would love that. Instead, I say the only thing that I know will speak to her power hungry attitude, “How did I ever fall in love with you?”

Miranda loved the way I loved her. My love was unconditional and absolute. She never loved me that way, she’s not capable of it, but she relished in the knowledge that she was the keeper of my heart. She treated it like a caged circus animal. Praising and feeding it just enough to make it perform despite the pain she put it through. My love fed her insatiable ego.

Miranda is the master of control, but she felt my words like a slap in the face. I saw it in the minute recoil of her body as she absorbed them and by the pinched look in her eyes as she tried to reject them. It’s confirmation that I no longer love her, something I’m sure she never thought would happen. She’s delusional enough to think my love is undying.

Bergman clears his throat. Whether he’s trying to gauge the atmosphere or prompt someone to proceed, I’m not sure.

I don’t speak. There’s nothing else for me to say. It’s all there in black and white. An intricate web of lies and a few truths spun until they mix into a damning portrayal of an unfit father…in black and white. She hired a private investigator who’s been following me since she left for Seattle months ago. There are dozens of photos: me holding Mrs. L’s joint, Faith and I half clothed making out on my couch, Kira hugging Faith. The photos are followed by affidavits confirming the decline in my health, exaggerated in large part, and time I’ve missed at work due to it; the names are all made anonymous to me, of course. Detailed lists of what my kids eat, what they wear, how they act, including a letter from an independent psychologist Miranda must’ve hired, stating his “concern for the children’s mental and physical well-being” and “signs of neglect.” This is all bullshit. How much is she paying these people to lie? But the next photo in the stack is the one that stops me dead in my tracks, it’s a photo of Faith topless on a stage. What the f*ck? It’s followed by affidavits from multiple men stating, in detail, sex acts Faith has performed in exchange for money. Again, their anonymity protected, of course. My first instinct is to deny because Miranda is so damn good at fabricating untruths.

The shocking finality of my dissipated love has passed as Miranda remembers why she’s here and the crimson color of power stains her pale, stricken cheeks to a lovely shade of I will annihilate your soul. An evil smile creeps back in. “It seems you’ve been busy, Seamus. Dating a prostitute—”

“She’s not a prostitute. And we’re not dating,” I say angrily through gritted teeth. I don’t know if any of my words are true or not.

She laughs haughtily. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you paying for her services?”