What's Done In the Dark(2)

I pushed him away, though not hard enough to send him down the stairs. “Are you serious?”

“No, it just caught me by surprise. Usually, you have on a head scarf and some sweats when I get in.” I was the one surprised when he added, “What’s the occasion anyway?”

I stood waiting for him to break out into laughter. Tell me I was being punk’d, anything. Finally I said, “Today, Greg. Fifteen years.”

The truth finally dawned on him. “Oh, my God, babe. Our anniversary. I am so, so sorry. You know I’ve been swamped at work, and I just completely lost track of what day it was.”

I shook my head in disbelief. The tears I had been holding back made their escape. I had no words as I spun around and marched back to our bedroom.

“Come on, don’t be mad,” he said, following me.

I don’t know why I was even shocked. I decided to turn around and give him a piece of my mind. But before I could speak, I noticed him picking up rose petals in the hallway.

“Ughhh!” I screamed, slamming the bedroom door.

I wanted to leave. I didn’t even feel like taking the negligee off. I just wanted to get away from this suffocating house and away from my inconsiderate and unaffectionate husband.

Our once-a-week sexual escapades had dwindled to twice a month, then to once every other month. It was unreal. I used to think he was seeing someone else. After all, he’d cheated on me shortly after we got married. We’d gone to counseling and, I thought, moved past it. But the past three years especially had been brutal. I felt completely neglected. I’d even hired a private investigator to have him followed. But three thousand dollars later, all I discovered was what I already knew: my husband was simply a severe workaholic.

But tonight was the last straw.

I snatched a maxi dress off the hanger in my walk-in closet, then slipped it over my head. I then snatched a change of clothes and stuffed them in my gym bag. I couldn’t stand to be in the same house with him another minute.

I marched back downstairs. I found my husband actually taking out the garbage. “You can clean up the rose petals in the bedroom now,” I said, whisking past him.

“Babe, come on, don’t be mad at me. I was just taking the garbage out while I gave you a minute to cool down.”

“Well, I’m cool. Cold as ice.”

“Where are you going?”

I ignored him as he followed me out in the garage.

“Felise! I said I’m sorry.”

I continued to ignore him as I got in the car and backed out. I didn’t know where I was going, but at the moment, any place that was far away from Gregory Mavins was exactly where I wanted to be.





2


Paula


I CAN’T BELIEVE I PRAYED for this.

I mean, growing up, all I thought about was becoming a mother. I wanted to be a wife and have a house full of wonderful kids.

That was my dream. This was my nightmare.

“Stevie, if you don’t get your butt down off of that sofa!” I screamed at my oldest son. “And now, look, the twins are up there, too. You know they’re going to do whatever you do.” I swatted at my ten-year-old and turned my attention back to the phone. I’d picked it up when it rang, but I hadn’t even had a chance to speak when I noticed my kids acting plumb fools. Again.

“Hello?” I said, exasperated.

“Just one time, I’m going to call your house and have a civil conversation without you going off on your kids.”

I tried to smile at the sound of my best friend’s voice. But I wasn’t in a smiling mood. These kids had worked my last nerve. Again.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. I really do. But my oldest, Tahiry, was fourteen and in that stage where I couldn’t stand her. Then my ten-year-old son was ADD, ADHD, or one of those other acronyms to describe a child who couldn’t keep his butt still. And then, just when I thought I was done having kids, I got a double surprise three years ago. Marcus and Mason. You know that 99.9 percent effective rate for birth control? My twins are that 0.01 percent because I took my pills faithfully. So imagine my surprise when my doctor informed me that my ulcer was actually babies (with an s).

So, with three rambunctious boys and a teen who was feeling herself, I wouldn’t be experiencing any peaceful moments in my house any time soon.

“Stevie, watch your brothers. I’m going out here to have a smoke.”

“You know cigarettes kill people,” Tahiry said, not looking up from her spot on the recliner where she’d been texting God knows who for the past two hours.

“So does having kids,” I mumbled.

Stevie stopped jumping long enough to say, “For real, Ma. They told us at school that cigarettes turn your lungs black and you get all crippled and stuff and can’t breathe. I can’t be having a jacked-up-looking mom, coughing and stuff.”