If You Could See What I See (36 page)

I had given Henry my phone number. As Aaron regularly went through my phone when I was home, and I couldn’t have Henry calling me, I bought a new phone and pitched the other one.

That was the end of Henry.

I cried all the way home on the plane, a blubbery mess.

I cried because I felt terrible for hurting Henry. I had loved being with him. I cried because I had known from the start, had told Henry from the start, that I was going home to a husband, that I could not leave Aaron. Still, who was I to play with someone else’s emotions, even if Henry was a grown man and knew what the end result would be? I had hurt him. He hadn’t deserved it, and it made me feel worse.

I wondered deeply about myself as a person. How could I cheat on my husband and not feel guilty? What was wrong with me? Did I have no moral code? No ethics, no conscience? Was I a horrible person?

I finally came down to two questions that summed up how I felt.

Should I feel guilty for cheating on my marital vows because it cheapened what and who I had vowed to be in front of God and family and friends?

Yes.

Should I feel guilty for cheating on Aaron?

No.

Aaron had broken our vows on our wedding day. He had promised to love, honor, and cherish me, and he had not done that. He had lied by omission about his mental health issues and previous suicide attempts, which I had a right to know about before we were married. His rages, his mind control, his coldness, the continual silent treatment and the withholding of sex, put me in a tornado of sickness with him. I was trapped in our marriage because of his mental illness, his suicide attempts, and his threats of doing it again.

Would I cheat again? Never. I won’t marry again, for one. But if I were in a relationship that was so bad I was tempted to cheat, I would break it off. That I know for sure.

I don’t condone cheating at all. I don’t condone it for myself. I believe I’ve mentioned that I hate myself.

But here is what I’ve learned, through my own experience: If you are mean, nasty, oppressive, or abusive with your spouse, he or she may well cheat. If you stop speaking to your spouse or withhold sex, repeatedly, for weeks or months on end, they may well cheat.

So who cheated who first?

Now whose fault is that?

I Skyped with Kalani after my morning beer, fog clouding my window.

“Bad day, bad day, Meeegie.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “Bad.”

“Why?”

“Lots of the sewing machines broke. Ya. Broke.”

“Did you get someone in there to fix them?”

“Ya, I did.” Her face darkened. “It a man.”

“Was that a problem?” I asked, but I knew. Kalani is not a fan of men.

“Ya. He tell me how much money to fix machine and I say okay, you get butt in there and you fix.”

“And the problem was?”

“When he done, he make double the price. He try to cheat Kalani.” She put her balled fists up. “No one cheat Kalani. I get cheated by mean husband who bit ear off. See my ear? See my nose? Wrong place, nose. Scar on chin. Knife. I no cheated by men again.”

“And what did you do?”

“I tell him, no I pay price I say I pay no more. And he yell and say, then I take machines with me and I say, no, you no take machines. Here the money I say I pay. You go. Go now.” Her voice pitched.

“And what did he do?” Now I was getting nervous.

“He turn and he take out pipe and he start hitting machine to break and I had to get shovel and hit head.”

“You hit him with your shovel?”

“Yes. In head. He knock down on floor. Me and ladies, we drag him outside. He no bother me again.”

I was alarmed. Very, very alarmed.

“Kalani, you need to make sure the doors are locked. Don’t leave the building without other women around you. No one is to leave alone. Do you understand?”

“Ya. I understand. But I Kalani and I strong.” She brushed the tears off her cheeks. “Why men mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s a mystery. We need black magic for them.”

“Black magic. Ya.”

We stared at each other for a while until she pulled herself together.

“I’m sorry this happened to you.” I was saddened, and scared, for Kalani.

“Ya, I know you sorry. We seeesters, so you sorry. I sorry, too.” She put her tiny fists in the air. “But machine fix and no man cheat Kalani!”

The fog hadn’t moved.

 

That night the cheating repairman snuck back to the factory and tried to burn it down. A worker from another factory nearby saw him skirting through the shadows pouring lighter fluid around the entire building. He was stopped and the police arrested him. I would not want to be in one of their jails.

“Are you okay, Kalani?”

She nodded. “Ya. I okay. In my factory, almost all women. So, no problems. All good. I wish whole country, all the business, run by women. Better that way. More peaceful.”

“I hear ya, Kalani.”

“Ya, I hear you, Meeegie. Hey! I show you new neg-la-jays!” She grinned. “You see? Tiny. No cover butt at all. Only lace. Don’t know why you Jersey American lady like, but we make anyhow! I love you, seeester.”

“Love you, too, Kalani.”

 

A few days later, as if cursed across the ocean, three sewing machines quit and for some inexplicable reason the heat wouldn’t work. The rain poured down and a corner of the roof started to leak, so we had to get a roofer up there. When he was up there it started to hail, so he came in.

Our bank loan application that would have floated us another few months was denied again. The banker was apologetic. We’d worked with him for years. “I can’t, Meggie. I’ve seen the numbers. Your debt load is too high. I can’t. Good luck.”

Pop Pop threw up, and the doggy day care called and told me I had to come get him. He was now in my office, grinning. Two nights ago the cats got in another fight. Back to the vet I went at midnight for more stitches.

I was working twelve- to fourteen-hour days. I was constantly rushing, on my phone, on conference calls, meeting with the design staff, the production staff, sales, managers, etc.

The good news was that I was loving what I was seeing. Our lingerie was stunning and seductive. We would be incorporating many of the ideas, in one form or another, from our employees’ lingerie. We were using “baubles” more, in honor of Grandma. Sequins. Beading. Some embroidery. Sparkly stuff. We were implementing Hayden’s tassels. We were also in a heightened state of work frenzy because of The Fashion Story, and people’s part in that, and I was loving how that was pulling together.

My mind was in a tizzy, almost burning up the wires in my own head. When my brain wasn’t crackling from stress, I daydreamed about Blake. Blake laughing, Blake hugging me, Blake naked.

By coincidence, when I took a rare run to a coffee shop so I could clear my head after a particularly rambunctious meeting, I saw him.

He was with other officers, across the street, yellow crime tape stretched across a storefront. I later learned that a jealous husband had shot his estranged wife. He had broken the restraining order she had against him.

Blake was taller than the other officers, commanding, clearly in charge.

At one point, as if he could sense me, he looked across the street and we locked gazes. I wanted to walk over and hug him.

Within seconds, one of his officers came up to talk to him and he reentered the shop. I went back to Lace, Satin, and Baubles and lay flat on the floor with Pop Pop. I was reeling with both lonely loss and unbridled lust. Loss and lust together. Never good.

 

Pop Pop climbed on my lap while I sat on my leather couch late that night. It was getting colder and colder, the temperature dropping. I had seen a few snowflakes, and the streets had been slick in the mornings.

Breadsticks crawled up on my lap, too. Both Pop Pop and Breadsticks were now sleeping with me. Jeepers hid under the bed, hissing. Ham the Hamster kept running, and Mrs. Friendly stuck out his tongue. I hoped he was enjoying the white moonlight in my rafters, but he never said.

Pop Pop started snoring. Breadsticks meowed.

The joy of animals, I have learned, cannot be underrated.

I noticed that Pop Pop never tried to water the tree in my tree house. For that, I was thankful.

Blake’s lights weren’t on that night until eleven o’clock.

When I knew he was home, I went to bed with my zoo.

 

I was drowning in a river of blood. Aaron picked me up out of the river with his rat claws. Higher and higher he flew with me, cackling, then he dropped me back in the river, where the red swallowed me up. At the bottom of the red there was a closet. I didn’t want to open the door. It opened up anyhow, and behind the sponges and detergent, I saw what I didn’t want to see.

I curled into a ball, hands over head, and drowned.

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