Rory didn’t smile, but the optimistic expression on his face indicated that he knew he was winning. That he might actually survive this. That I might not leave him. His smile did something to me inside. My spine straightened with confidence. I turned toward the island and saw the butcher block of knives. I tightened the grip on my right hand and imagined grabbing one of those knives. I looked over and saw the pressure cooker and then the mixer. I saw so many things I could use to hurt him. Everything in my kitchen became a weapon.
There was no way he would leave this kitchen alive. Or at least, there was no way he would leave this kitchen without enduring severe pain. My eyes finally rested on the clay pot in the center of the island that held the spatulas and wooden spoons and other utensils. There was a set of skewers I often used for vegetarian shish kebabs. Without making much of a scene, I reached over and pulled out two skewers, one in each hand. I looked back at him, and the fire in my eyes radiated fury and heat.
His eyes bulged, and his mouth fell agape. He demanded, “What are you doing?”
“You will never cheat on me again.”
“No,” he promised as his voice cracked. “I won’t ever cheat on you again. Please, let’s move past this.”
I was done talking. I stepped closer to him and whacked him in the head with a skewer. As he raised his hands to protect himself, I hit him in the side with the other one. He screamed in pain. His hands moved each time I struck him, and with each strike, I hit harder and harder. I landed a good clean hit against his cheek, and a red line appeared on his skin.
As his hands flew up to block another stroke, I noticed his unprotected belly. I jabbed the skewer into his skin. He screamed,and as he cowered in pain, I stuck him with the other skewer. Crimson blood stained his blue shirt. I stuck him three more times, and he fell to the ground and shrank into the fetal position. I changed the position of my hands so I could stab him overhanded. Like I was pricking my famous cracker dough, I thrust my fists back and forth, sticking him over and over.
“You willnevercheat on me again, do you hear me!?”
Jab, jab, jab, needle into flesh.
Screams of pain and regret poured from his putrid tongue.
“How could you do this to our family, to Jasper?” Jab, jab, jab!
“I didn’t mean to, I’ll never…”
I kept going, stabbing blindly, wildly, wishing all my pain would go away. Wishing he’d fade to black.
Ascendingfootsteps on the stairs pulled me from my daydream. It took me a moment to realize where I was. I was trembling again. Sweat crept into my eyes and slid down my cheeks. I let out an audible sigh and tried to collect myself. I truly was in a state of shock. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Philippe rose to his feet and licked my arm.
I tried to smile at him. He needed to know I was okay.No, honey. I’m not.
Rory entered the bathroom. I wished that I’d left the house. As he stood there looking at me, I felt a brief moment of gratitude that he was alive. That the violence of the last few minutes had only been in a dream. My eyes went straight to his stomach, to his shirt. There was no blood. I was thankful that I hadn’t hurt him.
It’s funny, in a sad way. Rory and I had been married for a long time, and it almost felt like even an affair couldn’t stand in the way of how we felt about each other. Even if I hated him with everything I had, I still loved him harder and more than anyone I’d everloved. During a marriage of twenty years, we’d become one with each other. No matter what he’d done to me, we’d always be one. At least, that’s what I wanted to believe.
Much like the daydream I’d had, Rory stood at the door and didn’t dare walk farther in. It’s crazy how someone who thinks he’s getting away with something can act so normal, and even be cocky at times, while continuing his bad behavior—but after he’s been caught, the cockiness is sucked right out of him, and he looks ashamed. Ashamed because he had been behaving badly, or ashamed because he hadn’t been crafty enough not to get caught? Not sure.
Rory’s eyes were red from crying. There was a slouch in his posture that he rarely allowed. His bottom lip quivered. I turned away and looked back at the white wall. I suddenly felt exposed and put my left arm over my breasts. I sank deeper into the water. I wanted to tell him to go away, to leave. Not to leave forever, but until I processed what had happened. I still had no idea what I would do. For now, I wanted to hit pause and analyze the situation. This definitely wasn’t a mistake that a few minutes in the time-out chair could remedy.
Breaking the unbearable verbal silence, he asked, “Are you okay? I mean…not about…I mean the sitting room. What happened?”
“An ironing accident,” I said, avoiding eye contact.
He nodded his head, as if he weren’t surprised. “I’ll clean it up. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Please don’t. I’ll deal with it later.”
A long, pregnant pause. My pulse ticked in my wrists.
Rory made a few unintelligible sounds and said, “I refuse to let today get in the way of our marriage.”
As if he, alone, possessed the power. What was he thinking?
“I made the biggest mistake of my life,” he continued, “and I will fix this.”
Fix this? He was the one who had broken this, but I wasn’t sure he had the necessary tools to fix what he’d broken.
All my tension ran to my jaws. I’d already heard these words in my daydream; I was reliving the nightmare.
