About a month and a half after Naiim and I moved into the new home, Aeron and Jonah moved in, too, though their version of moving in was more of an extended sleepover. Aeron soon developed a pattern of staying at home for a few weeks, then disappearing for two. I’d become so accustomed to the dys-function and his misuse of me that I began looking forward to his return, being grateful even, after reeling over each disappearance. His reasons for returning were always the same. He would spend weeks traveling and bouncing from one place to the next. He would live with his mother for weeks at a time until, eventually, she drove him away with her controlling influence. He would spend time with his sister, Samantha, and her husband and son as well as his brother, Jonathan, his girlfriend and their children. Naturally, there were long nights in recording studios and, I suspect, lots of other women. It was only when he got tired of living this way that he would come home to rest. With me, there was quiet and order; the kids were taken care of, food was cooked, laundry was done, everything was paid for, and the house ran on a very productive schedule. He craved that at the end of his trysts and vagabond adventures.
I was nothing more than my husband’s rest stop.
Soon after his return, I helped Aeron prepare for an audition for a long-running soap opera on the CBS television network, which I’d been watching since I was six years old. I knew all about the character for whom he was auditioning and reprising. I worked with him for hours over a few days and gave him much-needed background information on the character and his relationship with the other characters in the soap. Aeron was well prepared when he left home for the audition and I prayed he would get the job. I needed him to have steady work and I know he needed it, too. I thought that maybe he would feel better about himself if he was able to contribute in a significant way to the household. I thought that if he landed the series, he’d keep a better schedule and would be more apt to come home every day and participate in the home and the hope I’d been building for us.
I was still hoping he would change.
Still.
Days after his audition, Aeron announced he’d be leaving town for a couple weeks. He never explained all the reasons why he was leaving or to where he’d be traveling, but I knew he planned on visiting his grandmother in Texas before returning to Los Angeles. He left town with the new manager he’d recently hired, a man with a sketchy background who promised him ridiculous things like a spot as the opening act for Michael Jackson’s This Is It tour, before the pop icon died. Aeron believed everything this man said, no matter how ridiculous and unfounded. This new manager told Aeron he’d be going on tour with all sorts of acts, like TLC, and he just figured it all must have been true. That’s how diluted and distorted Aeron’s view of the world and grip on reality was—that’s how badly he wanted to be a musical act instead of an actor. This manager also told Aeron he’d be able to help him erect his own musical, which is what the two of them were doing during that trip—searching for venues, stage props, and whatnot. It was all so very confusing as I watched Aeron chase dreams and follow the guidance of strange men—men he would always call Pops or Uncle—as he always reeled from the father who had left him over twenty years before. Aeron was a confused and broken man with demons and secrets swirling about his head, and for the sake of family and the appearance of normalcy, I continued to force a relationship with him.
Two weeks turned into three and three weeks turned into six as I fought to stay in contact with my husband. He rarely answered the phone and never returned phone calls and text messages. I felt tortured as I waited to hear from him, pacing around my big, empty house. I’d fallen back into my normal self-destructive routine since Aeron came back into my life earlier that year. It was difficult for me to eat in times of stress and I lost all the weight I gained when I was with Shad, hovering around only 100 pounds. My hair became thin and my nails brittle and I drank red wine by the case. I resumed smoking cigarettes. I was back to taking Xanax to help me sleep and stay calm as I nervously waited to hear from my husband. All this distress showed clearly on my face and in my eyes.
Then, after not hearing from Aeron for weeks, he called.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Aye,” he said, in his deep, burly voice. “Listen, I want a divorce. This just isn’t working for me. I mean, I didn’t want to get married in the first place.”
My heart sank as I listened to my husband say the same things he’d been saying since the day we got married. Part of me knew it was inevitable and a part of me wanted it to never happen. If he wanted to file for divorce, there was nothing I could do. In Los Angeles County, there is no stopping a divorce, unless the person filing changes his or her mind. And since Aeron and I shared nothing, there would be nothing to fight over. He could file, and within six months our divorce would be final, no matter how I felt about it. After all he’d done and all I’d gone through, I should have been pleased to hear I was about to get another chance to save my life, but instead, I felt more broken than ever before. All I could say was, “Okay.” I hung up the phone that day, not knowing when or if Aeron would return.
I grieved for the next week, lying in bed with the curtains drawn, wishing I could go back to the summer of 2007, to Aeron and my first kiss. I wished I could undo it all. I wanted so badly to crawl out of my skin. It hurt to be me. I cried every day, all throughout the day, and drank myself to sleep every night. So many times over the past two years with Aeron, I’d thought about suicide and how easy it would be to deliver myself from the pain I was in. Then I would think about my son finding me and how the rest of his life would be ruined. I figured at least one of us deserved a chance to be happy and I wanted to give that chance to him.
But I couldn’t do it in this condition.
In November, about a week after Aeron announced he wanted a divorce, I opened up my laptop and clicked onto my personal Facebook page to find an article written by my old friend Jawn Murray reporting that Aeron had gotten the job as a series regular on the soap opera for which I helped him prepare. It was my first time hearing the news and my mouth flew open as I connected the dots. My husband was going to divorce me now that he had a job, a two-year contract with CBS. After everything I did, after all the money I spent on him and Jonah, he was leaving me now that it seemed he would be able to pay his own bills.
It made perfect sense.
Why didn’t you tell me you got the job? I wrote in a text to Aeron.
Because I couldn’t tell anyone, he responded. How did you find out?
The Internet. So, now that you have a job, you want a divorce?
No. I’ve always wanted a divorce.
But you couldn’t file because you needed me to pay your bills and buy your clothes and take care of your son . . .
Fuck you, Karrine. See you in court.
But that’s not exactly what happened. When Aeron returned to Los Angeles, in the midst of the negotiation of his contract with the network, it turned out he wouldn’t be making nearly as much as he expected during his first year on the show, and after agency and management fees, he would still be scraping the bottom. So, in late November, he came back home and I took care of him.
The consistent money he was now making was more than he’d made during the entire course of our relationship. Aeron had worked sporadically while we were living together and as soon as he got a check, it would be gone. He would give money to his mother, who was still a signee on his bank accounts as she had been since he was a child. He would take care of himself, his immediate family, and Jonah, but never me. The same applied when he began filming the soap in November. He filmed several times a week and was paid bi-weekly. Yet I never saw a dime and I rarely saw him.
As the holiday season came and went, my husband was absent, as usual. Naiim and I spent Thanksgiving alone only to have Aeron come over two days later with a plate of leftover food from his mother’s house. Leftovers. Mona owned him and he would always be more her husband than he ever would be mine. He knew that I didn’t have any family, that I’d alienated all my friends because of our abusive relationship, and that I’d be spending the holidays alone. He knew he was all I had and he used that fact to continuously break me down and remind me how alone I was. Naturally, Aeron was also absent that Christmas and New Year. Still, I stayed put, in that shrine of a home, worshiping a marriage that didn’t exist, waiting for my husband to return.
And he always did.
November 24, 2009: I have not seen my husband for one month and one day. He does not call regularly. He does not check on Naiim, ever. He is abusive, verbally and emotionally. He hangs up on me with no provocation. He says he wants a divorce but wants to still be together and not tell anyone we’re divorced. Aeron was doing so well for a while. He left on August 20, 2009, until the end of September. He went to San Diego and Mexico for two days with no phone calls. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t know anything about him. I keep asking him to come home but he won’t. He refuses. I have lost ten pounds. I am so stressed.
November 30, 2009 (10:20 AM): Aeron came home around 1:45 AM, November 29th and brought Jonah with him. It was my first time seeing them in five weeks. Aeron was in good spirits and I was happy to see both my boys. We talked and made love for the first time in five weeks. The next morning, we ate, fed the baby, and made love once more. We talked about our jobs and Jonah’s custody situation. We remained in good spirits. The baby was clinging to me. He seemed to really miss Naiim and me and asked to stay with me. He cried when they left.
December 7, 2009: Aeron and I spent most of the day with the kids. It was nice. He seemed very distracted and flustered with stuff in his life. He took Jonah and said he’d be back but never came. He stood me up.
December 11, 2009: Aeron went to a red carpet, again, without me and without wearing his wedding ring. It is so embarrassing when journalists and friends call, asking why he never takes me anywhere, as if he’s ashamed. This is the fourth time he has done this and it hurts. When I bring it to his attention, he says he doesn’t care or understand what I’m talking about. He said, “I have nothing to say about it,” and hung up. The emotional disregard is unbearable.
December 14, 2009: Aeron promised to come by last night but never made it. Again, he says he wants a divorce, but doesn’t want to leave me. Yet he has not moved back home. Naiim is becoming affected by his absence and Aeron’s attachment to Jonah only. We have not had sex in weeks—just once in eight weeks. I asked him to not keep the relationship or me in limbo, to either “reel me in or cut me loose,” because this is too painful. He says he wants to be with me, he just doesn’t know how. I said that actually being with me might be a good start. I gave him twenty-four hours to make his decision. He says he “doesn’t want to be married on paper.” He says I forced this marriage on him, yet he is the one who drove us to the chapel that morning. I don’t understand. I have been patient and I have allowed him to come and go as he pleases, but the non-commitment is becoming a strain. He has left me more than he has stayed. No help for food or bills at all, before or after the marriage. No regard for what marriage means. I married him for better or worse—for a lifetime. My life, my marriage, is not a game or a joke to me. I don’t know if I can go on. He says his work is more important and I’m not sure I can compete.
December 18, 2009: Aeron came by on the thirteenth and helped me season meat for dinner. He also took a few of his belongings he left behind two weeks prior when he spent the night. He came by on the fourteenth and went with me to the hardware store for ant killer and helped me lay it around the house, before borrowing my Range Rover. He’s had it ever since and has parked his car in the garage. It has some mechanical issues. I have asked him to stop by, tonight, for a date night. I am trying to reconnect with my husband and save our marriage by showing him it is not the document that ruined our relationship—it was us and all the pressures of our lives that have changed us. I’m hoping this night will propel us to fall in love again.
December 31, 2009: Aeron promised to come home for Christmas Eve. He didn’t, nor did he come home for Christmas, as promised. Now it’s New Year’s Eve. He promised he’d come. I guess I’ll know soon enough.
January 1, 2010: Aeron never showed up last night. I brought the New Year in alone and in tears. He said he was at the emergency room with exhaustion and dehydration. He didn’t even want me by his side. I don’t even know where he lives! This is no marriage, and now I am begging him to stop threatening to file for divorce and just do it. It is obvious he doesn’t care about me no matter what I’ve done to accommodate him. I have given him all the space and time he demanded and he can’t even spend holidays with me, nor does he lean on me during emergencies. We are not a team. This marriage is a joke and all I want is to save it. But I can’t do it alone. I am broken.
January 10, 2010: Aeron came by at 3:30 AM on the sixth. He came through the backyard and tapped on the bedroom’s back door. He scared me. He said he was coming to drop off two shirts he bought Naiim for Christmas. Both shirts were way too small. He doesn’t even know his own step-son’s size! He asked to stay and I let him. He asked to have sex with me and I refused. He only uses me for sex. He misses holidays and birthdays but shows up when he’s horny. This is so unfair! I was not very warm toward him, given his treatment of this marriage and me. He has not spoken to me since. He ignores all my calls and text messages. I just want him to be a good friend, husband, and dad. He is neither and I am still broken. Lonely. Needing love.
January 16, 2010: Aeron came by on the evening of the thirteenth. He said he would no longer be using a cellphone. I know he was lying, since he would need to contact Jonah in case of emergencies. I have no way of contacting him except for emails, which he never answers. He helped me jump my car while he was here and went with me to fill up the tank before he took off. It was an hour-long visit, at best. It’s now been three days and I haven’t heard from him. Naiim’s twelfth birthday is in three days. I’m wondering if Aeron will remember or show up.
In mid-January of 2010, Aeron came back to the house to celebrate Naiim’s twelfth birthday with us. Where he’d been and what he’d done while he was gone was, as always, a mystery. I never asked. There was so much I never knew about my husband—his whereabouts, his cohorts. He lied about everything, all the time, and I believed everything he said, every time he said it.
And there were women.
Lots of them.
So, on February 1, 2010, when Aeron left his email account open after using my computer, I couldn’t resist. Though he’d spend as much as seven months away from home at a time and I’d come across inappropriate text messages between him and other women, he always insisted he was faithful. I suppose I always knew he was lying but I still felt the need for more proof, so I went looking for it.
It didn’t take long for me to find more than what I was looking for, as I came across many inappropriate messages from a bevy of women and a particularly disturbing stream of emails between my husband and a nearly 300-pound pornographic performer who works under the name Felicia Fats. I felt physically sick as I began reading the emails between them and opening the bevy of lewd, pornographic photos and videos Felicia Fats had sent to my husband.
I fell onto the floor as I read, disgusted by my husband’s conduct and his flagrant disregard for our marriage and our children. My body began to shake and tears fell from my eyes as I fought back the urge to vomit.
Their conversation, mixed with the graphic visuals, proved too much for my stomach. I couldn’t go on; I’d seen enough. I ran to the bathroom, slumped over the toilet, and threw up. I hugged the cold, white porcelain bowl as I sat, my legs shaking, banging against the travertine floors. Hot and acidic, the vomit tore through my throat like lava, consisting of nothing more than bile. I hadn’t eaten in days, nearly a week. It had been a task to ingest even water.
I’d done everything I could to be a good wife and mother. I’d supported my husband in every way I knew how. I cooked, I cleaned, I paid all the bills and made sure he and the kids had everything they needed. I was always available to him, always home, always ready to receive him whenever he decided to come back to me. I changed everything I was for him and endured years of shaming and belittling by him and his family, to say nothing of the physical abuse— the beatings, the choking, the spitting. Now, there I was in this shrine I called our home, these three stories and 6,000 square feet of emptiness dedicated to the idea of the perfect family. There I was in the prison I built for myself on purpose, for the purpose of being finally loved and finally fucking normal.
There I was, being anything but.