Chapter 42

When I got home from my visit with Greg, I found Brad sitting in front of the TV watching an episode of Showtime’s critically-acclaimed series Dexter. Uhg! He knows how I feel about bootlegged copies of television shows and movies. They shouldn’t be brought into our home. It’s stealing, plain and simple, and he knows I don’t approve. I dropped my purse and car keys on the kitchen counter and let out a deep sigh, a visceral discord eating at my conscience. Mark 10:1 tumbled through my mind, adding to my unease. “…The two shall become one….” I cringed. How do I justify being married to a thief? This behavior clashes with who I am and everything I stand for, and what is this teaching Calleigh? My heart sank with an almost tangible sadness.

Not looking up from his engrossed TV-viewing state, but sensing my presence, Brad blurted out, “I know how Dexter feels.”

“Excuse me?” I stared at the TV screen for a moment, confused by his odd comment. “What do you mean you know how he feels? Are you talking about Dexter? Isn’t he supposed to be some psychopathic serial killer?” For not having watched the show, I had seen people post comments on social media and had gleaned a few magazine covers on newsstands at the grocery store.

“Yeah, but he only kills the bad guys—the ones who think they’re getting away with despicable stuff. If you’d watch it, you’d know that Dexter’s really the good guy. He takes out the trash society is too stupid to acknowledge and punish, but he gets away with these justified murders, because he’s learned the dance—you know, how to perform and give people what they want.” Brad sounded well pleased with this questionable trait.

“And that appeals to you?” I gave him a sideways glance.

“Dexter’s mastered the act of BS’ing,” Brad continued, “so well, in fact, that those who know him actually believe the charade, kind of like me.” Blasé. Detached. Devoid of emotion. Brad’s description and sadistic enjoyment made a shudder run up my spine.

“How exactly does that pertain to you?” I stared at Brad’s lifeless expression, wishing I didn’t need to ask.

“What do you think it means?” Brad’s sneer ridiculed my refinement. “I know you’re not as stupid as you look. Act like you actually have two brain cells between your ears, and come up with your own conclusion.” He rolled his eyes, shifting in his recliner. “Let’s just say, I’m a pretty damn good actor, Hope. You still can’t tell the truth from a lie. I could literally be Dexter’s understudy.” His bragging dripped with arrogance and cockiness.

My heart caught in my throat as I warded off the urge to vomit. Is he for real? Is everything I know about him a lie? I had to wonder. Even though I wanted this to be some kind of sick, perverted joke, I knew what I had witnessed firsthand over the past several months. So many half truths and twisted realities!

Calleigh interrupted my scathing thoughts with a dramatic entrance into the family room. Waltzing in front of the TV, decked out in one of her pretend-play princess ball gowns and a plastic tiara, her doe eyes batted long lashes as she looked up at her father. “Will you come to the ball with me, Daddy? It’s getting ready to start, and I need a date.”

Brad looked down at his little rabble-rouser, shaking his head. “Not tonight, Sweetie. Daddy’s tired. Maybe some other time.” He found a soft voice for responding to her, making him appear loving and caring for a brief moment.

Calleigh’s lower lip rolled out into a dejected pout. “But the dance is tonight, and I won’t have anyone to go with me if you don’t come. Pleeeeease, Daddy! Please!”

Brad chuckled at her exaggerated predicament. “And where is this lovely little dance?”

Calleigh jumped up and down in her oversized slip-on shoes and giggled. “My bedroom! I’ve been making it all pretty in there, and there’s music playing, too!” She grabbed at his hand and started tugging in the direction of her bedroom. “Come on, Daddy. You will love it. I just know it.”

“But I’m not dressed for a ball,” he objected. “Daddies don’t go to balls in t-shirts and jeans.”

“Ooo, I can fix that,” I interjected, winking at Calleigh. “Wait right here.” I darted through the living area and into the master bedroom, returning with a black sports jacket and solid red tie from Brad’s section of the closet. “Here, I think this will do.” I produced a self-controlled smile, presenting Brad with his ballroom attire.

“Really, Hope? You expect me to wear a tie? I’ve had a long day, and I just want to sit here and veg on my chair. Is that too much to ask?” He gave an exasperated sigh and stared up at me with a smidge of contempt. I draped the sports jacket over his right arm and dropped the tie into his left hand.

“Pretend,” I smiled through clenched teeth. “When a princess invites you to a ball, you attend the ball.” I matched his stare, refusing to back down. Sensing an objection coming on, I turned to Calleigh. “Sweetie, please give Mommy and Daddy just one moment. Daddy needs some help getting ready for your special event.”

“OK. I’ll go turn up the music,” she announced, dashing toward her bedroom, skirts swooshing and whooshing about her legs.

“Daddy will be there in just a minute,” I promised.

After she disappeared around the corner, I grabbed Brad by the arm and forced him to look at me. “You have a little girl in there who has been planning this pretend dance all afternoon, just waiting for Daddy to escort her to her fairytale ball. You will not disappoint her,” I compelled in hushed tones. “I don’t care how tired you are. She never sees you, and this is a simple request you can make happen for her.” My glare dared him to challenge me. “It doesn’t have to be long,” I continued. “Five, ten minutes tops, but you need to show up. Little girls need their daddies to be their heroes, and Calleigh needs you to be hers. Five minutes,” I reiterated. “She’s not going to remember how long you were there. She is going to remember, however, whether or not Daddy came when invited. So, you’re going to go make this a positive memory.”

Brad rolled his eyes and extended his coat to me. “What do I do with this?”

I looked at him in disbelief. “Wear it.”

“With a t-shirt?” He wrinkled his nose, scowling like a two-year-old being obstinate.

“It’s make believe,” I stated the obvious. “Just imagine it’s a tux. You’re good at acting, remember?” I didn’t even try to hide the distain in my voice while referencing our previous conversation about Dexter. “Pretend you’re having a good time. I guarantee the fashion police won’t be there.” I took the coat from his hand as he stood and helped him slip into it.

“The tie, too?” he groaned.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes. The tie, too.”

Brad fiddled with the polyester material until it fit like a noose around his neck. “How’s this?” He held out his arms to show off his mismatched attire.

I forced a grin. “Your princess will love it.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

A few days later, I stood in the kitchen with cell phone in hand. “Mrs. Moore? Ma’am? Are you still there? Did you hear me?” The female on the other end of the line voiced her concern.

“Um, yes. I heard you,” I answered softly.

“The test results are positive,” she repeated. “Would you like me to connect you with the scheduling department so you can make an appointment to see the doctor?”

I shook my head slowly, trying to press through my mental fog. “Uh, no. I’ll schedule a follow-up later. Thank you for letting me know.” I ended the call then laid down the phone. Positive. The test results are positive. How is that even be possible? I sat at the kitchen table, stunned. Now what?

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Brad stood in the middle of our master bathroom, waiting for me to move. Blocking the only exit to the room, and Brad’s only way of escape, I challenged him for an answer. “I have never, ever been with another man, Brad, so please tell me how I got chlamydia. I’d really like to know.”

Brad stared down his nose, bothered by my existence. “I don’t know, a toilet seat in a public restroom? How would I know that information? I don’t follow you around all day.” He crossed his arms, clearly annoyed.

“Do I look like I have S-T-U-P-I-D written across my forehead?” I retorted, noting the smirk on his face. “What part of this do you find funny?” I blinked back his absurd response, unable to fathom what he found so hilarious. “I just told you I have a sexually transmitted disease, and you’re the only partner I have ever been with, so is there something you would like to tell me?”

His smirk morphed into a blank stare, his shoulders slumping with intolerance. “Like what?”

A big DUH! projected itself with my raised eyebrows. “Have you been with anyone else? If it’s not me, that only leaves one other person in this equation.” I vocalized the math, irritated that I had to spell it out for him.

“And you think it’s me?” He nearly choked on his response.

“Well, was it?” I kept my tone firm. “This isn’t a joke, Brad. I want a real answer. Have you been with anyone other than me?”

Brad made eye contact for all of two seconds then grunted. “Of course, I haven’t slept with anyone else.”

I searched his face, having learned I had to require absolute answers in order to avoid twisted truths or outright lies. “Look at me when you say that,” I demanded. “Is that a ‘Yes’ or a ‘No’?”

His countenance shifted, his breathing controlled. “No, Hope. I’m not sleeping with other women.” The daggers in his eyes dared me to defy his reality.

I may choose to ignore it, but I know a lie when I see it, I thought. “Any men?” I stared back, unwavering.

Brad just about hit the ceiling. “Oh, my word, no! Do I look gay to you?” He opened his arms, displaying his masculinity. “I am absolutely, positively not homosexual. I do not swing that way.” His awkward laugh only brought on more suspicion.

“Well, whatever’s going on, you need to go get tested. Fact is, my test came back positive; and, if I have it, that means you probably do, too. Thank goodness it’s treatable!” My gaze remained fixated on his face.

He tilted his head and copped an attitude, noting I hadn’t looked away. “What?”

“Chlamydia can cause infertility,” I emphasized. “You know that big family you said you wanted to have? You can kiss those chances goodbye. I may not die from this disease, but there are still consequences.” I crossed my arms, tapping my foot on the tile floor. “So, who was she? What’s her name? Was it worth it?”

“I told you,” he spat in disgust. “I don’t know how you got chlamydia. There was and is no her. The person who should be pissed here is me! Who have you been screwing while I’ve been gone all day? Huh? That’s the real question.”

My eyes widened, and I choked on my words. “How dare you!” I exploded. “I have never been unfaithful to you—ever!” My body trembled, every fiber of my being wishing I had poured my faithfulness into someone actually deserving of it. A sharp pang pricked my heart, zapping my breath and weakening my knees.

False pity filled Brad’s eyes. “It’s actually a shame I didn’t see you for who you really were before I married you,” he scoffed. “I could’ve saved us both a whole lot of time and heartache.” Pushing past me, he exited the bathroom, grabbing his keys and jacket while heading out the bedroom door. “Forget supper,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I’m going out tonight. Don’t try calling or texting me, either. I’ll be home whenever I’m damn ready, and not a moment sooner!” I froze, dumbfounded, unable to move. Then the front door slam shut.

Running to my purse, I grabbed it off the closet door and rummaged through its contents until I located the pamphlets Greg had given me. Collapsing on the edge of the master bedroom bed, I read the bold letters across the top of the first page: “WHAT DOES ABUSE LOOK LIKE?” I then took a moment to scan the bulleted highlights:

• Using economic power to control you
• Threatening to leave
• Making you afraid by using looks, gestures, or actions
• Smashing things
• Controlling you through minimizing, denying, and blaming
• Making light of the abuse and not taking your concerns about it seriously
• Continually criticizing you, calling you names, shouting at you
• Emotionally degrading you in private, but acting charming in public
• Humiliating you in private or public
• Withholding approval, appreciation, or affection as punishment

Tears started streaming down my face. “Lord, this is my life. This is happening to me! I don’t want to live like this. How do I make this nightmare end?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

A few days later, the washing machine chugged and whirred, sending an unknown item tumbling and clanking against the metal sides. I ran into the laundry room and lifted the lid, abruptly stopping the cycle. “What’s making all that racket?” I muttered to myself. Digging through several of Brad’s sopping-wet work slacks, a bright red cigarette lighter slid from one of the pant pockets. It dinged the basin as it fell back into the remaining clothes. Fishing it out of the tub, I dropped the lid shut, restarting the machine. “Why would he be carrying this around?”

Marching into Brad’s office, I entered, unannounced, tossing the lighter at him. It made a small thud as it landed on top of his desk in front of him. I stood back and crossed my arms.

“Hey, Babe! What’s up?” His greeting held a rather unusual, chipper tone. Stretching out his arm, he gestured to me to join him by his desk. I didn’t move.

“What is that?” I nodded to the lighter, irritation creeping into my voice.

“It appears to be a lighter,” he stated.

“And where did it come from? What is it for?” I pried.

Brad looked at me like I had a third eye on my forehead. “Is this some kind of trick question? Lighters are usually used to light things.” He rolled his thumb across the top of the tube, igniting a flame. “See? Like this. Looks like this one still works.” He set the item of contention back on his desk. “Mind telling me where this conversation is going?”

“Any idea where I found it?” I breezed past his feigned ignorance.

“I have no idea, but I bet yer gonna tell me.”

“Don’t act all innocent,” I denied his reality. “I pulled it out of the wash tonight, but you probably already knew that. Know how I know you know that?” I pursed my lips. “Because it fell out of one of your pant pockets. Nobody could have put it there besides you; so, I’m curious. What was it doing there?” I waited for a plausible answer.

Brad looked at me and chuckled, the way he always did when concocting a lie. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Are you smoking? Is that what you’re using it for?” I probed.

“No, Honey. I’m not smoking.” Intimate name calling made the moment feel even more awkward and weird.

“Really? Are you sure about that?” I looked him in the eyes. “You’ve been coming home a lot recently smelling like filthy cigarettes, and I found your hidden stash out in the garage a few weeks ago. Is this a new habit you’ve picked up?” Brad’s visible discomfort grew.

“I don’t know where you come up with your cockamamie ideas, but I promise you, I’m not smoking,” he insisted, glancing at his computer screen to avoid eye contact.

“Don’t lie to me, Brad. I’m not stupid. I know when you’re not telling the truth, and right now you’re lying through your teeth.” I paused for a moment to evaluate his tells. Overall restlessness. Nervous chuckles. Erratic sighs. Inconsistent answers. Questionable logic. Name calling. Minimal eye contact. “What aren’t you telling me?” I pushed for transparency.

“You’re making something out of nothing,” he persisted. “Nothing’s wrong, and I’m not smoking. Your imagination is running wild again. Give it a rest.”

A knot started forming in the pit of my stomach. He is definitely hiding something. I just don’t understand why all the secrecy. “What’s her name then? Is that why you haven’t been coming home until almost midnight every night these past few months? Is it someone from work?” I watched his eyes spark, then relax into humor.

“Since I’m not smoking, I must be sleeping around, huh? That’s your conclusion? You sure think a lot of me.” He mocked my problem-solving skills with a hearty chuckle. “You’re sure full of it. You know that? There’s no other woman, and I’m not cheating on you. You really need to find a hobby, Babe. Our marriage is never going to make it if you keep insisting on this ridiculous witch hunt.”

I shook my head. “I’m not buying it, Brad. Something more is going on here, and I deserve to know what you’re not telling me. I’m not crazy, either, so you can stop the ridicule and insults. When you’re ready to have an honest adult conversation, I’ll be in the other room. I don’t have to stand here and watch you lie to my face.” I abruptly turned and sailed out of his office, slamming the door behind me.

“Grow up!” Brad yelled after me. “I’m not talking to you until you stop acting like a child.”

Whatever, I thought to myself. There’s nothing childish about me expecting my spouse to be truthful.

For about twenty minutes, I stood folding laundry in the living room, my mind rehashing Brad’s new routine whatever time he got home from work. It hadn’t seemed peculiar at the time, but the more I thought about it, the more suspicious Brad’s actions became. Showering first. Putting on a fresh pair of clothes. Brushing teeth. Then gargling with mouthwash and popping a piece of minty gum into his mouth. Something’s going on, but it’s not me inventing stories or losing my mind, I decided. For extra safety measures, he would keep his distance from me and refrain from most forms of intimacy, as well. That way I wouldn’t smell anything on him. It hadn’t gone unnoticed, I just hadn’t given it much importance before now.

I jumped as I felt Brad’s arms encircle my waist. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologized, nuzzling my neck.

I let out a deep sigh, wincing at his closeness. “I didn’t hear you come in.” I remained on edge.

“It’s just me,” he tried softening the moment. “I’m coming in to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have talked to you the way I did. Will you please forgive me?”

I continued folding the shirt in my hand then reached for another, forcing Brad to loosen his hold on my waist. “You could start by being honest with me,” I vocalized my hurt. “Right now, this feels like manipulation, like you’re just putting on a show to get what you want or to placate me. I’m not in this to be played.”

“Fair enough,” Brad conceded. “You want the truth?” He took my hand and guided me to an open space on the loveseat next to the couch. I followed, tossing a pair of socks into the laundry basket before sitting.

“Of course, I want the truth. It can’t possibly be worse than what I’ve been thinking,” I answered.

Brad nodded, face sullen. “I get that.” Releasing a pent-up sigh, he paused for dramatic effect. “Where do I begin?” He took a moment to chew on his bottom lip, struggling with organizing his thoughts. “I haven’t been up front with you,” he admitted, “but I’m ready to come clean now.”

My heart pounded in my ears, the intensity between us rising. “I’m listening.” You can handle this. Knowing is better than not knowing, I reminded myself, exhaling slowly.

“I really hope you don’t hate me when you realize I’m not the man you thought you married.” He looked me in the eyes, trying to gauge my emotions.

“Stop dragging this out and just say it already,” I blurted out, anticipating the worst. “Who is she?”

Brad’s lips transformed into a remorseful smile, but he shook his head. “It’s nothing like that. I could only wish it were that easy. That would make what I’m dealing with so much simpler.”

My confusion deepened. “I don’t understand. You think adultery would be simpler than your current situation?” I studied him with concern. “What have you gotten yourself into, Brad?”