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CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
Eli
It’s seven in the evening by the time I get back home, my heart racing with every step into the house. In the living room, I find Kendra lying in a fetal position, a tissue clutched in one hand, her eyes red and puffy from crying. It halts me in my tracks, as in my three years of being married to this woman, I have never actually seen her cry. Sure, she has cried many a crocodile tear, evidence of which is obvious when the tears stop once she gets her own way, her eyes bright and sparkly again like some miracle has happened. Not this time, though. There’s no miracle reducing those swollen red eyes anytime soon. I find a strange, twisted sensation in my gut. I want to be cruel to her. Heaven knows how many times she’s been cruel to me, with this latest revelation of another man’s baby being the icing on the proverbial cake. However, that’s not what runs through my head. Instead, I have this urge to go to her, take her in my arms… comfort her. My head and my heart are waging war with one another. My heart wants to love, my head wants revenge. The never-ending battle of the two most heated emotions battling it out, causing my brain to feel like it’s going to explode.
So, instead, I do something out of character for me. I choose to experiment with something just to cement the fact that I’m not going crazy.
I step forward and the movement causes Kendra to notice that I’m home. In my peripheral vision, she shoots up in a seated position, her back arched in… hope?
“Eli, you’re home,” she says softly, a slight wobble in her voice denoting the nerves she must be feeling.
Ignoring her words for now, I walk towards a drawer where I pluck out a piece of paper, quickly grabbing a pen from the writing desk. I walk towards Kendra and sit down next to her, placing the pen and paper on the coffee table, her forehead crinkling up with wonder.
“Pick up the pen and write something,” I urge, my head motioning towards the pen.
She scoots forward, her confusion greater than ever. “I don’t understand…”
“Humor me a moment… please.”
Despite the anger still coursing through my veins, my words come out softly, soothing any nerves she might have. She nods her head and turns towards the pen, my heart rate picking up exponentially when it’s her left hand that reaches out.
Kendra is right-handed.
I continue to watch in awe as she writes clearly and effortlessly with her left hand, writing the words, “I’m sorry” across the page. Not only am I shocked to the core that she’s using her left hand, the handwriting also doesn’t match Kendra’s. The I is delicately swooping to the side, her M the same. Kendra’s letters are all rigid… to the point. The writing before me is more like a work of art.
My chest pounding now, I say, “Now, try writing with your other hand.”
I have no idea why I’m being so forthright… so commanding, but I have to know. I need to know. Is it just coincidence? There simply must be an explanation.
“Why are you asking this of me?” she questions, her voice wobbling slightly. “I don’t understand.”
“Can you just do this one thing for me?”
I’m a jerk for not explaining myself, but again, I don’t know if this is Kendra just playing some elaborate game.
Without another word, Kendra places the pen in her other hand, but something’s off. She’s holding it limply, whereas the left hand held it with far more confidence. When she leans over the paper to write, she holds the pen so rigid in her hand that her knuckles start to turn white. She writes an I again, but this time it’s not flawlessly straight. Instead, the line is wobbly… shaky even. It’s like watching someone who’s right-handed trying to write with their left.
My head begins to pound. Either Kendra’s acting skills are the best I have ever witnessed in my acting career, or… I don’t know… something very strange is happening here.
“Okay, that’s enough,” I finally say. “Thank you.” I take a deep breath and sink back into my seat.
“Eli, what’s going on?”
Closing my eyes, I run my hands over my face, stress now getting to me tenfold. “You can’t write with your right hand.”
She frowns at this. “No, but that’s because I’m left-handed. Always been.”
Fixing my eyes on her, I shake my head. “No, that’s not true. You have always been right-handed.”
Her eyes scan around the room like she’s searching for an answer. “Have I?”
Wow. She’s good. Way too good.
It’s then I remember the small frame tucked neatly in my jacket pocket. I reach in, pulling it out—the urge to show her increasing. Noticing something in my hand, she glances my way and when I hold the photo in front of her, she takes it from my hand. I watch her closely as she inspects the photo, her dark, sullen eyes suddenly lighting up like she’s just found out she’s won the lottery or something.
“Oh, my God!” A burst of absolute joyous laughter leaves her lips. “I haven’t seen this photo in ages. This was the day my dad and I fell into the lake after I caught that big trout.” She shakes her head, a huge smile on her face. “I will never forget that day.”
As she studies the photo, my heart simply stops. How could Kendra have known this? How could she have studied someone so closely in such a short space of time in order to trick me? What does Kendra gain by pretending to be someone else?
