Bram
That horrible day. I will never forget it. Simone called me in tears, her garbled voice panicked, afraid, riddled so thick with grief it was impossible to know what happened. She relayed there had been an accident. In the background, I could hear the shrill screams of a young girl who later I would come to find out was the sitter. Right then, not only did my world upend, but an unearthly numbness took over, brazen shock. You could have run me over with a Semi, and I wouldn’t have felt a thing. My head pulsated, my heart jackhammered, but it was as if I were watching myself from the ceiling. It all unfolded in such a surreal manner. Every last second of that terrible day is ingrained indelibly in my memory. From the weather, to the way I sobbed inconsolably that night on the kitchen floor. It was all too much to believe.
The numbness hadn’t had a chance to subside when Simone died. We had just buried our children. The bitter taste of our new normal, one without the cheerful faces of our sweet angels. And I hated that everyone referred to Isla and Henry as angels. I didn’t want to see them as ethereal entities floating on clouds, strumming on harps. I wanted them grounded on earth, feet to solid ground, having every day normal problems that we would detangle as a family.
My mother reminded me that they belonged to God. I didn’t want them to belong to God. I wanted them to belong to me. But nonetheless, when Simone was senselessly slaughtered, the numbness thickened around me. I had become congealed in its silent bubble. Nothing was believable anymore. It was all some cruel joke playing out. Theater of the gods. I played the part of Troubled Man. It was a tragedy I wanted no part in and couldn’t figure out how to escape.
But this afternoon, after stumbling upon Simone’s own cryptic words, that numbness made a stark reprisal.Anything you can do, I can do better. I can destroy anything better than you.It was a funny quip left on her Facebook page met with cheers and emoji high fives from others. It was something she would sing to me often in jest, the second stanza in its correct form. It was cute and funny, and it was our thing. But the date, the picture of the New York skyline that went along with it, puts it at the exact time I was in fact in New York for a convention. I remember that trip specifically.
I remember that day. It was the same day I broke it off with Loretta. We were done. I was through with being Peter the Wife Cheater. I was ready to face Simone’s wrath in a whole other way. I was gearing up to ask for a divorce. I had an attorney on retainer to the tune of five thousand dollars. There was an entire plan on how I would present this to Simone. It would be a weekend. I would have secured a place to stay first. I had put in applications for local rental homes—the owners of which all promptly came forward once I was the chief suspect in my wife’s murder. Of course, they accused me of somehow sneaking off and killing the kids that day at the lake despite the fact records indicate I was seeing two patients that hour, both of whom spoke on my behalf. But the world wants to hear what its itching ears demand. And in the eyes of the world, I was a baby killer, a wife bludgeoner. I had done this. I was tried, convicted, drawn and quartered in the court of public opinion. Rome was burning, and for so long I wondered who really lit the flame. For so long I shouldered the blame. This was God repaying me for my sins. I was an adulterer. I deserved an implosion of my sanity. I wasn’t thoughtful enough to consider the children or my wife during my philandering ways so He took them back. For so long I believed it and accepted it. Right up until this afternoon. Those cryptic words Simone posted that day reverberate in my mind:I can destroy anything better than you.
What did you do, Simone? What in the hell did you do?
As soon as I get home, I race up the porch and let myself in, unable to chirp out a cheery hello. The kids are running around in the backyard. I could hear their carefree voices from the driveway floating into the sky like hot air balloons. From the dining room window, I spot Ree heading this way. Her eyes are already pinned to mine. No smile.
Mace will be the first one I confide in. My mind is spinning with every damn theory. A loose cannon shooting off misery wherever I look.
“Bram?” Ree stalks in and slams the door shut behind her. Her hair is wild, and that wide-eyed look in her eyes now registers as rage. “Have you ever had drinks or dinner with other women while we’ve been married?” Her mouth falls open, her breathing reduced to short huffs.
My insides seize. What the hell?
“No. I save all of my dinners and drinks for you.” Something warms in me as I close the gap between us and reel her in, but Ree pushes my hand away before I can seize her.
“Drinks with Astrid Montenegro. Does that ring a bell?”
A quick memory of that evening at the Thirsty Fox comes to mind. A part of me says deny it, call that cock-loving woman a lying bitch. Don’t give her the pleasure of making me acknowledge something that I never wanted to happen. Don’t let her make something out of nothing. But my conscience shoutsown it, do not lie.
I shake my head as if stunned the question was peppered with innuendo, but it’s purely manufactured on my part, something I think a moment like this needs. “No. I mean, she was at a bar once while I was meeting with Mace. Why? What’s this about?”
Her eyes widen with grief, with a pain I’ve never seen in them before. “Are you having an affair?”
“What?” I’m instantly thrown for a loop. If I had suspected Ree was angry about anything, this is the last thing that would enter my mind.
The kids run in past us on their way to the kitchen, but neither of us moves, neither of us bothers to acknowledge them, our eyes locked magnetically to one another in a moment of utter despair.
“Ree? What are you saying? What’s happened?” I try to get close, but she takes a full step back, her hand recoiling from my touch. “Did Astrid say something?” Stupid little bitch. She was probably setting me up the entire time. Something in my gut cinches, and I feel the need to spill it all. “She came into the office. She asked to see me only.”
“Oh?” Her chest bucks with an incredulous laugh. “I bet she did.” Her voice hikes in volume, deep and throaty, the way she does when she’s good and pissed. The irony being that Ree has never been good and pissed at me. In fact, that’s been the healing balm in this relationship. Ree and I don’t argue. We disagree. This has been my first adult relationship that I didn’t purposefully or otherwise royally fuck up. I liked our streak. I was hoping it would last a lifetime.
“How many times?” she insists, her voice warbling with rage. “How many times did this happen?”
“A cleaning and two small cavities,” I spill the facts before her, trying desperately to remove the innuendo she’s laced it with. “Three times.” It takes everything I’ve got to keep my voice calm, but it’s shaking with rage, with fear. With all of the other shit I’m going through, this shouldn’t even be on the table.
The kids run back out in a flurry, and Lilly slaps me on the leg on the way into the yard in lieu of a greeting. They’re so happy. So healthy. So very alive. Ree and I have it all. Can’t she see that?
“I love you,” I whisper. “Why are you feeling like this? I would never do anything to jeopardize our marriage.”
Her lips tremble, and she never breaks her gaze, but that look of disappointment, of hurt only seems to amplify. “Why you? Why does she request you?”
A bite of heat rolls through me. I detest the direction this conversation is headed. The unspoken suggestions make me quite literally sick.
“I don’t know.” There. The truth. “I think she’s interested in me,” I practically mouth the words, but her eyes enlarge a notch, signaling that she more than understood it.
“So you admit it.” She shakes her head in disbelief, and I’m right there with her.
“Look”—a small laugh chokes through me—“there’s nothing going on. I don’t know what she fed you—what anyone’s fed you, but I wouldn’t do that to you. Not to you and not to our family.”
“You did it to Simone,” her own voice discharges in a whisper, but those words echo through me like bells tolling for a dead man.
