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John is scaring me. I wish I could call someone. I wish I still had a girlfriend who I could run this all by or family left to tell me I’m crazy—or to tell me to get out. It’s all so confusing.
The hormones? Are they the reason? I feel them coursing through my blood, like a runner’s high but darker. Are they just playing tricks on me? Making me see and feel things that aren’t there? I’ve read so many things about post-birth issues and hormonal changes. Perhaps this is just what’s going on. Maybe I need some serious help.
But last night, oh last night, I started to think I’m not crazy at all. John isn’t the man I married. I considered he might just be downright dangerous. After the park, Margot and I ambled home, my mind racing with possibilities. Don’t jump to conclusions, Evette, I told myself. But perhaps, this one time, my tendency to overthink and assume things wasn’t completely out of line.
Years ago, I remember watching one of those shows about spouses who didn’t really know who they married. I laughed as this one pathetic, mousey woman talked about how she had no idea she’d married a serial killer. She didn’t realize his secret life for ten full years. Ten years of vacations, of family dinners, of sex and she had no idea. That horrified me underneath the laughter. Perhaps it was more of a nervous laugh. Impossible, I told myself. Ridiculous. No one could be that dumb. How could you be such a moron? How didn’t you see the signs? Your womanly intuition would have to kick in at some point. You would have to see that sinister lust, that undeniable darkness in his eyes if you just looked. I turned to eye my husband. I didn’t blink for a long time, studying him as he watched the story unfold. You could definitely see the darkness.
Today, however, I wouldn’t be so hasty to judge that woman, and I sure as hell wouldn’t be laughing. Today, I’d ask what she missed along the way and ask for advice. I would look at that woman and see a mirror held up, reflecting the pieces of my own life I wish I could keep buried.
The truth is, I’m afraid I’ve missed things with him. Maybe missed isn’t the right word. Of course it isn’t. I think like the woman who didn’t know her spouse, I just didn’t want to see what’s been obvious all along. I wanted to stick my head in the sand and drown in the perfect marriage I’d imagined. Because quite frankly, it’s all been so blatant. I’ve known the truth all along. I just thought it was more contained.
Some of it, too, is that John is good at keeping secrets. He’s good at playing different personas, I’ve noticed from watching him. Why would I be any different? What makes me think he shows his truest of true selves to me? I think I’ve been duped in some ways, but maybe it’s not completely my fault. People are unreliable. That’s what Mama always said. And she’s right. It’s not so easy uncovering the layers of people. It isn’t easy to truly know who your spouse is, even after all the time in the world has passed.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the signs. They were there even before Margot now that I look back. They’ve always been there. Caught up in baby fever and making a house, though, I chose to label the red flags as quirks or oddities to be overlooked. I think this might have been a mistake. There are a lot of warning signs that seem harmless enough from the outside. But from where I’m at, I now see the true harbingers they are—John isn’t the innocent, safe man I thought he was.
He’s so secretive, for one. And not in an icy vampire who has sexy intrigue kind of way. It’s more like a BTK meets Ted Bundy, I’ve got bodies in the basement sort of vibe now that I watch him. He’s always looking over his shoulder—in the house, on the porch, at the grocery store. It’s like he’s afraid someone will recognize him, will spot him with his family, and realize he’s living another life. Or maybe he’s afraid we’ll be the ones to find the clue he isn’t the quiet, calm lawyer who plays tennis on weekends and watches too many episodes of Pawn Stars. I mean, I know his one secret, his darkest moment. And in theory, that’s probably why he’s always a little edgy. That night changed him. It changed both of us. Still, I always wonder: was that night actually responsible for stirring the bleaker version of John? Or was that menacing side resting there all along?
You can never truly know who you married, even if you think you do. Everyone, everyone, everyone has a secret side, a dark side they don’t show all the time. Sometimes, we catch a glimpse of it. Sometimes, the reality of who we are sharing a life with bubbles up. But then, we shove it back down or they cover it with a superhero-like cape. They convince us the person we thought we knew is actually who they are. We all wear masks, especially for those we love. Sometimes, we even wear masks for ourselves.
Sure, we’ve been together for years. But what if in those years, John has just gotten good at fooling me? It’s a disconcerting thought. I don’t want to end up on one of those crime shows, the stupid woman who looked the other way. I don’t want to end up eight feet under, either. I quake at the thought of it. It makes me sick to think John could be capable of that.
Last night, after he sent the text and sped off in his Mustang, he got home around seven. Calm, collected, grinning like nothing was wrong. He leaned in for a kiss after walking through the door and let his lips graze mine for longer than a second. He even said dinner smelled good—I had to cook to keep my mind from racing after returning from the park. It was a failed attempt. I took a deep inhale when he leaned in, but there was no trace of perfume lingering on his collar, no relics of who or what he was doing. I looked up at him, thinking of a time when we shared it all. When I would have casually mentioned seeing him, when I would have asked where he was going. But I bit my tongue, knowing at any moment, the smiling, charismatic John could turn into the ugly one.
He turned into the frightening version last night, anyway. I simply asked about work. Perhaps I came on a little strong, peppering in a lot more questions about his meetings than usual because of what I knew. He perused me suspiciously over his pasta, and although he nodded and gave me generic answers, it was in his eyes I saw something that frightened me to the core.
I saw the John who makes my heart palpitate in a worrisome way, the version who makes me want to go and shield Margot or take her and run. I’ve seen John show his true colors a few times over the past couple of months. I’ve done my best to tamp him down, to keep him at bay. But my patience is wearing thin. I am not the woman from the crime show, at least not completely. I see the darkness in his eyes, and I flag it.
The truth is I don’t like the way he looks at me. It’s not a smoldering look, a romantic one. It’s a look that seems to suggest he sees right through me as if I’m invisible. He walks right by me but doesn’t notice me. But that alone isn’t all. Those are just the words of a lonely housewife perhaps. Still, there’s a distance there that screams the one thing I’ve always feared: I’m dispensable to him. With a man like John, that’s never a good thing to be.
The other thing on my mind is the number. I scrawled it down on a piece of paper just in case it would come to mean something, and I tucked it in the pages of the book in my nightstand. John hates reading. He would never look in there.
BR1812450305100020009795473D1
When I got suspicious last week and Margot was napping, I did some searching in his office. He spends a lot of time back there lately, locked away working even when he isn’t at work. I wanted to check his laptop, but the password was changed. Red flag. Another in a pile of copious warning signs. But as I was searching through his drawers and filing cabinets, I saw it. A tiny box in the back of a bottom cabinet drawer. A cigar box, plain and unmarked. No one would even notice it unless you were looking for something. I was looking.
I had to admit that it was the perfect place to hide secrets. But I’m good at secrets, too, and thus, John has forgotten, I’m good at getting to the bottom of them.
Inside, there was simply a number written down, the scrawling text looking frenetic on the lined piece of paper. It was probably nothing. I would have overlooked it in other circumstances—but why was it hidden in the back of his drawer? It definitely wasn’t there before. I’ve been in these drawers so many times—a stupid woman trusts her husband completely if Mama’s advice is to be heeded. You always have to keep an eye out so you know who you are playing against and with.
It’s not that I’m paranoid, mind you. I just love him. I love our life. I don’t want to be blindsided, especially now that we have a child in the picture. I know what it’s like growing up with just one parent. I want more for Margot. Always more.
The number rattles itself off in my brain, plaguing me over and over. What is it? I think it must be some sort of an account number. But that doesn’t make any sense. We have money, but John isn’t the son of an oil baron. We have a nice enough house, go on vacation each year, nothing exotic. But with me as a stay-at-home mom now, there isn’t enough money to be stowing in secret accounts. And we have no real reason to have a secret account anyway.
Right?
But there’s something else. After dinner, when he retreated to his office to do more work—does that man ever take a break anymore?—he came storming out after five minutes. I was washing dishes, Margot close by in her bassinet.
“Were you in my office?” he asked icily, his stance taking me off guard. Something in the way he was standing, towering over me. I put down the dish slowly and told myself to stay calm. He couldn’t possibly have proof of that. I put everything back and left it all undisturbed. Then again, Margot had cried and interrupted my search. Had I forgotten to cover my tracks? Did I biff something? The worries raced through my head, but I kept the reassuring grin on my face. And then I did what I hated to do. I lied to my husband.
“Of course not. Why would I be in your office?” I ended with a question, a perfect liar’s tactic.
Eyebrows narrowing, he perused my face. After all of these years together, he knows my tell. I told myself not to clench my jaw, not to look down at the floor. I stared into his eyes, and for that moment, I pretended we were just two soulmates who perhaps were losing their souls because of each other. Perhaps we always were.
Secrets rattled between us. Secrets neither of us want to admit to.
“Don’t go in there. It’s confidential. You know that. You know my work is important, especially now.” He didn’t believe me. We don’t believe each other anymore. Our marriage is in trouble, certainly.
And on top of the secrecy, there it was. The cutting remark, the unspoken words about my new role at home. The stab to the heart. The clue I wasn’t crazy. We weren’t the same.
He left, stalking back to his office. I leaned over the sink, staring into the foamy dishwater. I realized my hands were trembling.
Because underneath the cigar box where the serial number or bank number or whatever it is, there was something more alarming. Something that made me know—my days as a safe, married mother are numbered. I inhale deeply as I think about what a mess it’s all become. I would have never thought I’d be here, the miracle baby we always wanted, but fearing for my safety because my husband has a gun and a boatload of deception. John’s got the power spot now. That used to be mine. I used to be in control. He must be so proud of himself. He must feel invincible. With the gun in his filing cabinet, I suppose he is.
But John has underestimated one thing—a mother’s love.
Now, I sit at the table as he makes coffee. He nods in my direction, but I can tell he is wary. We don’t talk about last night. We don’t talk about anything anymore. In the past, we didn’t have to talk because we were always on the same wavelength. That’s changed, though. That’s different.
I think of Mama as I stare at John, completing his eloquent morning dance of getting coffee mugs and making toast. After Dad went to prison, I asked her if she missed him.
“No, I’m okay. He had it coming. Besides, Evette, as a woman, you make sure you build a life that doesn’t depend on his attention. You have to be okay with yourself first. You have to be your own best friend first. Men aren’t reliable, after all. No one really is.”
Mama was full of wisdom, up until the day she died my junior year of college. I wish I had written down all of her advice, but I guess I didn’t have to. Her words guided me through so many situations. She’s always reminding me with unspoken words to be strong, to be courageous, and to live the life I want. Still, I wish she was here now to tell me how to handle the boxed-off man I’m married to. Something tells me she wouldn’t be happy with the predicament I’m in—a man I can’t trust running the show. He’s got all the power now because I’m dependent on him. Thanks to my decisions, no matter how noble, I’m completely and utterly reliant on a man, a man who is drowning in secrets and lies.
Mama would tell me to go about my business, not to beg. And so I do. I head back to the bedroom and get dressed. I don’t rush out to say goodbye when he yells that he’s leaving. I simply shout a farewell from the bedroom and go about my business. I’d rather not look into those eyes again that make me so wary.
Thus, the door clicks and I exhale. Freedom. I plan my day without him, just like Mama would want.