As I entered the guest room and reached under the mattress to retrieve my notebook, I wondered if I’d been so hurt and angry because Sam seemed to know something I wouldn’t allow myself to accept—that Richard wasn’t the perfect husband. That our marriage only looked good on the surface. The Prince. Too good to be true. You’re dressed like you’re going to a PTA meeting. She’d even called me Nellie once in a tone that felt more mocking than joking.
I lifted the mattress with my right hand and stretched out my left arm, sweeping it back and forth on top of the box spring. But I couldn’t feel the familiar edges of my journal.
I eased down the mattress and turned on the nightstand lamp. I dropped to my knees and hoisted the mattress even higher. It wasn’t there. I checked under the bed, then began to peel back the comforter, then the top sheet.
My hands stopped moving when I felt static rise over my skin. I detected Richard’s stare before he spoke a word.
“Is this what you’re looking for, Nellie?”
I slowly rose to my feet and turned around.
My husband stood in the doorway, wearing boxers and a T-shirt, holding my notebook. “You haven’t been writing this week. Although I guess you’ve been busy. You went to the grocery store on Tuesday right after I left for work, and yesterday you drove to the wineshop in Katonah. Sneaky, aren’t you?”
He knew everything I was doing.
He lifted up the journal. “You believe I’m the one who can’t get us pregnant? You think there’s something wrong with me?”
He knew everything I was thinking.
He moved closer to me and I cowered. But he merely took an object off the nightstand behind me. A pen.
“You forgot something, Nellie. You left this here. I saw it the other day.” His voice was different, more high-pitched than I’d ever before heard it, and the cadence was almost playful. “Where there’s a pen, there must be paper.”
He riffled through the pages. “This is fucking insane.” His sentences tumbled out faster and faster. “Duke! Lamb vindaloo! Turning your picture around! I set off the house alarm!” With every accusation, he tore out a new page. “My parents’ wedding photo! You snuck into the storage unit! You’re wondering about my parents’ cake topper? You’ve been going into the city to talk about our marriage to some stranger? You’re psychotic. You’re even worse than your mother!”
I didn’t realize I was backing up until I felt the nightstand hit the back of my legs.
“You were a pathetic waitress who couldn’t even walk down the street without thinking someone was going to come after you.” He dragged his hands through his hair, and part of it stood up. His T-shirt was rumpled and stubble coated his jawline. “You ungrateful bitch. How many women would kill to have a man like me? To live in this house, to vacation in Europe and drive a Mercedes.”
All the blood seemed to rush out of my head; I felt dizzy with fear. “You’re right, you’re so good to me,” I began to plead. “Didn’t you see the other pages? I wrote how generous you were in paying for the animal shelter renovation. How much you helped me when my mom died. And how much I love you.”
I wasn’t reaching him; he seemed to be looking through me. “Clean up this mess,” he ordered.
I dropped to my knees and gathered the pages.
“Tear them up.”
I was crying now, but I obeyed, gathering a handful and trying to rip them in half. But my hands were shaking and the stack of pages was too thick for me to shred.
“You’re so fucking incompetent.”
I sensed a metallic change in the air; it felt swollen with pressure.
“Please, Richard,” I sobbed. “I’m so sorry. . . . Please . . .”
His first kick landed near my ribs. The pain was explosive. I curled into a ball and pulled my knees into my chest.
“You want to leave me?” he shouted as he kicked me again.
He climbed on top of me, forcing me onto my back and pinning my arms with his knees. His kneecaps ground into my elbows.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I tried to twist away from him, but he was sitting on my abdomen, trapping me in place.
His hands closed around my neck. “You were supposed to love me forever.”
I gagged as I thrashed and kicked beneath him, but he was too strong. My vision became spotty. I wrenched one hand free and clawed at his face as I grew light-headed.
“You were supposed to save me.” His voice was soft and sad now.
Those were the last words I heard before I blacked out. When I came to, I was still lying on the floor. The pages of my notebook had vanished.
Richard was gone, too.
My throat felt raw and desperately parched. I lay there for a long time. I didn’t know where Richard was. I rolled onto my side, my arms encircling my knees, shivering in my thin nightgown. After a while I reached up and pulled the comforter around me. Fear immobilized me; I couldn’t leave the room.
Then I smelled fresh coffee.
I heard Richard’s footsteps coming up the stairs. There was nowhere to hide. I couldn’t run, either; he was between me and the front door.
He walked unhurriedly into the room, holding a mug.
“Forgive me,” I blurted. My voice was hoarse. “I didn’t realize . . . I’ve been drinking and I haven’t been sleeping. I haven’t been thinking clearly. . . .”
He just stared at me. He was capable of killing me. I had to convince him not to.
“I wasn’t going to leave you,” I lied. “I don’t know why I wrote those bad things. You’re so good to me.”
Richard took a sip of coffee, keeping his eyes on mine over the rim of his mug.
“Sometimes I worry I am becoming like my mother. I need help.”
“Of course you wouldn’t leave me. I know that.” He had regained his composure. I’d said the right words. “I acknowledge I lost my temper, but you pushed me,” he said, as if he’d merely snapped at me during a minor spat. “You’ve been lying to me. You’ve been deceiving me. You are not acting like the Nellie I married.” He paused. He patted the bed and I hesitantly climbed up to sit on its edge, keeping the comforter around me like a shield. He sat down next to me, and I felt the mattress sink beneath his weight, tilting me toward him.
“I’ve thought about it, and this is partly my fault. I should have recognized the warning signs. I indulged your depression. What you need is structure. A routine. From now on you’ll get up with me. We’ll work out together in the morning. Then we’ll eat breakfast. More protein. You’ll get fresh air every day. Rejoin some committees at the club. You used to make an effort with dinner. I’d like for you to do that again.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I am committed to our marriage, Nellie. Do not ever make me question whether you are again.”
I quickly nodded, even though the motion hurt my neck.
He left for work an hour later, telling me he would phone me when he got to the office and that he expected me to answer. I did exactly as he said. I could only swallow some yogurt for breakfast because of my throat, but it was high in protein. It was early fall, so I took a walk in the cool fresh air, keeping the ringer on my cell phone turned up as high as possible. I put on a turtleneck to cover the red, oval imprints that would turn into bruises, then went to the grocery store and selected filet mignon and white asparagus to serve to my husband.
I was in the checkout lane when I heard the cashier saying, “Ma’am?” I realized she’d been waiting for me to pay for my groceries. I looked up from the bag of food I was starting at, wondering if he already knew what I was buying for his dinner. Somehow Richard was aware of every time I left the house; he’d found out about my secret journey into the city, the liquor store I frequented, the errands I ran.
Even when I’m not there, I’m always with you.
I looked at the woman at the next register over as she appeased a cranky toddler who wanted to be lifted out of the cart. I glanced up at the security camera near the door. I saw the pile of red baskets with gleaming metal handles, the display of tabloid magazines, the candy in bright, crinkly wrappers.
I had no idea how my husband was constantly watching me. But his surveillance was no longer stealth. I could not deviate from the more stringent new rules of our marriage. And I could certainly never try to leave him.
He would know.
He would stop me.
He would hurt me.
He might kill me.