One article reminds me of the worst time in my life. A time when I made the choice to run so I could protect my daughter from a monster who informed me that my husband was dead a day after I reported him to the authorities.
The Greyhound bus made a stop and we got off in this small town, which was divided by a highway, and I found a run-down motel that rented rooms by the week. I had enough money for a week before I’d have to find a job. That job came in the form of cashier at the only gas station in town. I took the job because they’d allow me to bring my little girl to work as long as she stayed out of the way.
She did and I earned enough to continue to pay rent and feed her some healthy food. With my only bills being rent and food, I was able to save enough for us to move from a run-down motel to an apartment where my daughter and I shared a room. It wasn’t until I met Ray that things started to change. I know he took pity on me, the single mom working at a gas station, but he never let on if it bothered him that I was destitute.
When he asked me, Amy Jones, to marry him I said yes because he was going to provide for my daughter. He was going to protect her when I couldn’t. He was going to give us a house with land and a stable income. All things I couldn’t provide for her.
But I still love the husband I could never bury, the man who gave me my daughter and made my world so bright. To this day it pains me to know that he was alone when they set him in the ground and that his wife and daughter weren’t there to say good-bye. Someday, I’ll go back and tell him how much I love him. I know he’d be proud of me, knowing I did what I had to do to protect our daughter.
Pulling the towel away from my face, I toss it in the hamper, and then make an effort to remove the rest of my make-up because it’s the only way I can explain my red eyes. Washing my face with hot water will also give my blotchy skin an excuse.
I take a deep breath and avoid looking in the mirror. I don’t care to see myself right now. The person staring back is not me. Not anymore. I can feel my world starting to crumble. Ray will never understand the lies I’ve told.
As I head back downstairs, Chloe and Ray are sitting at the table carrying on a funny conversation. I hate that I wasn’t here to hear the story, but maybe they’ll share with me.
“Have you been crying?” Ray asks. There’s an undertone to his voice that I can’t describe.
“You okay, Mom?”
I smile at Chloe and set my hand on hers. “I’m fine. And no I haven’t been crying. I got soap in my eyes when I was taking off my make-up,” I tell my husband who has grown quite sour this evening.
We eat dinner in silence and when it’s done, Chloe helps clear the table while I take care of the dishes.
When Ray puts his hand on my waist, I jump. I don’t mean to, but it’s not like I can tell him that.
“Amy, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, Ray. I’m just doing the dishes, you scared me is all.”
“I called your name a few times before I touched you. I thought maybe you had earphones in.”
I shake my head and offer him a sweet smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I look at Ray in his pale-green button down and black slacks. His hair is always perfectly styled and his face freshly shaven. I asked him once if he thought about letting his facial hair grow, especially on the weekends, but he said he’d never do that. I miss the feel of stubble against my fingertips and along my cheek. I miss the way I used to be kissed, but I couldn’t ever tell him that.
“I’m fine, Ray. I promise.”
“Do you think you could be pregnant?”
I shake my head sadly and watch his face fall. He’s wanted another child for years, but I’ve been secretly taking the birth control pill since we started dating, fearful that I’d never be able to love another child the way I love Chloe.
He nods and moves back toward the table. With my back to him I finish washing the dishes. He talks about his day and I respond at the appropriate times.
“You know our politicians leave something to be desired.”
“Uh huh.” Please change the subject, Ray. I beg of you. I close my eyes and pray he moves onto the next topic.
“Ted Lawson,” he tsks as I fight back the tears. “Hopefully he’s put away for life.”
“Or gets the death penalty,” I mutter under my breath. Shutting off the water, I excuse myself to retreat back to the bathroom where I empty the contents of my stomach.