Chapter 44

“Mom, they’re gone! He deleted them. Every. Last. One of them. Gone!” I paced back and forth across the kitchen floor, riddled with nerves. “I don’t know what to do. He had no right!”

Mom’s soft voice penetrated my chaos. “Sweetie, take a deep breath, collect yourself, and then tell me what you’re talking about. What’s gone? What was deleted? Does this have something to do with Brad?”

I inhaled deeply, feeling all the anger that came with being debased. “My text messages,” I answered. “Brad went into my phone last night and deleted all of my personal messages. All of them!” Tears stung my eyes, anxiety constricting my throat. “I feel so violated! He had no business touching my stuff, but now they’re gone, and I have no proof he said what he said. It was really mean and nasty stuff, too, calling me a whore and a piss-poor parent, accusing me of infidelity, then telling me no one could possibly love a pathetic loser like me! I don’t get it. I’ve never been unfaithful to Brad. Ever! Why all this hostility, and where is it coming from?”

Mom’s voice remained calm as she collected details. “I hear you. I really do, and you have every right to be upset, but before you go jumping to conclusions, did you actually ask Brad if he deleted those messages, or are you just assuming it was him?”

“Yes, I asked Brad in person, figured there was less of a chance he’d lie to my face. He admitted to all of it. Didn’t deny a thing. No remorse. None. He actually said I didn’t need those text messages and nothing good could come from me having them. He then said something about being afraid they might be ‘misconstrued’ or ‘damning to his character,’ if someone else were to see them, so that’s why he erased them.” I ran an anxious hand through my hair, frustrated by the madness. “It makes no sense. And, if that’s not crazy enough, he also said he ‘didn’t want me having ammunition I could use against him in court.’ What does that even mean?” I threw my free hand into the air, grasping for some sort of sanity. “He’s talking like we’re getting a divorce, afraid of what others will think of him, terrified someone might get the idea he’s an abusive spouse or an unfit father. Epic, coming from him!” I practically snorted.

“I’m still listening. Go on,” Mom encouraged.

“Not only did he rationalize his actions, he then turned around and blamed me for his dishonorable behavior. And get this! Not only was he proud of what he had done, he actually said I would thank him for it later, came right out and told me he did me a favor.” I shook my head. “A favor?”

“Breathe,” Mom coached from the other end of the line. “Don’t let yourself get all worked up. Stay focused on the present and what we can do to get you through right now. You can’t let him get under your skin, or he wins.”

I took several deep breaths, closing my eyes and rocking against the angst. “Yeah, easier said than done,” I answered. “When I didn’t agree with him, you should’ve heard the profanity that came out of his mouth. It would’ve made a sailor blush.” I sat down on a kitchen chair, wrapping my arm around my stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Again, deep breaths,” Mom encouraged.

“Scariest part? He told me I can leave whenever I want, even said he’d be happy to help me ‘vacate the premises’ if I was too stupid to figure out how to do it on my own,” I continued, “but then he informed me Calleigh was staying with him and said he would die first before allowing her to be taken from him.” Panic flooded my body, heavy sobs shaking my shoulders. “He can’t do that, can he, Mom? I’m her mother, and I’m a good mother. She needs me. The courts wouldn’t let him take her from me, would they?” Saying the words aloud made the fear become real and more intense.

“What’s he going to do with her?” Mom asked. “He’s at work all day and can’t be bothered to deal with her in his everyday life right now. Why would he take her from you? That’s just one more stress he can’t handle. And if he can’t afford day-to-day living, how is he going to afford daycare. Let’s get real. This is Brad we’re talking about. He’s all about convenience, which we both know kids are not. Brad is only concerned about Brad. I doubt you have anything to be worried about.”

“I guess that makes sense, but I wouldn’t put anything past him these days,” I debated. “Nothing about his behavior is logical. Most of it has been complete nonsense recently. We walk on pins and needles whenever he’s home, because we never know what will set him off. I dread nighttime the most,” I confessed. “It’s frustrating enough that he’s always in a bad mood, but when there’s darkness outside, the devil feels much more real.”

“I get that,” Mom replied. “Quick question. Where is Calleigh right now?”

“Playing in the other room with the radio on,” I sighed. “I didn’t want her hearing this conversation. She doesn’t need to know what’s happening.”

“It’s good that you’re trying to protect her,” Mom agreed, “but, I guarantee, she picking up on more than you think. Kids are smart like that. They notice the smallest inconsistencies, and they hear everything, so just be careful.”

I released a controlled sigh. “I am.”

“Honey, do you need me to come get you? You know I will jump in the car and be there in a heartbeat. Just say the word,” Mom offered.

I weighed the distance she would have to drive against my actual need and shook my head. “No, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want you here,” I admitted. “I can’t run away from my problems, and Brad’s behavior might become volatile if he comes home and finds you here or us gone.”

Sadness reflected in Mom’s voice. “I understand. Just wish I knew what to do to make things better for you. I feel so helpless.”

“I know,” I answered. “We’ll just keep praying about it. That’s really all we can do right now.”

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

“OWWW! WHAT WAS THAT?” I jolted awake in a pitch-black bedroom, grabbing my right eye to calm the instant stinging created by an unknown object hitting my face. I winced as sharp pain encased my eye. Finding Brad’s arm across my chest, I pushed the heavy weight onto the mattress, grappling to make sense of my surroundings. Brad hasn’t cuddled with me in almost a year. Was it his arm that hit me? I wondered.

Loud moaning and groaning suddenly filled the air, startling me. “Brad, is that you?” Throwing back the covers, I patted the mattress in the dark until I found Brad’s chest with my hand. “Good heavens, his heart’s racing!” I talked myself through my findings. “Brad, can you hear me? Hon? Wake up!” I pushed myself onto my knees and began patting his face with fierce anticipation. “Brad, it’s Hope. You need you to answer me. Wake up!” I patted harder, feeling his body shudder and spasm in response. He then began gasping for air before relaxing back into his pillow, deflated. “Talk to me, Brad. What’s going on with you? Are you in pain?” I panicked as his body continued to twitch and jerk, but he didn’t speak.

“Wake up!” I demanded. I fumbled in the darkness to find my cellphone which I had started hiding under my pillow at night. “Don’t do this to me. You are not going to make me a widow. Bradley Moore, wake up this instant!” I yelled. Finally locating my pillow, I slid my hand into the pillowcase, fishing around until I found my phone. Lord, what am I supposed to do? Do I call 9-1-1? I have no idea what’s going on here, I sent up a frantic prayer.

My heart pounded in my ears, my right eye throbbing in unison. Brad started groaning and huffing, straining to catch his next breath. I pressed my hand to his heart. The racing had slowed, but something still felt off. “Brad, it’s me. I’m here. Can you hear me? Please tell me you can hear me.”

Grunting some more, Brad struggled to push me away. “Of course, I can hear you,” he slurred his words. “Why are you so close? Give me some space.” He fought with the bed sheets, arms flailing, legs tangled and trapped amidst the twisted cloth. Gasping again, he coughed hysterically, leaning over the left side of the bed. “What’s going on? Where am I?” he stammered, propping himself up on his right elbow. “Why is everything so dark in here?”

“It’s the middle of the night. You’re at home in bed. As for what’s going on, I could be asking you the same thing,” I sighed, settling back on my heels. “You scared the living daylights out of me a moment ago. I was two seconds away from calling 9-1-1. Actually, I’m still not sure whether I need to make that call. I couldn’t get you to wake up, and you were making these really strange noises. I’ve never heard anything like it. Are you OK?” The soreness around my right eye caused a strong pricking sensation, so I closed my eye and placed pressure on my cheekbone to relieve some of the ache.

“What’s wrong with you?” Brad tried focusing on my face in the moonlight.

“You don’t remember hitting me in the face?” I grimaced.

“I did? Seriously? I am so sorry! Why would I have done that? It definitely wasn’t on purpose. Shoot, I don’t even think I was awake. Is there anything I can do to make it better?” For the first time in forever, he actually sounded remorseful.

“Just tell me you’re going to be all right. You’re really scaring me.” I felt his chest, again, my brow furrowing. “Your heart’s still pounding.”

Brad lowered his head back onto his pillow and let out a deep sigh. “I feel like I’m speeding down a hill at a thousand miles per hour. I’m not sure how to make it stop. It’s kind of fun, but, at the same time, nauseating. I feel woozy.”

“Are you on something? Have you taken any drugs?” I flipped on the light on my nightstand and eyed him closely through the shadows.

“Oooo, that’s bright,” he moaned. “But, yeah. Just a li’l oxycodone for my back pain. That, or methadone. I don’t remember which,” he confessed. “You should try the stuff. It’s great! Just a smidge will make you feel awesome, maybe ’cause you don’t feel anything at all, not a care in the world, Baby!” A smug smile curled the corners of his lips.

“What back pain, and when did you start seeing a doctor?” I pressed for details.

“You know. The pain I told the doctor about in order to get the controlled meds. I call him Dr. Feelgood. He’s so much better than normal doctors.” Brad giggled.

“Are you high? I don’t know what those symptoms look like, but you sure sound out of sorts.” He held onto the sides of his head, refusing to open his eyes. “Should I call an ambulance? I’m not sure you’re OK. Your breathing doesn’t sound right.” I tapped the edge of my phone with nervous energy.

“Don’t call anyone. We can’t afford medical bills or a trip to the ER,” Brad argued through his mental fog. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Just give me a few minutes to get past this crazy spell. I’m sure the loopiness will wear off. It always does.”

Always does? My brain noted the odd familiarity Brad had with narcotics. “How long have you been taking this stuff, and when did you last have something?” I couldn’t help but be concerned as I watched him struggle with the simplest movements, like adjusting his covers on the bed.

“Don’t be a worrywart,” he scolded. “I’m fine…just fine.” His words slurred some more.

You’re not fine, not even a little. I don’t have to be a doctor to know that. I mulled over my thoughts. But how am I supposed to know when you need genuine medical attention? I don’t want your death on my hands. Chewing on my lower lip, I glanced down at the cellphone in my hand, debating the next course of action. Last thing I need is a belligerent, drugged-up person fighting me and giving me a second black eye, I decided. “As long as you stay conscious, I guess we can wait a little while,” I caved, “but I’m keeping a close eye on you.”

Brad patted my hand as I checked his heart rate again. “You’re so good to me,” he gushed. “I don’t deserve you, you know that?” He kept his eyes shut while massaging his temples with his opposite hand.

“Yeah, I’m aware,” I answered. But you won’t remember saying that come morning, I thought. “Your heart seems to have slowed some, so I’m going to take that as a good sign,” I shared.

“A good sign,” he echoed. “I’m just going to take a li…..ttle nap now.”

“Ooo, that’s not a good idea,” I fretted. His loud snores soon filled the air. “At least I can hear you.”

Hours ticked off the clock while I iced my sore eye, keeping the other eye on Brad. Watching his chest rise and fall in the dim lamp light, I prayed. I didn’t sign on for this, God. It’d be one thing if he cared what he was doing to his family, but he doesn’t. So, how do we move on from this? My heart felt heavy, weighted down by the unknown.

Staring at Brad’s face, knowing he couldn’t hear me, I whispered aloud. “How am I supposed to love you when you don’t even love yourself?”

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

Not in his home office. Not in any shoebox or cubbyhole in our shared closet. Not on any shelf or in any drawer or container in the garage. I stood in the middle of our bedroom, hands on my hips, and groaned. “Where is he hiding them?”

Kneeling by Brad’s side of our bed, I lifted the bed skirt and peered into the darkness. “Nothing under here but a few dust bunnies,” I verified. Reaching over to his nightstand, I pulled out the bottom drawer. “Yeah, too easy,” I mused when it came up empty. “Maybe he’s storing them at his office at work.” I thought a moment then shook my head. “No. That would be too risky. He’s dumb, but he’s not stupid. He wouldn’t jeopardize his job over a few pills. They’ve got to be here somewhere at the house.”

Heading into the master bathroom, I tried putting myself in Brad’s shoes. “Hiding in plain sight is more your style,” I deduced. “Probably somewhere I wouldn’t think to look.” I eyed a variety of items on his side of the counter and lifted the toothbrush holder to view underneath. “Nope. No hiding spots here.” I scanned the room, inventorying its simplicity. “It’s got to be something obvious. What am I not seeing?”

I bent down and opened the doors under the bathroom sink. Cologne. Aftershave. Shaving cream. Extra razor blades. Adhesive bandages in a glass jar. Miscellaneous shampoo containers. A can of hairspray. Nothing capable of disguising medication. I lifted each item anyway, feeling the liquids slosh inside. I hate not being able to take anything at face value, I thought.

Tilting my head, I spotted a dark black cosmetic bag tucked behind the PVC pipes, barely visible to someone not looking for it. “What do we have here?” I pulled the small pouch from its hiding place. Unzipping the top, I lifted a green plastic Men’s Multi-Vitamin bottle from inside the pouch. Unscrewing the lid, I removed the yellow plastic top and dumped a small portion of the bottle’s contents into my hand. “Vitamins. Go figure! That would’ve been a clever hiding spot.” Dumping the tablets back into the container, I replaced the lid and set the bottle on the tile floor next to me. Tweezers. Nail clippers. An old toothbrush. Travel-size toothpaste. And a prescription bottle with Brad’s name on it, dated six months prior. Oxycodone. I stared at the container in my hand, disbelieving. They really do exist. For once in his life, Brad was telling the truth. I bet he won’t remember our conversation last night, though. So, now what? As far as he knows, this is still his little secret.

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

Home early from work, Brad headed toward the seclusion of our bedroom. “My head is throbbing,” he called over his shoulder, passing through the living room. “I’m going to go lie down and try to get rid of this headache. Please try to keep the noise down.”

Not surprising, I thought, watching him disappear around the corner. After last night, I’m surprised you even went to work today.

While Brad slept, I fed and bathed Calleigh, threw a basket full of laundry into the wash, and ran a load of dishes while folding clothes from the dryer. Even with only three hours sleep, I’m still awesome, I boasted to my inner self. Just try replacing me, I dared Brad. Smack me in the face—intentional or not—and I still care for our child and take care of the house without disappearing into our bedroom.

After tucking Calleigh in for the night, I ventured to our bedroom door and gently knocked on the white wood trim. “Hey, Hon, you awake? May I come in?” Always a sound sleeper, I didn’t expect Brad to answer, so I inched the door wider.

Brad groaned as brightness spilled in from the hall. “Can you please keep the door shut? My eyes are really sensitive to the light right now.”

“Sure. Are you awake enough to talk?” I slid between the door and doorjamb, softly closing the door behind me. Walking to the foot of our bed, I sat near Brad’s feet, trying not to jiggle the mattress.

Brad squirmed under the sheets and rolled to his side. “Not really, but I hear that tone in your voice. Ask what you’re going to ask.”

I drew deep breath. “Do you remember talking to me last night after I had a hard time waking you up?”

He tugged a blanket over his chest as a chill caused his body to tremor. “That wasn’t a dream?” He released a sarcastic chuckle, keeping his eyes closed. “OK.”

“So, you remember?”

“I remember feeling like I was racing down a hill at some wicked, warped speed, like someone was chasing me.” He grinned at the memory. “I think I was winning. Yeah, now that you mention it, I do vaguely remember you hovering over me. You seemed really scared.”

“Ya think? I couldn’t wake you up. I really thought you were going to die.” I started wringing my hands.

“You really know how to exaggerate. You know that?” Brad rubbed his temples, grimacing at the pain that followed. “Nobody’s life was in danger. I just had a slight reaction to some medication. That’s all. No big deal.”

“It didn’t seem like no big deal at the time,” I countered. “What do you think would’ve happened if your heart hadn’t stopped racing?”

“But it did stop racing, didn’t it?” he snapped. “Problem solved. Do we really need to be discussing this right now?” Whininess met my response. “I didn’t sleep well, and this headache won’t go away.”

“I didn’t get much sleep, either,” I empathized.

“I already said I’m sorry,” Brad scowled. “What more do you want from me?”

“How about the truth?” I suggested. “When did you first start going to a doctor for back pain?”

He pressed his temples with both hands and groaned. “About a month ago.”

I recalled the date on the label from under the sink. Interesting. The bottle says six months ago. That’s lie number one, I thought. “I don’t remember you mentioning anything about back pain. When did that start, and who did you see?”

“I don’t remember a date,” he avoided specifics. “Just some local doctor you don’t know.”

“And what did he say? What does he think caused your back issue?” I could smell another lie brewing.

“He’s not really sure. Maybe stress. Maybe just getting older and turning the wrong way or sleeping incorrectly, somehow kinking it. My guess would be muscle spasms that are inflaming the nerves. I didn’t need a doctor to tell me that, but I did need him to get more powerful drugs.”

“How much stronger?” I probed. “Like prescription-strength ibuprofen strong or what?”

“Something like that,” he fibbed.

Lie number two, I mentally noted.

Shifting due to discomfort, he groaned. “Would you mind giving me some peace and quiet? I’d really like to get rid of this headache. It’s nothing personal.”

“Sure. I understand. Is there anything I can get you before I head into the other room?” I stood, preparing to leave.

“No. Silence and a dark room is all I need, but thanks.”

“Yep.” I stood for a moment, quietly watching his chest rise and fall, keeping my thoughts to myself. I will never understand why you feel the need to lie to me. I’ve never done anything but love you.