Friday, April 9, 2004

She works the night shift at a processing center for ATM deposits–not her dream job, but she has three mouths to feed, not including her husband’s. Sometimes she thinks about how she got here–this life is so far from what she had expected. As a child she knew she wanted children and a family but somehow it looked different then. When she had imagined it then, she was a veterinarian and was married to a tall, handsome, wealthy man. But reality had different plans. She is unhappily married to her high school sweetheart, who is short, average looking, and poor. Two of her three children are from a previous lover. She tells herself that this is the life she chose, but somehow that doesn’t subside the feeling of regret.

It’s 6 a.m. She comes home at the same time every day. Nothing about this day is any different from the one before. As she enters the house it seems very quiet–not that the children would be awake at this time, but something about this silence is different–almost like death is in the air. An eerie feeling races through her body. She runs to the boys’ room. Everyone is fast asleep. She moves closer to make sure everyone is breathing. She sees her daughter in the bed with her youngest son. She is only 4 and sometimes at night when she gets scared she comes to her mother’s room. “I wonder why she is in the boys’ room?” she thinks.

Normally she would do some cleaning before it was time to get the kids ready for school. She usually has just enough time to wash the dishes from the night before, take out the trash, check homework, and maybe watch a little of the news. Who said having a husband was helpful? This day she decides to catch a quick nap before it is time to wake the kids. As she pushes open her bedroom door her eyes begin to burn. She wants to scream but nothing comes out. She closes the door in shock. She immediately opens it back up hoping the scene is different this time. She surveys the room: empty bottles of booze on the dresser, a cell phone she doesn’t recognize near the night stand, and black lace panties at her feet. Her husband is lying in the bed naked with another woman. She has thoughts of a time before: a dark place that involves her son’s father–the night he beat her and she found herself on top of him with a knife to his throat. She suppresses the thoughts–she is a different person now and therapy has taught her how to control her anger. She has to shake him to wake him up. He arises from his slumber first with a slight smirk, feeling the naked skin against his own, but as his eyes open a look of fear overcomes him. He stares at her. No words are exchanged. She should be crying, she thinks, but she is not. He taps the girl.

“Um, Emma, please stay calm,” he tells her, not sure what to say.

Emma smacks him at the thought of remaining calm. The girl awakes screaming. She grabs the sheets to cover her naked frame, leaving him bare. Emma notices how thin she is–her perky breasts, how flat her stomach is. “She hasn’t had children yet,” she thinks.

“Stop screaming before you wake my kids,” she says a lot calmer than she feels.
The girl, unable to do anything else, continues to scream.

“Stop fucking screaming, I said!” With that she takes the unidentified cell phone and throws it in her direction. It shatters against the dry wall.

“Get out of my house,” she whispers.

The girl, first paralyzed with fear, is now crouching to pick up the phone.

“Get out of my house now.” Her voice rises just a tad.

“I didn’t drive,” she finally responds.

“Take her home,” she says looking at her husband.

He leaps up, happy to have a task that doesn’t involve speaking.
20 minutes pass. The kids will be up soon. She gathers the sheets and takes them to the dumpster. She stops herself, remembering the cost. She doesn’t have money to replace anything. This almost brings her to tears. She starts the washing machine, scrubs the dresser and headboard, and starts to vacuum. Still no tears. She phones her sister.

“Can you take the kids to school today? I’m really tired.”

“Sure.”

The kids are up brushing their teeth, watching cartoons, and asking about dinner that evening. Tonight is family night–pizza is what they normally have. She tries to make small talk but talking makes her weak. She is thankful when her sister arrives.

As her sister is leaving he is walking up the driveway.

“Bye, Daddy. Love you.” His daughter hops up to give him a kiss
.
She stares at him, actually surprised he returned so soon, the woman’s scent still in the house.

“Did you use a condom?” Those were her first words.

“Um, I was drunk … I think so.”

“You think so.”
She searches though the trash looking for the condom wrapper, knowing it doesn’t matter but she needs to do something with her hands.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“Why would you cheat on me? I never gave you a reason to cheat.”

“I got drunk; I never intended to sleep with her.”

“But your dick just fell into her, right?”

“We were drunk. There was lots of alcohol . . . and ecstasy.”

“You took drugs? With my fucking kids in the house? You are so stupid. A lot dumber than I give you credit for.”

“I’m all by myself Emma. You’re never here.”

“I’m at fucking work. I’m not out fucking people.”

“It gets lonely–I only see you for a few hours. We have not been together in weeks.”

“Weeks? You fucked a bitch in my bed because you have not been with me in weeks?
Get the fuck out.”

“Emma . . .”

She races upstairs and starts throwing his stuff out the window, in the garbage, everywhere it will go.

“Get out of my house!” she shouts.

The neighbors are up now. She has run out of words again. Just then the doorbell rings.
There stands the woman from earlier, a man in his late 40’s and a lady in her late 30’s.

“Did you leave something?” She looks directly at the woman from earlier, noticing now her face more than her body.

Instead the lady begins to speak. “Yes, I’m Jada’s mother, and she informed me that you broke this cell phone,” she says, offering the pieces to Emma.

“Excuse me?”

“Let’s go,” says the man, seeing the fire in Emma’s eyes.

“No, she broke my phone and she is going to pay for it,” says the woman, looking at him, not understanding his hesitation.

“Wait, this is your phone?” says Emma.

“Yes, and according to my daughter you broke it.”

“Did your daughter also inform you that I found her in bed with my husband this morning?”

“That’s not possible,” responds the woman

“Let’s go. I think we need. . .” interrupts the man.

“That’s not possible because she is only 16,” the woman continues her thoughts.

“What? You told me you were 18!” shouts her husband.

Emma glares at her husband now with disgust.

“Miss, I’m sorry. This is my stepdaughter, and it seems we don’t have all the facts,” says the man before turning again to the woman, mouthing, “Let’s go.”

“No, I want my phone replaced,” responds the girl’s mother as though she doesn’t understand the severity of the situation.

“Let’s go now,” says the stepfather now pulling at his wife.

As they are standing there arguing: her husband with the girl, the stepfather with the mother, Emma picks up the phone and dials 911.

“Hello, yes,” she begins, next giving them her address. “I caught my husband in bed this morning with a minor. You need to come pick him up.”

“She told me she was 18, Emma, I swear,” he says, tears streaming down his face.
The police arrive.

“Sir, you are under arrest for . . .”

“Let’s go. We don’t want any trouble,” says the stepfather, finally getting the mother to understand what is happening.

“I don’t want to press charges,” Jada’s mother explains to the police.

“Miss, it doesn’t matter. He needs to go down to the precinct to be booked. If you choose not to press charges, the state can still prosecute him.”

“Emma!” he screams.

It would take a year before she shared this story with me. Last May, she celebrated her 5th anniversary, still unhappily married.