Brain damage, p.20
Brain Damage, page 20
part #2 of Prescription: Murder Series
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe ‘she’ is me and his girlfriend is texting him to see when she can come over.”
“Maybe,” Bridget agrees.
I feel like crying. How did my marriage fall apart so quickly? I should have known I wasn’t capable of having a decent relationship with a guy. I should have just stuck with my instincts and stayed single forever.
“I’m such a loser!” I blurt out. “I can’t even get my husband to be faithful for more than a few months!”
“Oh, Charly,” Bridget sighs. She throws her arms around me, and pulls me into a hug. I’ve never been a huggy sort of girl, but I let her do it this one time. I really need a hug right now.
“Should I confront him?” I ask her, wiping away the beginning of tears with the back of my hand. I refuse to cry over this.
“Definitely not,” Bridget snorts, pulling away from our hug. “Why would you give him a chance to deny it and hide the evidence?”
I shrug helplessly. “So what am I supposed to do?”
Bridget gets this devious look on her face. Of all the people I know, Bridget is the last one I’d ever want to cross. Of all the men she dated before her husband, the ones who broke up with her always regretted it, and not because they were sorry they let such a great girl get away.
“Okay, Charly,” she says, “I’m going to tell you exactly what to do…”
_____
If feels almost ridiculous to be here. Real people don’t go to see private investigators.
I feel like I ought to be in black-and-white, smoking a cigarette with a filter, blowing elegant smoke rings. Instead, I’m sitting in a tiny office, in front of Mark Spinelli’s coffee-ring-stained desk, which is overflowing with stacks of papers. Spinelli himself is fat and balding and has a yellow blotch on his button up plaid shirt. He’s not exactly my idea of a noir private investigator. But he came highly recommended on Yelp.
I contacted Spinelli two weeks ago. I explained my suspicions to him, and wrote out a check as a deposit. He seemed disturbingly comfortable with the idea of spying on my husband.
“You said you had information for me,” I say. My heart is pounding as I clutch my purse to my chest.
I really hope that information is: your husband is not cheating on you. That’s probably too much to hope for. That sort of information could be conveyed over the phone.
Spinelli nods grimly. “I’m afraid you were right to be suspicious, Mrs. Douglas,” he says.
Crap.
Ever since I discovered that text message, I’ve been hoping I was wrong. I’ve been watching Clark for any signs that he’s cheating on me. I actually googled “signs your husband is cheating on you.” He wasn’t really showing any of the signs—he doesn’t make private phone calls, he hasn’t had any unfamiliar scents on him, and I wouldn’t know if he deletes his text messages because he doesn’t allow me access to his phone. Although the fact that I can’t access his phone might be suspicious in itself.
“Are you sure?” I ask. Please don’t be sure.
“Oh yes,” Spinelli says with maddening confidence. “I’ve confirmed that your husband is definitely in some sort of romantic relationship with a Miss Haley Matthews.”
“Haley Matthews?” The name doesn’t sound familiar. Which is a good thing, I guess. At least he’s not cheating on me with a friend.
He slides a manila envelope across the table. “I’ve got pictures, in case you’re interested.”
I stare down at the plain yellow envelope. I can’t believe there are pictures in there of my husband doing God knows what with another woman. Oh God, I wonder if they’re having sex in the photos.
“Mostly they’re just kissing,” Spinelli says, answering my unasked question. He must do this a lot.
I lean back in my creaky chair, feeling suddenly dizzy. This can’t be happening. It can’t.
“You’re sure?” I ask again.
“Damn sure,” Spinelli says. “You get yourself a good divorce attorney right now. I got a list of names if you want it.”
I’ll just bet he does.
Jesus. The last thing I want to worry about right now is a divorce. I thought that part of my life was taken care of. I was married. We were going to try for a baby soon. How could it all be over?
I have to see it for myself.
I snatch the envelope off the table and rip it open. Half a dozen full color photos spill out onto my lap. I pick up the top photo and study it for a second.
It’s Clark with another woman. He’s standing very close to her and his hand is on her back. The photo is blurry, but I can tell that the woman is probably ten years younger than I am, and nearly as tall as Clark, with long, glossy black hair, and the high cheekbones of a supermodel. She’s gorgeous—the sort of woman I always thought that Clark ought to be with.
I toss that photo onto Spinelli’s desk and I look at the next photo. In this one, they’re kissing. I’m not going to go into details, but let’s just say this girl isn’t his sister.
As I look at the photo, the whole world around me starts to go black. Spinelli, his cluttered desk, his entire office disappears and all I can see is my husband kissing this beautiful woman. I feel a pulsation in my skull, like there’s something in there that could burst any second. As I grip the photo, it starts to crinkle in my trembling hand.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Douglas?” Spinelli asks me, his thick eyebrows furrowed together.
And then I’m back. I’m in Spinelli’s office again, and I just found out my husband is a lying, cheating son of a bitch.
I just can’t wait to get out of here so I can go take everything Clark owns out of my apartment and burn it.
Chapter 47
Two Weeks Before
I think I’m drunk.
Or if I’m not, I will be soon. I’m on my third glass of wine. I’d prefer to be swigging whiskey or something like that, but all we have in the house is wine. I’m not a big drinker, and Clark only drinks red wine, so there you have it. It does seem a little ridiculous though that I am feeding my anger for the most important conversation of my life by sipping pinot noir.
He’s late. I had no idea that he got home so late every night. What was I thinking? That he sat home every night, just twiddling his thumbs, waiting for me to come home? Obviously not.
It makes so much sense how he was able to get away with cheating on me. I’m never home. I’m at work, or am running, or I’m out with friends. He could get away with anything right under my nose. And I guess he did.
I sit at my desk, staring at the door with all my concentration. Kitty attempts to cheer me up by rubbing against my leg, but it doesn’t help. Not this time. I shake my leg to get her to leave me alone, and I end up kicking the leg of the desk. I hear something rattle loudly.
I slide open the desk drawer and see Clark’s gun inside.
I was so angry with him when he bought that gun. But now, looking at the black revolver lying peacefully in the desk drawer, I’m not angry. In fact, the gun gives me a sense of comfort.
No, not comfort. Power.
I carefully lift the gun out of the drawer, my heart pounding in my chest. It’s heavier than it looks. I wonder if it’s loaded. I have absolutely no idea how to tell if it’s loaded, and I’m worried any attempts to figure it out will result in my accidentally firing the gun into my foot or something. I’m just going to assume it’s probably loaded.
I aim the gun in the direction of door, imagining Clark standing there. And just for a minute, I imagine pulling the trigger.
The sound of the key in the lock jars me out of my fantasy. I quickly place the gun down on the desk and wait for Clark to let himself inside. Kitty, sensing an imminent confrontation, makes a dash for the kitchen.
“Charlotte!” Clark seems shocked to see me sitting there. “What are you doing here?”
Any other day, it would’ve been an innocent comment. Today, his words make me want to strangle him.
Or shoot him.
“I live here,” I remind him. “Or have you forgotten?”
Clark shrugs off his dark jacket, slightly damp with rain. “You’re just never home this early, that’s all. I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Who were you expecting?” I ask. I lower the boom: “Haley?”
Clark freezes. Despite everything, I sort of wish I had a camera so I could record the look on his face. It’s actually almost amusing. I can tell he’s trying to maintain his composure, but failing miserably. “Who?” he manages.
“Haley Matthews,” I say. I don’t budge from my seat. “Isn’t that the name of the girl you’re sleeping with? That’s what the detective said.”
Is he going to deny it? I almost hope he does. I’m so ready to whip out the photographs. Instead, his eyes lower and he finally notices the gun lying on the desk in front of me.
“Charlotte,” he says, a slight tremor in his voice. “Why do you have the gun out?”
“What’s wrong?” I place my hand on the barrel of the gun before he can attempt to make a grab for it. “Does my having a gun make you nervous?”
Despite everything, it’s actually very gratifying to see how downright frightened he looks right now.
“Can we just…” He takes a shaky breath. “Can we put the gun away? Please?”
My fingers close and tighten around the pistol. “No, Clark,” I say. “No, I don’t think we can.”
“So what are you going to do?” He shakes his head at me. “Are you going to shoot me? For Christ’s sake, Charlotte, I made one mistake. That’s it. You’re going to kill me over one mistake?”
Clark is looking at me with those blue, blue eyes. Would I really shoot him? No, of course I wouldn’t. That would be crazy.
Of course, I’m kind of drunk right now. And definitely a little more than angry.
But no, I wouldn’t shoot him.
“Please put the gun away, Charlotte,” he begs me. “Please, honey. Put it away and I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”
There’s a voice in my head screaming not to put the gun away, to hold it tight in my hand and not let it go. But the sensible, sober part of me knows that I can’t have a reasonable conversation with my husband while I’m threatening him with a pistol. So I take the gun and slide it back into the drawer.
Clark watches me. When the drawer snaps shut, his shoulders sag, and he sinks down onto the sofa. He buries his face in his fists, and I can see that he’s shaking.
“Charlotte,” he murmurs. “Charlotte, I’m so sorry…”
He lifts his face, and I can see that his eyes are wet. Is he crying? Is that bastard crying? How come he’s the one crying when I’m the one who got cheated on? This is such bullshit.
I fold my arms across my chest. “You’re sorry? Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
Clark rubs his face with his hands. He looks up at me with pathetic blue eyes, and I have to admit, my heartstrings get tugged ever so slightly. “Charlotte, you’re never home. I got lonely.”
“So that’s your excuse for messing around my back?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “There’s no excuse. I made a horrible mistake. I don’t blame you if you hate me.”
Damn. He is really taking the wind out of my anger.
“Do you hate me?” he asks, in this soft, sad voice.
I don’t know what to say. Do I hate him? An hour ago, I might’ve said yes. But at this moment? I don’t know. I guess not.
I definitely don’t feel like blowing his brains out anymore.
“It’s over,” he says firmly. “I swear to you, it’s over. It’s been over for the last few days. I couldn’t take it anymore. I hated myself. I felt like the worst guy in the whole world.”
I want it to be true. I want it to be true so badly. I don’t want a divorce. I want to stay with Clark.
God, I don’t know what to believe anymore.
“My new practice is stressing me out,” Clark says. “I know that’s not an excuse, but… I need to take a break from it all.” He smiles up at me, a little tentatively. “I was just thinking that what I’d really like is… is to start trying for a baby.”
I stare at him. “A what?”
“A baby.” He gives me a hopeful little smile. “I want to have a baby with you. I feel like I’m ready to be a dad. I’m sick of waiting.”
He’s playing me. He must be. He’s saying all the things I want to hear. He knows how much I want a baby right now, and he knows his only chance of being forgiven is to give me the thing I want the most. I know exactly what he’s doing and I’m far too smart to fall for this.
At least, I hope I am.
“Aren’t you sick of waiting too, Charlotte?” he asks.
My mouth feels dry. “I…”
The truth is, Clark is my last chance to have a baby. If we get divorced, by the time I find another person willing to procreate with me, it really will be too late. I’m not sure if I can make peace with that fact.
Clark reaches out his hand to me. “Will you please give me another chance, Charlotte? I love you so much.”
The other truth is that I do still love Clark. I can’t turn off my love for him just because I found out he cheated. He made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. That’s why pencils have erasers, right?
“I need to think about it,” I croak.
Clark nods. “I understand. Do you… want me to leave?”
Part of me does want him to leave. But then again, if he leaves, will he go stay with her?
“You can stay in the guest bedroom,” I tell him.
Clark nods again. “I’m going to make this right,” he promises.
Chapter 48
Five Months After
I was never the sort of person who liked to nap. When I was up for the day, I just wanted to be up. Napping always made me feel disoriented, like I wasn’t sure what time it was.
It’s funny how napping has now become my favorite activity.
First of all, I’m tired all the time, to varying degrees. There’s a medication I’m taking that’s supposed to make me less tired, but I guess it’s not working. Or not working enough, at least. And anyway, I’m always disoriented no matter what. May as well work in a little sleep. Not like there’s anything better to do around here when I’m not in therapy.
Meals make me the most tired. The second I eat, I immediately want to sleep. This morning, I wake up very early for breakfast, eat too much, then pass out again soon after. Jamie told me once he does the same thing. He calls it his “morning siesta.”
I wake up from my nap to the sound of whispers from the corner of my room. The room is still dark, so I give my eyes a chance to adjust, and I can make out the image of my husband, sitting in the corner of the room, talking on his cell phone.
“Yeah, she’s still asleep,” Clark is saying into his phone. “That’s half of all she does now. Sleep.”
Well, he’s got my number.
“I know, I’m dreading it,” he continues. “It’s rough but… it’s worth it. For sure.”
I don’t know to whom Clark is talking, but he’s obviously talking about me. And he’s saying it’s worth it to take care of me. For sure, he said. Well, that’s comforting.
“Look,” he says, sounding a little bit angry. “You’re not the one in debt. This is a lot of money we’re talking about. What do you want me to do? Go back to scraping around for wills or divorces just to pay the bills?”
What?
“I know,” he says, quieter this time. His voice is gentle now. “Believe me, I don’t want to do this. But it’s the best option right now… anyway, I should go. She’ll probably wake up soon.” Then he adds, “I love you.”
It’s too much to hope for that he’s talking to his mother or something innocent like that. I feel sick. My husband is cheating on me. He’s practically doing it right in front of my face.
“Charlotte!” Clark says, smiling when he sees that my eyes are open. He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned that I overheard his conversation as he walks across the room to stand by my bed. I guess he overestimates my brain damage. “You’re awake. And I’m on time, see?”
“You’re cheating on me,” I blurt out.
Clark’s eyes widen. He shakes his head, obviously struggling to keep the smile plastered on his face. “Charlotte, what are you talking about?”
“You’re cheating on me,” I repeat, with more confidence this time. “With…” I reach into the dark recesses of my damaged brain. “With Haley.”
I can see Clark debating whether or not to deny it. Finally, he drops his head. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I don’t know what else to say. I have a feeling it’s all been said already.
“The thing is,” Clark says softly, “you and I didn’t have a great marriage. I wish we did. I wanted things to work out so badly but…” He takes a breath. “Then I met Haley, and we just fell in love. I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“Oh,” I say.
I thought I’d feel satisfaction in making him admit it, but weirdly, I don’t. All I feel is like I’ve been punched in the gut. He doesn’t even seem like he feels all that bad about it. I thought Clark was my savior, but I was wrong. I have no savior.
“Look, I’m going to be straight with you, Charlotte,” he says. “You need my help. And I could really use the money from your disability payments. To be blunt, I’ve gotten myself in a bit of financial trouble. So maybe we could have a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
I feel a little bit confused. I didn’t think my disability payments were that high. It wasn’t enough for my mother to pay for help around the house. But I guess it’s enough for Clark.
“Believe me,” Clark goes on, “there are plenty of married couples out there who are only together for financial reasons. It’s actually better this way, that we’re both clear about our arrangement.” He pats my right hand gently. “I felt bad lying to you about Haley.”
My throat feels suddenly dry. “So you don’t… feel anything for me?”
Clark gives me this pitying look that makes my stomach turn. “In public, I’ll pretend. I know that’s really important to you. I’ll act like we’re just a normal couple. Like I’m still really devoted to you since you got hurt.”
