Alive and Wells

Cecily

I’ve spent the better half of the day listing on the back of my grocery receipt all the ways I could kill him. Now, glancing up from the tiny scrawlings to the microwave clock, I light a match and burn the evidence. Perfectly on cue, KJ’s headlights beam through the small window over the kitchen sink. I rush to wash charcoal dust down the drain.

“How was work?” My fake smile comes naturally when he walks through the door.

Practice makes perfect.

“Let’s just say I’m glad to be home.” He plants a rough kiss on my forehead, and I’m pulled into an unpleasant embrace. I suck in the strong cologne as my cheek smashes against his chest, every muscle in my body rigid in his arms. He sniffs the air and I pray the vanilla bean candle’s enough to cover up the smoke.

Clearly not noticing anything off, he focuses instead on the brown paper bags from his favorite restaurant. “You’re so good to me, babe. Seriously, how did I get this lucky?”

It’s the same song and dance. His pathetic attempt at groveling because we argued before he left for work this morning. Rather, he yelled, and I stood like a statue until he gave up. A similar pose to the one I’m in now, clutching the marble countertop, waiting for an inevitable critique of something. My appearance, the dinner order, the state of the house . . . there’s always something.

KJ waltzes toward the restaurant containers and lifts a lid to peek inside at the hundred-­dollar sushi order. It’s not even the best sushi restaurant in town—­he likes it because it’s the most expensive.

Running a hand through his short black hair, he turns to me. “You must’ve been really busy today if you couldn’t even cook.” There’s the comment. “Pour yourself some wine and sit down, babe. I’ll dish us up.”

After a brief hesitation, and no further comments from my husband, I open the cupboard. My perpetually shaky fingers wrap around a teal mug. Not the classiest way to drink a two-hundred-­dollar bottle of wine, but my last wineglass shattered against the dining room wall on Sunday. Nerve endings buzzing with the memory, I fill the mug and tiptoe out of the room. The moment I enter the dining room, I’m drawn to the burgundy stain splashed across the greige wall above the table. Noticeable scrub marks linger where I spent an hour crying and cleaning.

I’ll have to swing by the hardware store for some more paint before our Friday night dinner plans with our friends Sara and Mike. God forbid anybody asks why our dining room now has a port-wine-­stain feature wall.

“F***!” His booming voice reverberates through the walls, and I swear the house shudders as hard as I do. My breathing falters in the slow seconds that tick between his shout and my mouth opening.

“Are y-­you okay?” It comes out meek and screechy.

“I f***ing cut myself. Get the first aid kit.”

Springing to action, I hurry past the kitchen and down the hallway to our en suite bathroom. Once there, I leisurely poke around in the medicine cabinet. Rearranging pill bottles and making a mental list of what needs restocking. Pretending I don’t know where the bandages are. Staring right at them.

What a tragic accident it would be if he bled out.

“Cecily!” he screams. “What the f*** is taking you so long?”

I finally grab the box and stroll back to the kitchen to find his woeful face waiting for me. He holds his hand outstretched, a pained expression furrowing his brows. It’s the tiniest slice in his flesh, no deeper than a paper cut.

Good God.

So much for hoping I’d find him missing a finger or two. He probably cut himself on a plastic takeout lid or something equally stupid.

“Sorry, I couldn’t”—­I fidget with the wrapper, and gently place the bandage over the minor cut—­“find the bandages. But there, you’re good as new. What happened?”

“Why are our chopsticks in the same drawer as the kitchen knives? We have a big enough f***ing kitchen. I shouldn’t have to stick my hand in a knife drawer for motherf***ing chopsticks,” he snarls before storming away.

I stare down at the opened drawer—­specifically, at the large, freshly sharpened chef knife—­then at his back.

Better not—­too much cleanup.

As I take my place back at the dining table, the burned receipt list consumes my every thought and the weight of a potential first-­degree murder charge diminishes my appetite. I lazily push a piece of ginger around. Half listening to him complain about how hard it is to be CFO at his father’s company. Despite how apathetic I feel, I must nod, hrm, and gasp in all the right spots. Dinner goes off without a hitch. After three years, I suppose I’m finally learning how to keep the peace.

“Great dinner, babe.” Dropping his napkin on his empty plate, he pushes away from the table.

Once the TV surround sound blares from the next room, I take a relieved breath. It’s the beginning of the end—­another day nearing completion. In trained silence, I clear the table and, for the next hour, take my time cleaning the already spotless kitchen. With any luck, he’ll be asleep on the couch by the time I’m finished.

With any luck.

The drop in his respiration signaling sleep is one of my favorite sounds, second only to his car tires leaving our driveway each morning. Confident he’s out for the night, I slip from under the covers, unplug my cell phone, and pad to the bathroom. Sinking to the cold tile floor, I text one of two phone numbers I’ve committed to memory—­adding it to a proper contact profile simply isn’t an option. For weeks, I kept it taped to the underside of the bathroom counter, and faced agonizing fear each time KJ bent to grab something from the lower drawers.

Cecily: Is that job still available?

Time ticks on, and I wonder if I waited too long. It’s nearly one in the morning, after all. KJ found John Wick on cable, which ruined my routine. Rather than falling asleep before the nine o’clock news, he drank four whiskeys neat and stayed awake until midnight. When I halfheartedly suggested he get some sleep, he accused me of trying to force him to bed so I could sneak around behind his back. Like a whore.

He’s not entirely wrong. For six months, I’ve been secretly talking to a woman named Beryl. We met on a forum I definitely shouldn’t be on. I can’t bear to imagine what might happen if KJ ever finds out. A support group for women in abusive relationships; I honestly don’t belong there, though.

KJ doesn’t hit me like the spouses of the women in that group do. He calls me names when he’s angry, but he doesn’t hit me. He screams in my face, but he doesn’t hit me. He smashes wineglasses, plates, and the drywall directly next to my head, but he doesn’t hit me. And maybe he’s threatened it a few times or grabbed me with enough force to leave a mark, but he still hasn’t actually hit me.

I’ve been daydreaming about murdering my husband for days—­surely that makes me the violent one. Right?

(555) 276-­9899: It’s yours whenever you’re ready, honey.

Cecily: OK. Thanks.

(555) 276-­9899: Are you ready?

Cecily: I mean, I was planning how I’d kill him today. I should probably leave, shouldn’t I?

(555) 276-­9899: You say the word and you’ll have help. You’re a strong woman and you can do this, Cecily.

Heavy footsteps move toward the bathroom, and my fingers tap hard on the screen. Delete, delete, f***ing delete. The text thread disappears in an instant, without a moment to spare. As the doorknob turns, I silently pray Beryl doesn’t text me again. She doesn’t message unless I’ve reached out first but, given we’re in the middle of a conversation, I can’t be certain she won’t send another reply.

With any luck.

“The f*** are you doing?” KJ blinks rapidly, adjusting to the bright bathroom lights.

“Period cramps. I couldn’t sleep.” I clutch my stomach for believability. We rarely have sex, and he’s definitely not interested in my bathroom habits. Despite being married, I doubt he has any idea when my cycle should be. Hell, I have an IUD and can’t remember the last time I had a real period, but he doesn’t even know I’m on birth control.

His dark eyes cut to the phone sitting on the tile next to me. In a flash, he moves to grab it. “Oh yeah? So the f*** is your phone doing here with you? I knew you’d been sneaking around behind my back. Do you think I’m a moron or are you such a whore you don’t care about getting caught? In my f***ing house, too!” His words cover my face in spit as he crouches down, clenching my phone tight in his fist.