"I'm leaving him. Warren."
My stomach tightens a little at this, a rollover that feels like a slow-moving breaker out on the sea. I don't know what to say, so I sit in careful silence, press the phone a little tighter against my ear.
She sobs uncontrollably for a moment, and then pauses, her breathing ragged and wet. I can feel her misery soaring through the wires, wrapping itself around my heart, my imagination. I finally think if something to say:
"How come?"
"He hit me."
At her words my left hand flutters in my lap. Unbidden, it starts to knead the fabric of my jeans, pulling it taut over my thighs. The pinprick hole in my heart suddenly begins to widen, a tiny blister of pain that is on the verge of being lanced.
"You're only married eight months," I mutter, and as soon as the words slip out, a part of me recognizes the absurdity of that remark.
Dead silence, then: "What, you think I should stay?" No reproach in her voice, just confusion, the dawning thought that whatever far out occasion caused him to strike her might have somehow been her fault, and that she might not have the right to leave.
I say nothing. I have nothing to say because I don't have a very good answer myself, but she doesn't know this. Can't know this. House rules.
She's crying again, and it's a frightened sound, full of the dark undertones of a fox with its paw caught in a trap. She loves this man, and he has hurt her. I try and block out the spasm of recognition, the urge to confess my sisterhood. Now is not the time for me to talk, it is my time to listen and say the right things.
"No matter what happens, he doesn't have the right to hit you," I say bravely.
"That's right." She stops, and the phone clunks down.
Over the long distance line I hear her fumbling, knocking over an object that crashes dully. I flinch, and my heartbeat quickens. Guiltily, I glance around the room, but the door is closed. The TV in the den is on, blaring basketball scores. I can hear his hoarse shouts, the sibilant hiss and pop of another beer being opened. I wonder how such a soft sound can echo so loudly.
You know why, a little voice whispers. You know what it means.
"Sorry." Mary's back. "I had to find a tissue." She blows her nose then, a brisk honking sound.
If I close my eyes I can see the soggy tissue, probably capping off a sodden stack. I bet it's about ready to topple over, like her marriage. Or maybe she's just holding it, shredding it in her lap, covering herself in tiny white flakes of sorrow. If she stays long enough she can make a blanket of tissue dust and cover herself completely.
I stare down at my left hand, see how it has twisted the fabric of my jeans. My wedding ring twinkles in the dim bedroom light.
"…Susan?"
I jump. Hadn't been listening.
"Tell me what happened," I say now, tensing myself for the words to come.
I suddenly feel weightless, a drifting sensation pulls me out of my rose-colored room and into the chilled night air. I am outside myself hearing something I don't want to know about someone I know very well.
For a moment I'm confused, wondering if I'm thinking of Mary or myself.
She's crying again. She's not ready to say. Not yet. But I feel it ballooning in her mind. What happened. What led up to the hitting. And what she did wrong. She's adding backwards, and then dividing herself in half.
I know if she stays she'll divide in half a few more times, until she is a bunch of little pieces that live inside the Mary mind. There will be these boxes, all shapes and sizes and colors; compartments of personality, stacked in her mental closet. An elaborate filing system of hats and shoes, accessories she will seek out and wear to suit whatever maelstrom is hurricaning through her home.
I call it coping, and in that moment, I see nothing wrong with it. I want to say this, offer a reassuring answer to the agony in her voice. But I don't, because the words I have can't push past the small inner voice that has been chattering at me lately.
"When will you go?" I ask instead, and in that question I surprise myself: I ache for her answer. I yearn to hear tonight, tomorrow or next week. Anything but next year because one year is the same as five.
"I don't know. I haven't told him yet."
I exhale noisily. Relief? Pity? I'm not sure. But my words don't hesitate.
"You want him to hit you again? If you stay he will."
I look up then, catch my reflection in the dresser mirror. I wasn't expecting this face-to-face moment, and my expression, unguarded, is frightening in its intensity. I twist away, pummel my leg with my left hand while the right squeezes the phone in a blistering grip.
"If he hit you, you shouldn't stay."
"I know." And I think she does. But knowing and doing aren't the same at all.
A long silence pulls my nerves. Suddenly Mary's words bolt across the wire:
"We were fighting about money. I got my bank statement in, found out he had spent more than $5000 in a month. On what? I don't get it. And he wouldn't tell me and I got really mad and started yelling at him – we might be married but that was still my money. It was my money before we got married, never mind the joint account – and Susan – he grabbed me and threw me against the wall. Then he hit me…and then he hit me…"
"Ohhh, Mary." I tuck forward, protecting myself from what I just heard.
"Susan…I know you had a hard time when you first got married…but…did he ever hit you?"
There it is. The question. It hangs like a perfect pearl in the air between us. Fragile in its simplicity, it begs for truth.
I glance down at my left hand again, automatically tilt the ring so it catches the light. I jab my hand until the wedding band flips around, sparkling diamond facing inward, its sharp edges cutting my palm. I squeeze my hand hard and open it, study the imprint that turns white then red.
I say: "No. No, he never has."
Mary draws a deep breath, and tells me in a shaky voice that I don't know what it's like.
She starts to speak again, but I can't hear much over the sudden shrilling in my mind.
Liar! Liar! Oh you liar liar liar! How can you lie? Why do you lie? Oh you will pay for this, pay for this, you liar liar liar!
I squeeze the phone, my left hand, my heart. But the words keeps echoing in my mind, so loud they must be stopped because they might be overheard.
Liar! Liar! Oh how you lie! You can tell her you should tell her you need to tell her – get out get out get out oh you lousy lousy liar!
"Get out!" I plead softly. "Mary. Please, don't stay."
I shake my head, but the shrilling continues.
She cries. I don't.
I hear a noise, and I slide up the bed, pressing against the headboard, my back to the wall.
The door flies open. He is standing there, staggering unsteadily, his brow fiercely tangled, his eyes red and angry.
The game is over. I think the Blazers must have lost.
"I have to go now," I say.
And I put down the phone.
by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved
