Excerpt: Juliet, Victorious

Juliet, Victorious
A novel
Saturday, July 16, 2005, 11:15 a.m.
My marriage is over. It isn’t like I didn’t know this already. I think I first knew it last spring, that night he came home and called me a stupid, worthless, bitch for making risotto instead of plain old rice to go with the chicken cacciatore. He had me pinned against the wall by my neck, and as I could feel the webbing between his thumb and forefinger pressing against my throat so I could barely swallow, an unexpected thought flitted through my mind. If I get out of this alive, I’m leaving—that was the thought. The next second he pressed in so hard panic shot through me, but then he released me and walked away without a word.
I didn’t leave, of course. You don’t leave your husband of two months over risotto, for God’s sake. Not after your parents have just spent a small fortune on your dream Valentine’s Day wedding. No, I stayed. Tommy really is a wonderful person, and it isn’t just because he is so absolutely gorgeous I sometimes can’t breathe at the sight of him, or that he has this amazing way of walking into a room and capturing everyone’s attention without doing anything at all. I am his wife, and I know him. I know how kind and thoughtful he can be. He loves me and appreciates me, even though I don’t think I’m really beautiful enough to be at his side. At least that’s what he said in the note he sent with the dozen roses he sent the day after the risotto incident.
Now, I’m lying in my old bed in my childhood room. I can hear my mother sobbing in the next room, and my father soothing her in a low voice. She taped my ribs after I refused to go to the hospital last night. She kept begging and begging me to go. She even wanted to call 9-1-1 after I’d called her to come over to the apartment and rescue me. But I couldn’t go to the hospital—they know her there and she sees patients and everything. Besides, Tommy Faillard’s wife couldn’t show up in the ER looking like someone had beat the crap out of her. It would be in the Times-Picayune the next day. So Maman went into her magic bag and fixed me up as though I were seven instead of 27.
My grandmother, Manon, gave me this journal with a real lock and key this morning. She came over and fed me soup as though I were some kind of invalid, but she said nothing of the bruises on my upper arms. She talked instead about what I wanted from life, what I thought I deserved from life. She told me I was a princess and deserved to live with joy and abundance, and that I would just as soon as I was ready. She didn’t cry, but her beautiful face looked so sorrowful that I cried instead. When she asked me why I was crying, I told her that I felt badly about making the white streak in her hair wider. That made her laugh.
I will get up soon as my parents leave and go down to find some lunch. My mother is going to the grocery store, and my father has to go into the office on a weekend to finish preparing for a trial next week. It will be good to be alone.
***
Jul. 16, 1:47 p.m.
Oh, God, Tommy just called. My stomach is in knots, and I’m lying curled around a pillow in bed.
“Julie, baby, when are you coming home?” he asked in his most persuasive voice, smooth as good red wine.
“I’m not,” I said, willing my voice to be steady. I was trembling all over.
“Come on, Juliet. You can’t stay at your parents’ forever. You’re a grown woman. You need to come home.”
“Tommy,” I said. “You broke my ribs. It hurts to just to breathe. I’m not coming home.”
I could hear his gusty sigh through the phone. “Look, sweetheart, it was a rough week, and I was drunk. I didn’t mean it, you know that. I promise it won’t happen again.”
“I’m not coming home,” I repeated, grateful that I’d gone over all of this ahead of time. I was not going to mention calling a lawyer, and I was not going to get drawn into any arguments. I was just going to repeat myself like a broken record, and if he scared me again, I was going into hiding.
“Baby, don’t be this way. I said it wouldn’t happen again,” he persisted, still in his wheedling tone.
“Are you going to AA?” I asked.
“AA? I don’t need to go to AA. I’ll cut back on my drinking, I promise. Just don’t get me so fired up next time.”
“There won’t be a next time,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Look, I understand. You’re upset. I’ll give you time to calm down. It’s okay.” He paused. “I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you, too,” I whispered, “…but I’m not coming home.”
He had already hung up.
Maybe it would be okay. Maybe he would be relieved to get out of the marriage so quickly. So many women want him, women who are sexier and more beautiful than I. Maybe he just isn’t ready to settle down yet, and he’s scared. Maybe it’ll be okay.
***
Jul. 16, 2:24 p.m.
Tommy called again, but I didn’t answer. Then I heard a car horn honking outside and I ran to the bedroom window to see him leaning against his Porsche holding a bouquet of flowers. Even from a distance, I can see that the man is stunning. The way his suit fits his body, the way his sunglasses sit on his face.
He could see me looking out of the window, because he spread his arms wide. I drew behind the curtain, and then crept to the side of the window to pull them shut. If it weren’t for the fact that every move I made hurt me so much that I had already maxed on Motrin, I might have run down and thrown myself in his arms. Every painful breath reminded me of what he had done. I couldn’t help but notice that he managed to strike me only in places that wouldn’t show. In a blouse with three-quarter length sleeve, I looked amazingly fine.
The horn is sounding again, impatient now. And then the phone. I’m curled up in bed, listening to the rings and then my parents’ answering machine pick up. First their greeting and then his voice.
“Juliet. I know you’re in there. Open up.” His voice sounds harder now. He’s losing patience. “Juliet, you can’t hide in there forever. You’re my wife. You need to come home. I need you.”
I’m just lying here, listening, feeling my ribs ache.
“I want you, baby.” His tone has dropped in volume, and a shiver runs down my spine. It sounds incredibly like his bedroom voice. I can feel the threat wrapped in his longing. If I don’t please him and let him please me, he will hurt me. “I want you so much. I want to—“
***
3:30 p.m.
I’m at Delaine’s now—my mother packed me up and brought me over.
I ended Tommy’s answering machine message by snatching up the phone before he could say anything embarrassing. “Tommy, stop,” I hissed. “Just stop. I’m not coming home, not today, not ever. I’m calling a lawyer on Monday.”
“What?”
“I want a divorce, Tommy. I can’t live with a man who beats me.”
“Stop the games, baby. You can’t leave me. You won’t ever find another man who will love you like I do.”
“I’m not playing games. We’re through, Tommy.” And I hung up.
Tommy started screaming up at my window, nonsense about how he needed me and couldn’t do without me, and how could I do this to him. I pulled the covers over my head and listened until he stopped suddenly. I heard the engine fire up and heard the tires squealing as he pulled away.
Then I heard the door open and footsteps running upstairs. My mother burst into my room and stood in the middle of the floor, panting. “This ridiculous. I’m taking you to Delaine’s,” she said.
So now, here I am. I feel like I’m in a nightmare. I won’t stay with Delaine overnight. Just until we can figure out where I can spend the night where Tommy won’t think to track me down.
Delaine’s knocking, so I’d better come out of my cocoon.
***
Jul. 16, 11:30 p.m.
I’m at Delaine’s cousin’s, Cinda. Cinda has a one bedroom that looks like a trainwreck. She herself is gorgeous, the kind of woman I would be afraid would go after Tommy. Perfect dark gold hair swinging below her shoulders, hazel eyes accentuated with eyeliner and mascara, curves in all the right places beneath her floral bathrobe cinched at the waist with a matching belt. I remembered seeing her at a party somewhere a long time ago, and I felt like an idiot being dumped on her with my taped up ribs.
“Come on in,” she said when my mother, Delaine, and I walked in. “The place is a mess, but I’ll get to that eventually.” She looked me over. “You must be Juliet. You just make yourself at home, and don’t worry about a thing. I’ve heard of the Faillards. Everyone has. But they don’t know me. I’m not from around here.”
“Oh,” I said. She fit right in, with her light skin, light hair, and light eyes. I would have taken her for Creole for sure.
I looked around at her place, while Delaine introduced my mother. My mother was carrying the L.L. Bean backpack she had packed back at the apartment less than 24 hours ago. I felt like a little girl being dropped off at a sleepover, and like a little girl, I started to cry.
“Oh, honey,” said Delaine, coming over to put an arm around my shoulders. My mother set my backpack down and walked over to squeeze my forearm (carefully avoiding the bruised places above my elbow). She kept moving, and sat down on the sofa as Cinda lifted a pile of clean, folded laundry to make space for her. I knew she was going to debrief Cinda and give her instructions. My poor mother shouldn’t have to be going through all this with me. I put my head on Delaine’s shoulder and sobbed.
“Julie, Julie, it’s okay. You’re safe now,” she murmured.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I sniffled. “I’m sorry to put everyone to so much trouble.”
“Girl, please.” She squeezed my shoulder, and I winced. She jumped back in horror as though she’d been burned. “That bastard,” she hissed.
I held up my hands. “It’s okay. Just be gentle, that’s all.”
Delaine put her hands in my hair and looked into my face. “Do not worry about causing any trouble. You’ve always been perfect Juliet, always there for everyone else without any problems of your own. I had no idea Tommy was like this. I thought you had the perfect life. You keep things too much to yourself. You’ve always been there for me, and I’m nothing but trouble. This is the least I can do for you. Okay?”
She gave me an encouraging smile, and I managed to smile back through my tears.
***
Sunday, July 17, 2005 noon
I can’t believe what is happening to me. I am going to wake up and find that I’ve been in a horrible nightmare the past couple of days. My mother woke me up this morning, calling to tell me that Tommy had been in an automobile accident and was critical. Before I could hang up, Delaine came to pick me up and take me to the hospital.
All the way over there, I prayed and prayed that he would be okay. Maybe this would turn him around and we wouldn’t have to split up after all. I clung to my prayer as Delaine parked and led me to Tommy’s room. I could see his mother, Rose, standing outside the door of a room, while a doctor spoke to her. Rose was bent over with her face in her hands screaming and sobbing, “No, not my baby! Not my baby!”
And I knew he was dead. When I walked up to her she lifted her head and the sight of me transformed her. Usually, she is stunning, but not her eye makeup was smear across her face and her mouth was twisted in fury.
“You killed him!” she screeched. “You killed my son! You were going to leave him! You drove him to this!”
My chest felt like ice. My mouth spoke on its own. “He didn’t make it?”
Rose’s eyes widened and a single, wordless shriek issued from her lips. She lunged at me, hands curved into claws. I just stood there while her fingernails ripped into my neck. Delaine yelled and pulled me away while the doctor restrained my mother-in-law.
My own mother and father came running up. Together with Delaine, they surrounded me and led me away. I looked at my mother, who walked beside me, tears gushing out of her eyes.
“Tommy’s dead, isn’t he?” I heard myself say.
“Yes,” my mother choked.
“What do I do next?” I asked. “What should I do?”
“Take her to the car,” I heard my father say. “I’ll talk to Thomas. He’ll make sense.”
I thought this was a good idea. Thomas, my father-in-law was not likely to lose control as his wife had.
I don’t remember much else except walking down corridor after corridor of brightly lit hospital halls. There was an elevator ride, a large carpeted lobby, and then the dark gray of the parking garage.
“What should I do next?” I asked Delaine. Her face was set, her mouth working as though she were holding back from being sick or screaming.
“We’ll go back to the apartment.” My mother was suddenly decisive. “We’ll clear out the apartment. Delaine, take my phone and call MaManon and ask her to send Tim over. Tim will help us pack everything up.” Tim was my cousin. He and his wife Sandra would help me out. Sandra has been one of my attendants at our wedding last winter. At our wedding last winter.
The three of us piled into the car and waiting. I turned to Delaine, who was strapping her seat belt on. “This can’t be happening, can it?”
She looked, chewing on her lower lip, and reached over the clutch my hand. My father arrived within minutes. He yanked the car door open, slumped in, and slammed it shut. After spitting out some profanity at the steering wheel, he plunged the key into the ignition and shot out of the parking space. We went zooming out of the parking garage as though my father were possessed by the spirit of Tommy driving. I couldn’t figure out why he was so angry.
Tim and Sandra were waiting at our apartment when we arrived. I spooked when I let us all in. It felt like Tommy would be sitting there, sprawled on the sofa watching television. I sent my parents and Tim down to our storage unit in the basement for the luggage and boxes while Delaine, Sandra, and I pulled out all my clothes and personal items. I wanted none of the small appliances—the cappucino maker, the blender, the pasta maker, the juicer—nor the dishes or china we’d gotten as wedding gifts. The books would be the most cumbersome items for us to pack up.
My mother poked her head in the bedroom. “Juliet,” she said. Her voice was steady but her face was streaked with fresh tears. “Come out here for a minute.”
I came out holding my earring box. She pulled me into the bathroom. Her face looked as though it had been carved in stone and left out in the rain. “Juliet,” she began, taking a deep breath, “I would give anything to protect you from this, but you need to know now.” She swallowed hard. “There was a woman in the car with Tommy when he had his accident. She’s in critical condition. And Tommy’s blood alcohol level was off the charts before he died.”
The ice block in my chest cracked. “No,” I said clearly.
“Julie, I’m sorry.”
“No!” I refused to believe this terrible twist in the unfolding tragedy that was my life. But even as I spoke, a part of my brain was calculating the unexplained absences, the hang ups from unknown numbers, the whispers of so-called friends (not Delaine).
The part of my mind that was coldly calculating these things and the part that refused to believe them collided suddenly, and a scream erupted from my throat. I bent double from the force of it. My mother pulled me to her as my body began to shake violently, sobs threatening to tear open my chest.
How long we stayed in the bathroom, I don’t know. When we emerged with damp, flushed faces and red eyes, my father pointed at the bookshelves. “I don’t know which ones are yours,” he said through stiff lips. A lock of straight dark hair that he usually kept brushed back fell over his eyes. He looked surprisingly vulnerable, like a boy instead of a man approaching 50.
Only I could sort this out. Some hidden strength from an unknown source pushed me forward. “I’ll figure it out,” I mumbled. I stepped forward and began to sort my books, thinking crazily of Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally, saying, “Write your name in all your books.” He was right. You never know what life is going to dish out.
***
Jul. 17, 9:48 p.m.
In the end, we took all my stuff back to my parents’ house, but I didn’t want to stay there. I wanted to go back to Cinda’s, back to a time when my only problem was dissolving my marriage from an abusive husband.
I felt completely incoherent.
“I didn’t want him to die,” I said to my parents, to Delaine, to Tim and Sandra, to Cinda, and to MaManon when she arrived at Cinda’s small apartment. “I wanted him to stop drinking. I wanted him to stop tearing me down. I really was going to leave him, but I didn’t want him to die.” I didn’t say it, but deep down I’d been hoping that if Tommy could see that I was serious about divorce, he’d get himself together so I wouldn’t have to go through with it. But I didn’t say this.
“What about the funeral arrangements?” I asked to no one in particular as we sat around eating Chinese take out. My father was doing his usual complaining about how most Chinese restaurants never do the food authentically. His mother—my other grandmother—is from Sezchuan and knows how to make honest to goodness Chinese food.
“His parents are taking care of that,” my father replied. “That’s one thing you won’t have to worry about.”
It figured. We’d been married for less than six months, and his mother had never liked me anyway. She never been quite so obvious about it before, being the sort of person who dished out her barbs with a smile.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, stirring my Egg Drop Soup.
“What about your bank account?” asked Delaine.
I looked up and saw my mother staring at her in horror. She put her hands to her face. “Oh, God, thank you for thinking of that! It hadn’t even crossed my mind.” She checked her watch and turned to me. “ Do you feel up to going to the bank?”
I imagined Rose, slender and brittle with no make up and her hair in a sleek bun, imperiously ordering a bank teller to close our joint account. I got to my feet and went for my purse. “Yes,” I said, feeling the need for a little action. I rummaged around in my handbag and found a scrunchie to pull my hair off my neck. “Yes, I feel up to going to the bank.”
My mother popped an egg roll in her mouth and wiped her fingers on her paper napkin. “We’ll be back,” she told my father, and we left.
“How much do you think you should withdraw?” she asked, as I got settled in the passenger seat.
“I don’t know.” Tommy was a Faillard and had lived like a king, but I didn’t know where he kept his motherlode of cash. Investments somewhere, that didn’t have my name on them. I knew what he earned from his job as a marketing executive and how much we had in our joint checking account. He spent that like water, too.
“How much did you put in when you first got married?” my mother wanted to know.
“Around $7,000,” I told her. “All my savings. But we don’t have that much in the account right now. Maybe around $4,500.”
“Take three grand, then,” my mother advised. “If you clean it out, Rose will have a fit.”
I went into the bank with a sense of purpose. Calm and steady, I wrote a check to “cash” for $3,000. My husband of less than six months had beaten me and broken my ribs and then killed himself in an automobile accident that had critically injured his mistress, but I closed my mind to it. I would focus on the daily details of my life. I’d packed up my books and DVDs and I already knew which novel I was going to read—The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett, and which movie I would watch on Cinda’s television, Miracle on 34th Street with Maureen O’Hara and Natalie Wood. I didn’t have to face the pain if I didn’t want to.
We went straight from that bank to the one where my parents had an account. I opened up a new joint account with my mother, arranging for only my name to be printed on the checks. I had to use my maiden name, McKenna, because I hadn’t gotten around to legally changing my name.
I decided to use my full name—Juliet Elizabeth McKenna. Juliet McKenna looked so sad all by itself, as though a part of me had known all along that the marriage was doomed. I’d certainly never felt like a Faillard. The Faillards were like Creole royalty, always riding the floats in the Mardi Gras parades. My mother’s family had Creole roots, too, but we weren’t society.
My mother and I returned from our bank errand to find only Delaine, Sandra, and Cinda sitting around Cinda’s apartment. It was much tidier than it had been before. It was clear they had been deep in conversation about me by the looks on their faces when Cinda let us in. Delaine, of course, was not apologetic.
“Tim took Mr. McKenna home,” she told my mother. “We’re just talking about what to do for Juliet. Cinda’s thinking about a spa day.”
“Oh, absolutely,” my mother agreed.
My hands went to my neck, which has welts from where Rose’s fingernails had scratched me. “I don’t know about a spa day,” I said. “My ribs still hurt.”
“I was thinking about a facial, manicure, pedicure, makeup and hair styling,” Cinda assured me.
I looked at her perfect face and hair and decided she was right. I was the wronged wife in this scenario. I didn’t want to look like the stiff senators’ wives standing by their wayward husband after the scandalous affair has leaked to the press. They always looked like Stepford Wives, perfectly groomed and utterly undesirable. I always figured, no wonder their husbands cheated. I wanted to be like Halle Berry and Eric Benet, leaving everyone to wonder how he could ever cheat on a woman as beautiful as she is. I had some shreds of pride, after all.
“I’m in,” I said. So they booked us as a group for Tuesday.
Now I’m lying on Cinda’s pull out sofa about to put a movie to watch. She’s been an angel, Cinda has. She made me a bag of microwave popcorn and everything. I just need to lose myself in another world right now. I feel like the eye of a storm.
***
Monday, July 18, 2005 4:30 p.m.
I just found out the details. Family will “receive friends” on Wednesday evening from 7:00 till 9:00 and the funeral mass will be on Thursday morning at 11:00. That’s a long way off. I have this evening and all of tomorrow and most of Wednesday before I have to deal with any of that.
This morning I got up and went to IHOP for breakfast. I ordered a stack of pancakes with sausage, biscuits, grits, and potatoes and read all of The Secret Garden. I know it seems childish, but I absolutely love that book.
I especially like the character of Colin Craven and how he changes from such a weak, hysterical creature to a strong, healthy boy. I like his magical experiment in the garden—it really spoke to me reading it this time. When I was reading about his recitation of, “Magic is in me, making me well,” I was wondering how I could make the magic of the secret garden.
Then I came back to Cinda’s apartment and spent 20 minutes in her bathroom throwing up. I didn’t mean to, it just sort of happened. I came out, borrowed her bottle of Windex and spray cleaned the entire bathroom. I came out after brushing my teeth, and she asked if I was okay and could she get me anything.
“Do you have any Lipton’s Cup-a-Soup?” I asked.
“I’ll get some when I go out,” she said.
When she left, I made myself a cup of tea, and started in on my Anne McCaffrey dragonriders of Pern books. Tommy used say I was such a geek from reading that kind of fantasy, but right now I don’t care. I’m saving Harry Potter for Wednesday evening. I haven’t even started the sixth book yet, so it’s worth getting excited about.
Anyway, I’ve been reading all day, and when Cinda walked in with a couple bags of groceries, I half expected to see a gold fire lizard on her shoulder, it’s gleaming tail curving around her neck. I took a shower and made myself some soup, and I’m feeling much better. If I just have enough books and DVDs I can make it through this.
***
Mon., Jul. 18, 10:15 p.m.
Both of my grandmothers came to see me this evening. Cinda was out, so I played hostess and went through all her kitchen cabinets and drawers looking for boxes of tea bags, cookies, cups, and spoons. Most people have a Grandma, a Big Ma, or even a Nana or a Mu’Dear. I have a MaManon and a Taitai.
Taitai eyed the tea bags doubtfully—she brews her tea so properly you’d think she was English—and washed out the cups before we drank out of them.
“I just took them out of the dishwasher,” I said, as MaManon winked at me.
“yes,” Taitai replied. She looked as though she stepped onto the flight from San Franciso straight from the beauty parlor and had not been dented or squashed from trying to sleep on the five hour flight. When she put a finger under my chin to examine my face, she gave a knowing nod that made me glad I’d showered.
“You see where your thoughts have led you,” she said, settling in with her tea. “Heartbreak.”
“My thoughts?” I asked.
“Yes.” She stirred her tea as though she were reading tea leaves. “Everything comes from a thought, you see. You thought you would be happy with Tommy. You chose to think of only his looks and personality. You believed him when he told you you were lucky to be with him. Everything in your life comes from what you think and believe.”
“Not everything,” I argued. “Sometimes bad things just happen.”
“This is true,” she agreed, and MaManon nodded. “But how do you respond to these things that just happen. What are your thoughts? That is what is important. Your thoughts and beliefs.”
I looked at MaManon. She looked back at me. “Are you saying that I brought all this on myself?” I asked, incredulously. “Are you saying that I deserve all this?”
“No, darling.” MaManon reached over and patted my hand. “But do you think you deserve this?”
“No!” I recoiled and pulled my hand away. “I don’t deserve anything he’s done to me!”
“But you admit you allow this?” Taitai asked gently.
“I don’t allow—“ I broke off, feeling hurt and confused. “Why are you both getting on me about this? I haven’t done anything. Tommy’s the one who did everything. He beat me. He cheated on me. He died and left me—“ My voice broke.
“Of course, he did,” Taitai soothed. “But you chose him.”
“No, I didn’t,” I retorted. “He chose me. I was the lucky one.”
“This is luck?” Taitai asked. “This is happiness? Where is your power?”
I thought suddenly of my new checkbook. I had chosen that. The blue safety paper with the same name as my birth certificate. That had been my choice. I had made up my mind that Rose was not going to grind me into the dust. My mind—that was my power.
Taitai was watching my face carefully, and she nodded as if she were satisfied. “You see?”
MaManon gestured at my cup. “Drink, darling. It’s good for you.”
I took my cup and dutifully sipped. I met her eyes, and she smiled at me. “This is your doing,” I accused, but I smiled back.
“You are my princess, my queen,” she said, lovingly. “When you realize that you will understand what we’re saying.”
So now I have to figure out what the heck they’re talking about. But I’m too tired right now.
***
Tuesday, July 19, 2005, 6:20 a.m.
I was lying awake trying to figure out what MaManon and Taitai were saying to me last night. I still don’t really get how my thoughts and beliefs could have caused all this. Tommy had some thoughts and beliefs, too, and he acted on them.
I couldn’t believe that Taitai thinks I chose Tommy. It wasn’t as though I picked him out of all the guys who were desperate for my affections. No, Tommy had chosen me, and I’d felt proud. He’d picked me out of the crowd, and when you are alone with no one asking you out and a gorgeous man falls in love with you, you jump at the chance to be with him. Who else was there?
I remember what he’d said to me in the beginning, that he was tired of all of the flashy, beautiful girls and wanted someone exactly like me—serious, thoughtful, kind-hearted. I was so touched, so flattered that a man like him would want a woman like me. I was drawn in by his charm so that I felt that I’d had no choice. I could just let myself be swept away by him, his good looks, his charisma, his decisiveness. I could just relax and let him make all the decisions. I was so grateful to be his girlfriend, then his fiancee, and finally his wife, that I was happy with whatever he chose.
But then again, maybe that’s was Taitai and MaManon had been getting at. I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t using my mind, or making choices. I just followed along with whatever Tommy wanted. Maybe I wasn’t living out my own choices at all. I was living out all of Tommy’s choices, because I had let him choose.
***
Jul. 19, 8:35 p.m.
There’s a lot to be said for visiting a spa. It isn’t something you want to do every day—it’s too indulgent—but it’s wonderful every once and a while.
One bad moment spoiled the beginning of the experience, though. I’d never been to a spa before, and you have to fill out a bunch of medical information. So I had to write down on this form that I had cracked ribs. They were healing, but there was no hiding the fact that I’d been beaten. Bruises still purpled my upper arms. I carefully watched the facial woman as she read my form, and I could tell she knew what had happened. I was so embarrassed.
Still, she didn’t say anything about it and was kind and professional. I got the royal treatment on my face, hands, and feet, and I would have enjoyed it immensely if I hadn’t felt so guilty about putting Delaine and Cinda through all that trouble. It was funny that they didn’t seem put out at all and seemed to have a good time.
I had the facial done in private, and it was about the most heavenly experience I’ve ever had. Sleep has been coming hard, go figure, and it’s taken about half a paperback to get me to drift off. During the facial, it was like I’d taken some kind of drug to block out all my painful thoughts. I didn’t feel as though I were asleep. Instead I felt suspended in some blissful oblivion. When I came back to myself and remembered everything, I just wanted to crawl back on the table and start over again.