I knew it was my final answer.
Monday came, and I pretended I was sick. I coughed in bed. Martin rolled his eyes. “We need you in the sales room, Bellini. We don’t have anyone else.”
“You have your mother, and you have Mixie. You’ll do fine.”
He raised his voice, his face tight. “I knowI’lldo fine! I need you to do your job, which is why I pay you!”
I was so mad; I went from zero to a hundred. “You pay me a lot less than you pay your salesmen. I know what they make.” I sat straight up. “Are you kidding me?”
He paled. “You’re paid a little less, Bellini, but you’re family.”
“I should be paid a fair amount. You’re paid a fair amount. Why not me?”
A sudden dawning came into his eyes. He sank onto the bed, then held his head in his hands before he looked up. “You’re not happy, are you?”
“No. Not at all.”
We sat in silence, then Martin shook his head. “I’m sorry, honey. I am. I’m sorry.” He was earnest. He looked scared. “We’ll talk tonight.”
“I’m about done talking.”
“Please don’t say that. Please. We’ll fix this. I’ll get you a raise,” he said, so earnestly, his face creased in worry lines. He tried to hug me.
I put up my hands. I saw tears spring to his eyes.
“I’ll make changes. We’ll make changes. I promise, Bellini.”
But he wouldn’t make changes. He wasn’t capable. He told me he was sorry again, then left for work, and I packed up what I wanted. I took the wedding gifts my family sent, and I hoped I could look at them in the future and forget why I received them. I had Petunia and Sir Scott by then, and I put them in their crates and into my truck. I took my plants. I left most of my clothes. I was sick of them anyhow. Martin did not like me spending money on clothes. “Are you trying to show off for another man?” he’d ask. Plus, I didn’t want the clothes that I’d worn here. This time of my life was over.
Over.
I’d let myself be dumped into a hovel of a house with a hovel of a husband. I drove to our bank in town. I withdrew all our money from our joint bank account, then closed it. I deserved it for all the time I’d worked at the tire shop for much less than they paid the men, though everyone knew I was bringing in far more money than the men ever did. I took it for all the work I didat home while Martin did little, preferring to see his high school friends at a local bar or for golf or hunting or boating on the lake.
Plus, I knew that Martin wasn’t depositing his full paychecks into our account. He saved a lot of it for himself to bet on sports games and to play poker with his friends. For all of his admonishes about how I should “be more frugal,” he was one of the least frugal people I knew. He was able to do what he wanted because I made money at the tire shop and through my graphic design business, and our money was, in his words, “shared.”
I sold my wedding ring at a pawn shop.
I could have driven back to Montana, but I knew from my mother that Logan was possibly coming back soon, according to his father. I couldn’t face him. I was not who I had been. The miscarriage and my marriage and living in a shack had changed me. I felt dark inside. I did not have the courage to see him. He was probably dating someone. Someone shiny with smooth hair and perfect teeth and big boobs.
Even if he wasn’t, I couldn’t date Logan again because of the repercussions that would fall on him and his future. The reasons I broke up with him were still there.
A children’s chapter book about a fourth grader named Roxy Belle jumped into my head as soon as I started driving away from the hovel. I saw her spirit, her joy, her curiosity, and her love of her family and animals and school. I saw her younger sister, who spoke about communicating with aliens because she loved studying space and aliens. I saw her twin brothers, three years old, who were curious troublemakers. I saw her older sister, who was twelve and wanted to be a hair stylist, and I saw her oldest teenage brother, who loved playing sports and was protective of Roxy Belle.
By the time I arrived in Scholly Hills in northwest Oregon, six hours away from Eastern Oregon, I had written my first Roxy Belle book in my head and had a dozen other ideas ready togo. I was already so much healthier. I felt safe and hopeful and relaxed. I was starting over.
Though I made good money as a graphic designer, I got a job as a waitress at a country café. I loved the café. I worked twenty hours a week with lovely people and rented my pink and white cottage from a woman named Lorraine, whose mother used to live in it.
Life began again.
Martin got my address from a cousin. She didn’t know we were divorcing. She was thirteen years old. He drove out to my sweet white and pink cottage and begged me to come back. He was sobbing and shaking. “Please, Bellini. Please. I am so sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”
I discussed with him what he should be sorry about, as he still seemed, infuriatingly,baffledas to why I was so unhappy married to him. I gave him a list: Forcing me to live in a leaking hovel in a small, claustrophobic town I never wanted to live in. Paying me less than he should have for selling, of all things, tires. Not depositing his full paychecks and lying about it. Spending far more money than I did, though I worked two jobs. Being a selfish, dense, insensitive, critical, unpleasant, argumentative, spoiled jerk who took me for granted and did not make me feel loved or special. Allowing his mother and wannabe wife to treat me with derision and judgment and doing nothing about it.
Not supporting me when we lost our daughter. Deliberately not using a condom.
He had the decency to be ashamed.
He cried, cried some more. Begged again. Told me he would move into my pink and white cottage immediately and away from his hometown. The thought made me ill. I told him that. “The thought of you living here with me makes me ill, Martin.”
