I didn’t think about how I would be sacrificing an innocent young woman. I could only desperately latch onto my getaway. I’d almost given up hoping it might be possible. Until I realized he’d never let me go unless he believed it was his idea.
I was certain of this because of what he’d done to me before when he’d thought I was trying to leave him.
I had begun to withdraw from my marriage right before the Alvin Ailey gala. I was still relatively young and strong. I hadn’t yet been broken.
Immediately after the gala, when Richard confronted me in the kitchen, he’d looked down at my right wrist, which was turning white in his strong hands. It was as if he didn’t even realize he was twisting it; as if someone else were responsible for the birdlike cry of pain that had escaped from my lips.
Richard hadn’t hurt me bad before that night. Not physically, anyway.
At times he’d paused at the brink of what I now recognize as the edge. I’d recorded each of those episodes in my black Moleskine notebook: in the cab after I’d kissed Nick at my bachelorette party; at Sfoglia when a man at the bar had bought me a drink; and on the evening when I’d confronted Richard about Duke’s disappearance. At other times he’d come even closer. Once he’d thrown our framed wedding picture to the floor, shattering the glass and also hurling a ludicrous accusation at me: that I’d been flirting with Eric, the scuba instructor, during our honeymoon. I saw him stop by our room, Richard had yelled at me, as I recalled how my husband had left bruises on my upper arm after helping me out of the boat. Another time, shortly after one of our visits to the fertility doctor, when he’d lost a big client, Richard slammed the door of his office so hard a vase fell off an étagère.
He’d also seized my upper arm on a few more occasions, squeezing it too tightly, and once when he was questioning me about my drinking and I dropped my eyes, he grabbed my jaw and yanked my head upright so I was forced to look at him.
In those instances, he’d always been able to contain his fury; to retreat into a guest room or to leave our home and come back once his anger was spent.
The night after the Alvin Ailey gala, it seemed at first as if my high-pitched whimper had cut through to him.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said as he released my wrist. He’d taken a step back. Run a hand through his hair. Exhaled slowly. “But why the fuck did you lie to me?”
“Aunt Charlotte,” I whispered again. “I swear I just went to see her.”
I shouldn’t have said that. But I worried that admitting I’d gone to talk to someone about our marriage might cause him to erupt further—or ask questions I wasn’t prepared to answer.
My repeated lie made something snap within him. He lost the struggle.
The sound of his palm against my cheek was like a gunshot. I fell onto the hard tiled floor. Shock suppressed my pain for a moment as I lay there in the gorgeous dress he’d given me, now crumpled around my thighs. I stared up at him, holding my hand to my face. “What—how could you—”
He reached down and I thought he was going to help me to my feet, to beg my forgiveness, to explain he’d meant to strike the cabinet behind me.
Instead he grabbed my hair in his fist and yanked me upright.
I stood on my tiptoes, clawing at his fingers, desperate for him to release me. It felt as if he were tearing my scalp from my skull. Tears streamed out of my eyes. “Stop, please,” I begged.
He let go but then leaned in to pin me against the edge of the counter. He wasn’t hurting me now. But I knew it was the most dangerous moment of the night. Of my life.
Everything in his face compressed. His narrowed eyes darkened. But the eeriest part was his voice. It was the only piece of him I still recognized; it was the voice that had soothed me on so many nights and had vowed to love and protect me.
“You need to remember that even when I’m not there, I’m always with you.”
He stared at me for a moment.
Then my husband reemerged. He took a step back. “You should go to bed now, Nellie.”
Richard brought me a breakfast tray the next morning. I hadn’t slept nor had I moved from the bed.
“Thank you.” I kept my voice quiet and even. I was terrified of setting him off again.
His glance fell on my right wrist, which was already bruised. He left the room and returned with an ice pack. Wordlessly, he placed it on the injury.
“I’ll be home early, sweetheart. I’ll pick up dinner.”
I obediently ate the granola and berries. Even though my face was unmarked, my jaw felt tender and chewing was painful. I went downstairs and rinsed my bowl, wincing when I unthinkingly pulled on the dishwasher door using my hurt arm.
I made the bed, being careful to not jar my wrist when I tucked in the corners. I took a shower, flinching when the heavy spray hit my scalp. I couldn’t bear to shampoo my hair or aim a blow-dryer at it, so I left it damp. When I opened my closet door, I found the Alexander McQueen dress hanging neatly right in front. I couldn’t remember even taking it off; the rest of the night had been a blur. I only recalled the sensation of trying to shrink; of wanting to become as physically small as possible. Of willing myself to be invisible.
I walked past the dress and reached for layers: leggings and thick socks, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a cardigan. From a high shelf my suitcases beckoned. I stared at them.
I could have packed some of my things and walked out then. I could have booked a hotel or gone to my aunt’s place. I could even have called Sam, though we hadn’t spoken in a long time, since a rift had cleaved us apart. But I knew leaving Richard wouldn’t be that easy.
When he’d departed that morning, I’d heard the beeps that meant Richard was activating our alarm, then the thud of the front door closing behind him.
But what I heard loudest of all was the echo of his words: I’m always with you.
The doorbell rang while I was still staring at the suitcases.
I raised my head. It was such an unfamiliar sound; we almost never had unannounced visitors. There was no need for me to answer; it was probably a delivery person leaving a package.
But the bell chimed again, and a moment later the house phone rang. When I lifted the receiver, I heard Richard’s voice. “Baby, where are you?” He sounded worried.
I looked at the clock on the nightstand. Somehow it was already eleven. “Just getting out of the shower.” I could hear someone knocking.
“You should go answer the door.”
I hung up and descended the stairs, feeling my chest growing tight. I used my good arm to deactivate the alarm and unlatch the lock. My hands were shaking. I had no idea what was on the other side, but Richard had told me what I needed to do.
I shivered as the winter air blew against my face. A courier stood there, holding an electronic clipboard and a small black bag. “Vanessa Thompson?”
I nodded.
“Please sign here.” He extended the clipboard toward me. It was hard to grip the pen. I wrote my name gingerly. When I looked up, I saw that he was staring at my wrist. Bruises the color of an eggplant were peeking out from beneath the sleeve of my cardigan.
The courier caught himself quickly. “This is for you.” He handed me the package.
“I was playing tennis. I had a fall.”
I could see the relief seep into his eyes. But then he turned and glanced at the snow blanketing our neighborhood, and he looked back at me.
I closed the door quickly.
I untied the ribbon on the bag and saw a box inside. When I lifted the lid, it revealed a thick gold cuff from Verdura, at least two inches in diameter.
I reached into the box and held it up. The bracelet Richard had sent would perfectly cover the ugly bruises ringing my wrist.
Before I even had the chance to decide if I would ever be able to wear it, we got the call that my mother had died.