“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Jackson Barkley?”
“This is him. Who’s this?”
“I’m Sarah, a nurse from Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago. I’m afraid I’m calling with bad news.”
FOUR
Miranda
Ihuddled on the front porch, waiting for the mail. Cincinnati temps were in the mid-fifties. If left up to me, I’d be inside, under my afghan with a romance novel, but Kacey was dedicated to the outdoors. Rain or shine. Thin with age, the sweatshirt I wore offered little warmth. Chris lavished me with nice clothing, so it drove him crazy when I wouldn’t let the decade-old sweatshirt retire. I pulled my palms into the oversized sleeves and shivered.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, wincing. Forgot how sore my face still felt. I was physically recovering from my altercation with Chris. But emotionally recovering was a whole different ball game. I shivered again. Less from the cold this time.
I’d spent almost two hours outside our front door that night. I’d checked every window and pounded on the door until my toes hurt and my fists bruised. My face was so cold I couldn’t feel my lips. Just when I decided to wake the neighbors,the door opened. Chris pulled me in, apologizing, claiming he hadn’t known he’d locked me out. He wrapped a blanket around me and started a warm shower. Hot tea waited for me on my side of the bed and he’d started a heating pad for my feet.
He fell all over himself. Calling me his “sweet girl” and acting like he cared. His remorse was so convincing that I felt sorry for him. I knew the truth—his actions were intentional. But I doubtedheknew the truth. Delusion seemed the only way to explain such cruelty.
Honesty was the second big mistake I’d made that night. After being thwarted, threatened, and left to freeze, my fury forced everything out without permission. I called him delusional. Accused him of doing it all on purpose. I admitted my plan to leave him, and said I wouldn’t be happy until I was free.
I didn’t have mental clarity around Chris. It’s hard to see things as they are when you’re around someone who weaves his own version of reality. But the veil lifted, and I’d spoken with more clarity than I’d felt in years. But that one lucid moment had morphed nice Chris into destructive Chris.
He hit me.
Backhanded me across the face so hard, I fell backward and broke our slatted closet door. Of all the crap Chris has done, he had never hit me before.
The only way I’d been able to deescalate the situation was to apologize. Tell him I was wrong, reassure him of my love, and thank him for taking care of me. To snuggle into bed with him. To let him hold me. To strokehiswounds.
I humored him. Holding down waves of nausea. Fighting the flight response. My stomach clenched so tight I couldn’t draw a full breath. But I did it. I made my wrongs right. Just like I always did.
Now, a few days later, I huddled on the porch, trying my best not to relive it over and over. Kacey played with his Hot Wheels in the yard. The cap I wore was pulled low over my forehead, and my make-up almost covered the bruise on the right side of my face, but not quite.
Kacey shrieked with delight when he heard the mailman coming down the street. “Mail! Can I get it, Mommy?”
“Sure, buddy. Go ahead.” He scampered up to the fence. I reminded him, as mothers do, “Say thank you.”
The mailwoman stopped at our fence when she saw Kacey standing there with his hand reaching up. She smiled, greeting Kacey with the enthusiasm of a party princess, and handed him a small stack of envelopes over the top of the fence. She’d grown used to seeing him standing there and seemed to enjoy his pleasure in the menial task. His interaction with other human beings was so limited. The service people who rumbled down the street were his heroes.
He deserved better than what I was giving him.
After she left for the next house, Kacey brought the mail, chattering his little head off. He handed it to me as I strolled over to our big trash can on the driveway. I shuffled through the stack—mostly credit card offers. As I was lifting the lid to drop the junk in, our new neighbor exited her house with her little dog and a huge purse slung over her shoulder.
“Hi!” She waved as she descended her porch steps. Kacey ran down the driveway, waving back. Wished he wouldn’t have done that. I ducked my head, crossing my fingers she wouldn’t see the bruise. My swollen eye would make a great first impression, huh?
“I’ve been wanting to meet you guys!”
“Hey.” I faked a smile.
“My name is Sherri.”
“I’m Miranda and this is my son, Kacey. It’s really nice tomeet you. Are you guys getting settled in?”
She nodded. “I think so. We used to live in the countryside, so the noise is something we have to get used to.”
We talked for a few minutes about her old place. Apparently, they’d moved into the city so her husband, Ed, could be closer to the hospital. Lots of health issues. Her dog was named Muffin and loved the attention Kacey bestowed on him.
She glanced toward our front door. “Is your husband home?”
