Staying True - A Contemporary Romance Novel (4 page)

Jessica eventually turned the car
around and came back for me. We decided on that mountaintop that she’d check
into rehab.

Throughout those first two weeks as a
sober person, her spirit crashed. Her dancing suffered. Her mood swings were
unbearable. I missed her smile and her laugh. “Life is boring without alcohol,”
she said to me one night as we sat by the fire sipping tea. “It’s like I have
nothing to say, nothing to look forward to. Life isn’t fun anymore.”

This new side of her depressed me. I
wanted the old Jessica back. “You’ll get through this.”

She stared at her tea. “I hate tea.”

I placed mine down, too. “So do I.”

“Let’s just have wine.” She scooted
up to me. “Please. I promise. I won’t go overboard.”

I eyed her.

“Was I ever obnoxious? Did I ever
pass out?”

I shook my head.

“Did I ever slur my words and
embarrass you?”

She never did. She controlled
herself, always. I took her hand in mine. “Please let me continue to help you.”

She nodded, looking so sad that I
wanted to hug her. Instead, she climbed to her feet with her tea in hand. “I’m
going to toss this, then go to bed.”

The next day, Jessica came home full
of smiles and laughter. She swung me around with romantic flair under our
living room chandelier. “Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?” she
whispered.

I loved this side of her. I missed
this side of her. So I chose to ignore the faint smell of alcohol on her breath
and just let her lead me to our bedroom where she made passionate love to me
under the comfort of our four-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets,
thanks to another fan.

So, I blended to mend.

Jessica didn’t fall all over herself,
walk around with bloodshot eyes, or crack obnoxious jokes. No, Jessica smiled,
laughed, and remained in control. Truth of the matter, drinking kept that smile
dancing on her face. Why would I ever take that away from her? The day she
started passing out and slurring her words like a fool would be the day I would
call her on her secret and insist she enter rehab again.

About two months after our first
anniversary, my brother-in-law hired me as his regional hotel sales manager. I
got to travel all over the east coast and stay at the different hotel chains.
Jessica and I both hated being apart, although, I did enjoy traveling on the
open road, just me against a brave, new world. For the first time ever, I ate
alone in a restaurant, read a book in the stillness of the night, and cuddled
up in a bath filled with soapy fragrances all by myself. I was me, not
Jessica’s wife, not Cal and Marg Chase’s daughter, not Sasha’s sister, but
Nadia Chase, an independent woman with a purpose all of her own now.

This tickled me, which also scared
me.

Each time I had to travel, Jessica
spoiled me. She’d pack my luggage for me and place love notes in between my
undies. She’d also call ahead and order flowers and candies to be waiting for
me upon my arrival.

She was the perfect wife, and I loved
being the center of her world.

Aside from her secret drinking, our
life sparkled just like a gem.

Then, one night Jessica didn’t return
home.

By the morning, the unthinkable
happened. I got a call from her.

“I’m going to need you to come and
get me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the county jailhouse.”

My blood ran cold.

“What did you do?”

“They say I killed someone.”

I couldn’t find my tongue. “They
say?”

“The police.”

I couldn’t draw a breath without
first punching my chest. “And you didn’t, right?”

She didn’t answer.

“Jessica?”

“It was an accident.”

I dropped to my knees. “What did you
do?”

“I crashed my car into this other
car. I didn’t set out to kill anybody.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to dull
the stab to my heart. “Were you drunk?”

“Fuck, Nadia. What the fuck?”

She was still drunk. I hung up and ran
to the bathroom and vomited.

I didn’t go to Jessica’s rescue. She
arrived home with her club owner friend who posted bail for her. She walked
straight to the kitchen and cracked open a bottle of wine.

I treaded out of the front door and
drove to the inn down the street. I booked a room, ordered room service, and
drank a bottle of very expensive wine before calling my brother-in-law and
telling him I’d be taking a few days off to get over a flu. Then, I braved the
call to a defense attorney.

My darling wife fucked up our lives
for eternity. She went out for happy hour with some friends and hopped in her
car after drinking twelve beers and three shots. About five miles from our
home, she crossed the center lane and smacked headfirst into a car traveling in
the opposite direction, killing the woman who was driving her eighty-year-old
friend back home after a dinner to celebrate her birthday.

My wife was not only a drunk, but she
was now also a murderer.

* *

I couldn’t figure out how people
didn’t see the news report when it aired. After they splashed Jessica’s picture
all over the television the days after her arrest, I braced for the phone calls
from friends, from family, from work.

Part of me just wanted to get the
criticism over with. I wanted people to start the judgments and just let them
coat me in a few hundred layers of embarrassment so I could start the process
of dealing with this ugly fiasco.

Not even my parents called me. I
hovered over the call button many times in those first few days to call them,
but stopped myself. How do you tell your parents your wife is a drunk and a
murderer?

Sasha called me three days in and
asked if Jessica and I wanted to go out with her to see her husband’s friend
play acoustic guitar in a pub in the city. She had no clue Jessica had just
killed a woman. “I’m sick with the flu still,” I said to her.

“You sound strange. Do you need me to
bring you something?” she asked.

My chest crushed my lungs when I
attempted a deep enough breath to clear room for words. “I’m fine,” I managed.
“I just need a few more days to rest.”

I hung up and cradled my head in my
arms, rocking back and forth.

Chapter Three

Ruby

I loved the word fuck. I loved how
that four-letter word tickled the tip of my tongue as it dove free. Those four
little letters wielded such power. Nothing could get in its way once it leapt
from the tongue.

I wished my mother would’ve said the
word fuck more often and meant it. Maybe she would’ve amounted to more in life
than someone who served as a punching bag to a man with a dick for morals.

I sounded angry still. I hated that
after two decades he could still offend me, still get under my skin and scratch
at it. No matter how much you cleansed a soiled past, the stench still emanated
through from time to time.

As a kid, I hated the yelling, the
fighting, and the frightening nights I’d spent huddled under layers upon layers
of blankets to muffle the sound of my stepfather taking out his frustration on
her. The mornings after were especially difficult because I expected to find
her crying, but instead found her doting on him like he was the fucking king of
the new world order, like he hadn’t impressed upon her milky skin the lashings
from his belt, like he hadn’t covered her legs in purple. She’d prance around the
kitchen with her spatula, singing happy songs, wearing her blue belle apron,
and stopping mid flip of the eggs to pour the bastard more coffee and to kiss
my forehead.

She allowed him to treat her like a
doormat, and I hated that about her. Relationships sucked. I promised myself
back then that I would never grow up to be a wife. I planned a much more
untethered life. I would live in a cute apartment with lots of plants and
sprinkle potpourri throughout so it would smell fresh and flowery. I would hang
out with fun friends and host movie nights and feed them buttered popcorn and
ice cream. I’d also open my apartment to shelter cats and maybe a ferret. I
would commit to no one but me.

Back when I was a kid living under
their rules, I’d whisper to my mother after my stepfather planted himself in
front of the television, “Are you all right?” She’d shush me and tell me to
stop talking such nonsense. She’d remind me that mommies and step daddies
argued at times. They said silly things to each other and made up.

Silly things. Huh.

My mother lived to please that man.
She stood in high heels far too pointy to be comfortable and wore skirts far
too tight. She also catered to this man’s ideals before her own, before mine
even.

I would never be like her.

My best friend Catherine admired her
mother. I could see why. Her mother didn’t fake her way through life. Her
mother smelled like spring rain and walked with a bounce in her step that told
me she didn’t spend her nights fighting off a rough man’s fists. I even heard
her lecture to Catherine’s dad a few times, and her dad chuckled and
surrendered right away. She exerted the upper hand, and I admired her for that.
I wanted to be Catherine’s mom one day. Pretty, lovely, and unrestricted to
speak her mind in any way she deemed right. I just wouldn’t get married. That
never added joy as far as I could see.

Misery had killed my mother’s spirit.
Freedom never tickled her soul.

When my mother died in a freak
accident from falling down a flight of stairs while carrying a basket of
laundry— a basket of my stepfather’s laundry, no less—I took comfort in
Catherine’s mom’s arms. My Aunt Sherry told me to go sleep at Catherine’s house
for a few nights while she figured out what to do. So I did. I ran. I ran
across the street so fast my feet barely hit the pavement. When she opened the
front door, she scooped me in her arms and squeezed me telling me everything
was going to be all right.

I prayed to my mother for many nights
after that, whispering to her restless soul in the darkness of Catherine’s
room. I asked her over and over again why she didn’t just pick up and leave
with me. I wanted her to answer me. I wanted her to sweep into those dark
nights, pick me up in her arms, and carry me away with her to a place where
daisies and dandelions grew wildly and the sun never failed to shine. I didn’t
want to live with Catherine and spend the rest of my days slumbering in a
sleeping bag on her floor under her Mickey Mouse lamp. I wanted a life with my
mommy where we each slept through the night in beds all our own, dreaming with
smiles on our faces and never waking to hear the sounds of fists or muffled
screams. I wanted to wake up and cook pancakes and eggs with her, sing songs
together, laugh and dance around the kitchen in our aprons, never fearing that
the big, bad man would steal the joy away from under our feet.

I wanted this life. I prayed and
begged God to help me out.

Help me out he did.

My grampa showed up at Catherine’s
house two weeks after my mother fell down the stairs. I hadn’t seen him in
three years. I still recognized his sweet, twinkling eyes, the roundness of his
nose, and his Old Spice smell.

He came to rescue me, to take me away
to live with him at his bed and breakfast in western Massachusetts. The Rafters
was a huge barn, turned into eight private bedrooms and bathrooms. He ran the
place alone, cooking breakfasts for his guests, taking them on tours of
surrounding historical areas, and serving them home-baked cookies every night
by a roaring fire.

Peace and simplicity couldn’t even
begin to describe the beauty. The Rafters, with its endless supply of muffins, cookies
and comforting fires, filled in the voids and empty nooks of my heart.

This man taught me to open up my arms
to life by spoiling me with an overabundance of warmth, spirit, and love.

His love and lessons smoothed over
the hurt of being left alone in this world at such a young age. A few months
into my new life, I started to see the shimmer of sunlight on the edge of
leaves again. I inhaled the garden-fresh breeze that blew across the rolling
fields outside of my bedroom window. This renewed air tickled my lungs and
cleansed my hurt. By the time I blew out my birthday candles at nine years old,
daily life at The Rafters had shaped and molded me, filling me with wonder.

As I approached ten and met new
school friends, I began to grow lonely for my mother. My friends talked about
how their mothers sewed clothes, sang songs, and read books with them. I’d see
them sitting down to dinner with their families, a mom on one end of the table
and a father at the other end, and a jealousy would rip through me. I loved my
grampa, but I missed my mom. When I brought her up, his wrinkles creased more.
So, I rarely spoke of her.

Then Grace came into my life much like
a warm spring breeze whispering in after a bitter winter. Her tender smile, her
tall and regal walk, and her soft command created an arc over our life. She had
walked up to my grampa and asked if he had any rooms available for three
nights. He peeked up from his
Boston Globe
with a glow in his eye,
rubbed his bristly chin, and told her only if she didn’t mind sharing her room
with Tommy, our tabby cat.

I, being of almost eleven by then,
jumped to her rescue and told her Tommy could stay with me if she’d prefer.

I’d never seen eyes sparkle like
diamonds before. Hers did. “Well, all right then,” she said, cradling her
gentle arm around my shoulder, “Tommy can stay with you then.”

Grace rose early in the morning, just
like Grampa and me. The first morning, she opened the front door and stepped
outside onto the porch without eating breakfast. Grampa grabbed her and
objected. “Indulge me, will you? Please eat a muffin, at least.”

He teased with her and she teased
back. By nighttime when I returned home from school, they were still sitting in
the same spots as they were when I left. Grace’s leg crossed and touched
Grampa’s and Grampa’s hand rested on the small of her wrist. The two wore
peaceful smiles and tipped their heads to me as I passed them by without anything
more than a hidden smile on my face. I traveled all the way to the kitchen and
broke into a giggle.

On her third night, with Tommy tucked
under my arm as I strolled into the kitchen for some milk and cookies, I spied
on them. Soft music played on the turntable and Grampa embraced her as they
danced. Grace’s silver hair was swept up in a gentle twist. She wore a pretty,
rose-colored dress with small eyelets at the hemline. They giggled as they
circled around the room. My grampa loved her. I’d never seen anything more
beautiful in my life.

For two years, Grace visited us on
the weekends. We’d spend the time hiking through the trails out back by the
river, fishing, or stopping along the side of the road to watch the horses
graze in the yellowed grass. Grace added color to our life. She helped me read,
taught me to sing soprano notes, and showed me how to bake a proper meat pie.
She simplified my life, purified it, and filled in all of its empty pockets
with sunshine and laughter.

My grampa adored her. He made her
things all the time—flower pots, garden accessories, wooden shutters for the
kitchen with painted flowers. He beamed when she entered the room and gushed
over her. He fluffed her pillows and offered her the best seat at the table,
the one overlooking the rolling, dandelion fields.

Grampa praised her delicious apple
pies every Sunday and the flowers that she would dress up our house with every
spring. Life balanced itself out for both of us and we finally tasted
long-lasting, sweet joy.

He whispered to me one night while we
did dishes and she watched the news, “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

I squealed. Then we jumped around
together in circles, hushing our giggles.

I imagined things like her styling my
hair for prom one day and painting my nails with her bright red nail polish.

Later that night before we all went
to sleep, I pointed to a new pile of books I found in the attic. “Maybe we can
read one together?”

She gazed at them and stretched her
eyes. “Wow, that’s quite a stack.” She walked over to them and traced her
finger along their spines. “I can’t tonight.”

“Okay,” I said. “Tomorrow!”

Her smile sat on her face like a
wilted rose. She nodded and walked down the hallway.

She woke up the next day and left the
house early.

Later, she called Grampa and told him
she left our laundry in the washing machine.

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll be sure to
take the clothes out and put them in the dryer.”

I was peeling an apple and admiring
my grampa’s bright smile.

“Oh, on your way home can you pick up
some fresh blueberries from the market?” he asked her.

All of a sudden, his face grew a set
of deep wrinkles. “I see.” He turned his back to me. “California?” He nodded.
“Why?” He walked down the hallway, and I could hear only his quiet, muffled
voice.

When he returned a while later he
told me she left for good. He bit his lower lip and washed the dishes in the
sink.

“What did you do to her?”

“Ruby, dear, she left on her own.”

I searched his stressed eyes. “I
don’t believe you.”

He slammed a plate against the
kitchen sink and it broke. “It happens.”

“You ruined everything,” I said.
“Everything.” The tears erupted.

“He wiped his hands on his jeans and
grabbed my shoulders. “Listen to me. No one ruined anything.” He paused.
“Ladies like Grace aren’t meant to be tied down.” His eyes softened and a smile
reappeared on his face. “She can’t stay tethered to this place.”

“But, I loved her,” I said.

He hugged me. “I did too.”

I eyed the pile of books on the shelf
and suspected I had pushed too hard. I hugged my grampa tighter, hoping my love
would be enough to keep him smiling until we could find him someone new,
someone I wouldn’t chase off next time around.

Those days seemed so long ago.

What did I worry about now? Silly
things like whether the apples at the farmer’s market were really organic and
whether my teeth were white enough.

Speaking of, I loved discovering
natural remedies for things. I used to spend a fortune on teeth whitening
products that never worked as magically as the boxes claimed they would. Now, I
whitened my teeth every other week using regular household items. I dug out the
peroxide from under my bathroom cabinet and doused my strawberry with it. I
pressed my fork into it, smashing it. Then I dumped a teaspoon of baking powder
on it all to form a pasty mixture. I dipped my toothbrush into the whitening
concoction when my cell rang. A number I didn’t recognize. I got a little
excited. Perhaps it was one of the jobs I applied to a few weeks prior wanting
to interview me.

“Hello, Ruby speaking.”

Silence.

I checked my teeth in the mirror
waiting on the caller’s response, then picked up the dental floss. “Hello,
anyone there?”

“Hi Ruby,” a woman said, stretching
out her voice full and wide. “This is Nadia Chase, the uptight woman from the
lounge.” She chuckled. “Shawna, your waitress, gave me your card.”

I adored her name. Nadia. It sounded
so eloquent. I tossed the dental floss back down. “I see Shawna convinced you
that I wasn’t a whore.” I accentuated this last word so she could hear how ridiculous
it sounded. I stared at my reflection, at my ripe nipples.