Tim doesn’t come home, and I’m left distressed and relieved by his absence. The fight took a lot out of me, and I’m emotionally exhausted. Being stuck inside the house is unpleasant, but I’m miserable with all of Tim’s things around to remind me of his absence and our failing marriage. For the millionth time, I wish I had a job.
How many times have I wanted to volunteer, and how many excuses has Tim made for me not to? I replay them as I work my aggravation out on the grouting of our kitchen floor. Each of his lines grows thinner than the last until I’m sweating and fuming, unable to understand why I listen to him.
I’m using Tim’s toothbrush to scrub the grooves spotless, and while I like to think I’m getting some vindictive satisfaction, that’s not true. I don’t have the guts to leave it where he could use or discover it. When I finish, I will throw the used-up plastic away, and replace it with one of the spares in the cabinet. He’ll never notice.
Scouring the rest of the house into spotlessness takes less than a day. Of course it was already clean, but I’ve gone the extra mile on every front, including making some baking soda lemon concoction for the oven.
I’m finishing the oven and snapping off the oversized yellow gloves as the doorbell rings. For a second, I’m nervous it’s Tim, but even if he forgot his key, he wouldn’t ring the bell since we have a secret key hidden in the back.
Before I greet my visitor, I rinse my hands quickly and dry them on my pants. They shake as I slide open the latch on the peephole. I’m surprised and relieved to see a familiar brunette woman from around the neighborhood. Pulling the door back, I put on my best smile.
She looks me up and down with only the slightest haughty tilt to her lips. Up close, I can tell the woman’s a few years older than me, thirty tops. Her hair hangs over her shoulder in a braid, revealing the round diamond stud in one ear. The same bright stones wink at me from her engagement-ring-wedding-band combo.
“Hi?” I mean to be polite and welcoming, but I don’t do a lot of social interaction, and I’ve never spoken to her before. My overalls are too big and hang off me, making me feel even more like a little girl. The scent of cleaning products wafts off me, and I’m sure my appearance doesn’t sing my praises.
“Hi, Mrs. Baker?”
She reaches out a hand, and I take it a second too late, shaking a little limply.
“Yeah, Sera,” I correct, pushing a stray lock of hair out of my face.
“My name is Kimberly Shaw, and I’m the head of the neighborhood watch.”
She’s staring at me like that should mean something. I blink a few times before I manage to say, “Oh? Uh, can I help you?”
“Do you mind if I come in a minute?” she’s speaking a little slow, and I give her a tight grin as irritation floods me.
“Oh, of course!” I step aside, and she walks right in, confident in her ability to speak to someone new and enter a stranger’s home.
I wave toward the living room. “Would you like to sit?”
“Oh no, that’s okay, but Mrs. Baker, I did have some concerning things I wanted to discuss with you. Are you aware of the community bulletin?” At my confused look, she continues, “It’s our website.” She appears embarrassed for the first time as she continues. “Why don’t I just show you?”
She pulls her phone out of her pocket and shows me the screen as she opens an app. I’m loosely following what she’s doing. I don’t have a modern smartphone, and I’m too nervous about her being here to pay attention to why she’s here until she pulls up a series of images and camera footage.
“Take a minute to look through them.”
My hand closes around her phone, and all I can hear is my heartbeat pounding in my ears as I look at the still photos, which clearly show a dark figure lurking in my backyard. Chills run up my spine as I play the video, and I see the figure skulking back and forth like he’s thinking about coming in.
“Police haven’t been called yet. We wanted to bring it to you first, but–”
“Thank you, but it’s unnecessary.” My voice shrills, and I try to tamp it down. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
She’s taken aback, but not enough to leave it alone.
“Uh, of course. It’s my responsibility, but I strongly advise you recon—”
“That’s my husband, not some prowler.” I interrupt, unable to remember to be polite when I want her to stop speaking.
Kimberly’s mouth pops open, and her eyes narrow into squints. She must have been a popular girl in high school because no one else has this audacity with a stranger.
“Are you telling me the man lurking in your backyard but not coming inside is your husband?”
“He is. His name is Timothy Baker, and he can come inside whenever he likes.”
“He’s been seen on multiple nights—”
“If that’s all, I have an appointment.” I’m ruder than she is, but I don’t care. I’m about to start crying.
Am I that miserable to come home to?
“Oh, of course.” Kimberly’s eyes shift to me with an offended slant. She must not be used to being asked to leave. She hands me the flyer, slapping it into my palm and flashing her manicure. “We can always use more members.”
“I’ll consider it.”
I walk her out and thank her before returning to my task, which was already completed.
A few hours later, I’m sitting alone, watching TV and thinking about Tim when today’s emotions catch up on me—I’m furious. Does he believe he has the right to leave and not come back, wander our backyard, and convince the neighbors he’s a freaking night stalker? I’m so embarrassed that I’m hot around the neck when I hear a sound from outside.
It’s a faint shuffling of feet, but I know what I heard. I hop up and out of bed in an instant, throwing back the sliding door of the master bedroom.
“Tim! Come inside. This is ridiculous!” I’m trying not to shout. I don’t want to give the neighbors more to complain about, but this is beyond the pale. Whisper shouting, I continue, “You’re an adult!”
He doesn’t say anything, but I’m sure he’s there. That inescapable feeling you get in the presence of another soul creeps along every inch of my being. I’m shivering cold, and I consider leaving him here.
“Tim, please! Please come inside.” I’m quiet now, whining rather than demanding, worthy of pity.
But the silence is too much. It’s too eerie, and goosebumps break out along my skin. An intense urge to run sweeps over me, like when I was a little girl, and I believed ghosts were watching me. My certainty that it was Tim standing in my yard feels foolish now.
Tim doesn’t care enough to lurk out here for you.
“Tim,” I try, one more time, to assuage my fears more than anything else.
When no one answers, I slam the door shut and lock it behind me. My hands shake, sweating despite the cold. I race toward the bed and throw the covers over myself like being invisible will make me safer. Admittedly, I’m still cold from standing there calling into the darkness like an idiot, but what has me vibrating is the way I stood there begging for trouble.
Why didn’t I close the blinds? So stupid, but I’m not brave enough to do it now. Tim isn’t here. He’s not in the yard, and he’s not here for me. These truths cleave my throbbing heart. The things my father taught me about masculinity and femininity were most often wrong. But part of me strongly feels that a man who loves you should strive to protect you.
Am I wrong for wanting that? Or am I wrong for thinking all men should be like that? Maybe my mistake was choosing someone who wasn’t that way and then expecting him to be someone else. I must admit that knowing Tim would leave me here like this changes my perspective on our relationship. What is he doing anyway?
In this more exposed state, I sink into that older, traumatized version of myself. How often did I hide in my bed as a little girl, covers over my face, hoping my daddy wouldn’t find me? Too often.
I’m disgusted with myself for how much of that little girl still lives inside me and how needy she is. Jensen Shultz may not affect the adult woman I’ve become, but my father’s voice talks directly to that little girl whenever she’ll listen.
People who call to demons attract demons.
His phantom hands strike my skin as if they were real. The old pain ripples along my skin, whitened scarred lines from belts and whips searing me deep and shallow. Metaphysical and impossible to relieve, it burns along my soul, and I’m so wrapped up in that old place and terrified of whoever is standing in my yard, that I can’t breathe.
That monster becomes my father.
It doesn’t matter if it was Tim, a neighbor, a dog, or maybe a squirrel, as far as I’m concerned, whatever moved in my yard was my father, and he’s here to finish what he started.
He wants me dead.
How many times did he tell me he brought me into this world and he could take me out? For some parents, that’s a joke. For him, it was a fundamental truth. My father believes he owns me, and I’m horrified of the day he comes to collect on that debt.
I get out of bed, ignoring the curtains, and run to the bathroom. I lock myself inside, panting as I lean against the door. It’s sturdy; the entire house is constructed well. Moreover, every door is locked, so I should be safe. And if anything, I’d know someone was coming for me before they reached the bathroom door.
When my mind calms, I head to the faucet and run myself a bath. I allow myself very few luxuries, but this is one of them. Soaking in hot water will warm me much more effectively than the blankets in my oversized room. I’m still shaking as I drop in a scoop of Epsom salt and a drop of lavender-scented oil. I turn on my stereo, loud enough to keep me from jumping if the furnace kicks on, but not so loud as to block out an invader.
It doesn’t take me long before I’m thoroughly warmed, but the relaxation I hoped for is not there. I’m forced to wrap myself up and dry off when I turn into a prune. I climb out of the tub, wrap myself in a robe, and b-line to the sliding doors. Closing the curtains, I’m sure I see nothing but my room reflected at me. I try to let that comfort me, but I know it’s meaningless.
Turning back to the room, I take a few deep breaths. The house is quiet, and there was no good reason to think someone was there, to begin with. On the other hand, all the countless times I have been alone in this very house, I was never aware of any danger, and it’s getting to my head.
God, Tim is an asshole.
The thought surprises me, but not the sentiment. I really cannot believe he left me in this position. I’m digging through my drawer, looking for my favorite pair of panties, and for some reason, I can’t find them. First, I check every one of my drawers, then Tim’s, then our closets.
I’m sure about the last day I wore them, the day we started therapy. I know I dropped them on the floor, and I was sure I put them in the laundry, but there isn’t a speck of dust left in this house, let alone dirty or unfolded laundry.
So where the hell are my panties?
I chalk it up to the dryer eating them and God being against me as I put on a less comfortable pair and climb into bed. I turn on the TV, hoping the sound will keep the terror and nightmares away.
It doesn’t, and I’m once again left wondering why I’m not enough for the man I married.
