We’ve found a new normal, Caleb and me.
I’ve learned to negotiate the terrain of the hell in which I’m trapped. There is this strange balancing act of compliance and strategic resistance. Caleb is a sleeping volcano, always primed to erupt. I’ve learned his cycles. He’s a pendulum that swings from Jekyll to Hyde. I try to anticipate his triggers as much as I can, but sometimes they don’t follow the pattern they should.
He doesn’t attack every day. In some ways, the unpredictability of it makes it even worse. He’ll go weeks being perfectly well-behaved. He’s still repulsive because I know what he’s capable of, but he manages his behavior—and I manage to ignore it. And then something will set him off, a straw I didn’t even know had landed on the camel’s back. His steak is too rare. He’s lost a game. His favorite show has been cancelled. There’s no rhyme or reason to his viciousness.
“We’re really looking forward to next week, Iris.”
I glance up from my plate of chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans, to the source of that statement.
Sylvia.
Sylvia’s one of the eight or so people at our table. The Stingers are celebrating the end of a successful season with this dinner. They made it to the second round of the playoffs.
Whoop-dee-doo.
“I’m sorry.” I bring Sylvia’s face into focus. “What did you say about next week?”
“Yeah.” Caleb slumps a little in his seat beside me, then leans back and rests his elbow on the back of my chair. “What’s next week?”
He shifts to caress my neck under my hair. I force myself not to flinch at his touch. That infuriates him, seeing me flinch.
At least, it infuriates him when I do it in public.
When we’re alone, it feeds him. It empowers him to see the fear he has carefully cultivated over the last few weeks thriving and growing inside of me. My fear is a plant he nurtures in the dark.
“Oh.” Sylvia’s dishwater blond eyebrows snap together. “The community center? Iris is scheduled to volunteer there next week.”
Thank God.
Give me something. Something outside of that house and the open-air prison of my life with Caleb.
“I don’t know if she’ll still be able to do that,” Caleb cuts in with a frown.
His hand at the curve of my neck probably looks like affection from the outside—like the hand of a rich, powerful man stroking his pet. He displays a possessiveness that might send a thrill of excitement through someone else. Most women have a bit of a crush on Caleb when they first meet him. They don’t know him the way I do. Only I feel his fingers tighten. Only I know his hand at my neck is not love. It’s a warning. It’s a shackle.
Only I know the real Caleb, and it’s a violent intimacy I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
“Really? That’s a shame.” Sylvia flicks a glance between the two of us, like she’s unsure where to direct her dismay. Instinctively, she knows that I have little say.
“It’s all arranged, though,” Sylvia continues . . . nervously? Yes, nervously. She doesn’t know Caleb is a predator, but on some cellular level, maybe atavistically, her body knows, and it makes her nervous.
The heart speaks in whispers.
I heard too late.
“The kids are looking forward to seeing your family, even though you can’t be there,” she says. “We have signed jerseys and autographed photos for Iris to pass out, and we thought the kids could meet your daughter. You’re one of the Stingers’ star players. That would go a long way with them.”
Sylvia looks to me like she expects me to advocate for myself. She has no idea that her request will earn me a slap or worse when I get home. Maybe a hard pinch under the table. Caleb is usually careful with my face—with all the parts people see. Only when he knows he can keep me home long enough to heal does he hit my face. If I have my phone with me, he’ll make sure I have no real evidence to display. And when I have real evidence of his brutality, my phone will go ‘missing’ for days. He and Ramone have my captivity down to a science.
“I’m away next week,” Caleb says, picking up a glass of wine and taking a sip. He looks casual, but I’m so tuned into him now, to his moods, that I know there’s nothing casual about him. He’s tense at my side, a predator feeling threatened—like he might lose his prey if she gets out of her cage. “I’m away for the next two weeks actually, in China.”
Basketball is exploding there, and the market is so ripe Caleb and his agent are exploring endorsement opportunities. Thank God Sarai has been sick and couldn’t get the necessary shots. The pediatrician didn’t clear her to travel, so I get two weeks without Caleb. Ramone will still be there, but Ramone doesn’t hit me. Doesn’t rape me. He just makes sure I never get away.
Complicit bastard.
“We knew you wouldn’t be there, though.” Sylvia frowns. “We could—”
“Iris is very particular about who watches Sarai,” Caleb cuts in, sliding his thumb over my bare shoulder.
“Sarai is fine with the childcare provided for the event tonight, right?” Sylvia directs her question to me.
“Yes, of course. They seem awesome,” I say. “And Sarai loves people. She loves to be out and interacting with other children.”
Caleb doesn’t look at me, but his displeasure nicks the surface of my composure.
“And there will be childcare at the community center for the players’ wives and girlfriends’ children,” Sylvia says. “You’re welcome to inspect the area and meet the workers, Iris. That is if you still want to do it?”
Shit.
Of course, I do, but it’s not worth the fight. I pick and choose my battles, and this is not a battle I choose. I’m still searching for the best response when someone beats me to it.
“I think it’s a great idea,” Michael Cross says.
I hadn’t spoken to the Stingers’ president of basketball operations seated at our table all night, but now I’m really glad he’s here.
“We could use some goodwill after all that talk of a dirty play with August West,” he says sternly. “That cloud still hangs over the organization.”
An awkward silence falls on the table, one with clearing throats and bodies shifting in straight-backed chairs. Not me. I remember what happened when I accused Caleb of hurting August on purpose. I’m quiet. I’m still, but August’s name lands heavily on my ears. Even heavier on my heart.
“The league didn’t fine me,” Caleb says, his “I’m handsome and harmless” smile firmly in place. “Nothing was proven because it was an accident. Shit happens when you’re on the court.”
“Yeah, well, it’s bad for the team’s image. And West getting Rookie of the Year didn’t help,” Michael says, his eyes hard on Caleb.
What a night that was.
When August was named Rookie of the Year, I knew we would have a bad night. He actually doesn’t bother me sexually very much—probably because he’s getting it everywhere else. If I could send those women fruit baskets, I would. But that night, no one else would do. August wasn’t there for him to take out his rage on, and I was the next best thing.
“Let’s decorate that pretty face West seems to like so much,” he’d grunted, ejaculating all over my face. His semen had flooded my mouth, blurred my vision, invaded my nose, and sunk into my pores.
“Iris, do you still want to do it?” Michael Cross’s question jerks me back to the table, into the conversation. “Would you do it?”
All eyes on me.
I hazard a glance in Caleb’s direction, but he’s studying the wine in his glass. What am I supposed to say here?
I do want to do it. I need it. He and Ramone have me on lockdown every hour of the day. To draw a few breaths free of them? I won’t have a better excuse than Caleb’s boss practically ordering him to “let” me do it.
“Sure.” I spread an easy smile around the table. “I’d love to help.”
“Great,” Michael Cross says, offering me a friendly smile. “Then it’s settled.” His eyes are a little stonier when they pass to Caleb. “That’s okay with you, right, Caleb?”
“Of course.” Caleb links his fingers with mine on the table, turning our hands so his albatross of a ring catches the light perfectly. “Iris will represent our family well.”
“Oh, I just noticed your ring,” Sylvia says, her eyes widening at the rock weighing down my finger. “I didn’t realize . . . well . . . congratulations.”
Her eyes rest covetously on the engagement ring during a chorus of well wishes from everyone at the table,
You can have him!
I want to scream it so that Sylvia and every woman in a thirty-mile radius knows I don’t want Caleb and he’s on the market. If you like being slapped around, blackmailed, entrapped, and held prisoner, he’s your man.
Because he’s certainly not mine.
Keeping up appearances is important to him. At Caleb’s side, I’m a chandelier, lit and sparkling with artificial light. Tonight, he needs me to shine. Fortunately, Cross has taken away Caleb’s choice in the matter.
How’s that feel, Caleb? Having your choices taken away?
A few hours later, he taunts me with his silence in the car on the way home. If he started in on me as soon as we were alone, that would make sense. But no, he likes to keep me on my toes, so I’m a little mouse unsure of when the snake will strike.
It’s not until I’m in the bathroom preparing for bed that he broaches the subject again. He approaches me from behind. In the mirror, his broad shoulders and naked chest come into view, the sculpted planes and muscled belly no temptation to me. I lift my eyes to meet his in the reflection, the serenity of my expression belied by my pounding heart. He’s left me alone lately, probably because he knew the dinner was coming. And now, next week there’s the community center. My face in the mirror is unmarked, and it will stay that way.
That’s not true of my arms, banded with dark circles where his fingers have gripped, or of my back, bruised from his shoe. He’s marked me in so many secret ways, I’m afraid that even when I escape, I’ll never be rid of him.
But I will escape.
It’s not enough to run, to get away from Caleb. Even if I run, his lies will hunt me down, and in the end, he’ll have access to Sarai. For me, that’s not winning. That’s not freedom. And when Caleb says he’ll kill me if I leave him, he means it. There’s murder in his eyes, a yet-to-be-pulled trigger. I have to be smarter than that. Smarter than him. He trapped me, and I have to lay a trap for him. The timing has to be perfect. I may only get one shot.
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret next week,” he says softly.
I wipe away my makeup, eyes set on my reflection in the mirror. I don’t acknowledge him—a tiny rebellion. The only one I’m allowed.
“Did you hear me?” He grabs my arm in exactly the place that is already marked, drawing a wince and a sharp breath from me.
“I heard you.” I look at him in the mirror and nod. “What would I do, Caleb? Run? I tried that, remember?”
“Just don’t forget next week when you’re at the community center.” His hand wanders down my arm, slips around my waist, and creeps up to cup my breast. “I have so much on you, you’ll be lucky to see Sarai on weekends.”
“I’m well aware, Caleb.” I tense under his hand, bitterness flavoring the words in my mouth. “Of what’s at stake.”
Ms. Darling called last week to make sure Sarai was still “safe.” She said we were fine for now and shouldn’t need any more home visits, but I need to find that journal and turn the tables on Caleb. He used the things most important to me against me—my family and my daughter. He knows I would die before I allowed him to have even joint custody of Sarai, having seen what he’s capable of. He’s schemed to be so many steps ahead of me before I realized I was even in the game.
“I can’t believe Cross had the nerve to bring up West,” Caleb says harshly, his fingers tightening on me. “That motherfucker stole Rookie of the Year from me.”
He squeezes my nipple, and I draw a deep breath, breathing through the pain.
“West always wants what’s mine,” Caleb goes on, his eyes on me in the mirror, his mind on August. “He can’t have you, though.
I nod jerkily, counting to ten to distract myself from the needles of agony piercing my breast. And then his hand is gone.
I lean weakly against the bathroom counter, hoping he walks away. I pray he leaves me alone, but like so many nights when I’ve prayed over the last few months, no one is listening.
He pushes the hem of my nightgown over my hips until cool air hits my thighs and butt. He shoves my panties down. They hit the floor, encircling my ankles like cuffs. He presses my back, forcing my chest to the bathroom counter. My cheek slams into the cold quartz.
“Caleb, please.” I glance up to the mirror, searching his eyes for any sign of leniency. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t answer but stares down at my ass, his look a mix of hunger, possessiveness, and malice. He digs his fingers into my hip, and I hear the pajama bottoms slide down his legs; feel the first press of his invasion.
I’m not religious. I’m not a high priestess. I’m not a believer in much of anything anymore. I can’t buy into Lotus’s superstitions or wrap my mind around MiMi’s mysticism, but every time Caleb touches me, the same words come to my lips, an un-whispered prayer that echoes in the cavernous chamber of my heart.
God, deliver me from this.
Save me.
