HOW TO MURDER A MARRIAGE Page 4

  Suddenly, my romanticized idea of a solitary fond farewell to my farm doesn’t sound like such a great idea after all.

  The pet’s nails and my bare feet echo through the hollow spaces. The house looks sad and lonely with all the furnishings gone but the architectural details shine in its nakedness—the weathered, wide plank floors, the beadboard walls, and sunny yellow linoleum in the pantry, the open kitchen shelves that once displayed a cheery rainbow of depression glass. The house was empty when it was under construction, but it wasn’t bereft then—it was brimming with possibility and promise. The six of us used to have rollicking pizza dinners on the unfinished floor, excitedly planning where the TV and toy shelves would go. Our family had years of happiness here. The bad times can’t erase those good memories. I won’t let them.

  My truck is loaded with my personal belongings, but I’m traveling light for now until I finish the reno on the old family cottage and figure out whether I can handle living in Mayberry again. I love my eccentric old aunts and my multitude of cousins who never ventured farther from the tiny town they grew up than the closest college, and then it seems, returned to the familiarity of Sunset Beach as quickly as they could. I’ve put my treasures that I’m not bringing with me, the kids’ artwork, family photos, some inherited antiques, and other favorite possessions into storage for the time being.

  I spread out a sleeping bag and pillow on the family room floor. Zoe and Spook are weirded out by their empty home, and as soon as I settle on my makeshift bed, they’re both fully pressed against the length of my body. I pull my dinner out of my purse, a soggy egg salad sandwich I picked up at a gas station that tastes as bad as it sounds, and I share it with the dog.

  I smile when I read the multitude of texts that my four extremely worried children have been sending me all day. They know I’ll be a sentimental wreck on this last night in the home I love so much. They tell me that I’ll be fine, that it’s just a house, and that change is good. They remind me that we have each other, that that’s all that matters. And of course, my head knows they’re right. My heart, however, is not in agreement.

  Now that I’m safely tucked inside, I’m glad to have this last night in my house. I keep the lights off and stretch out on the floor to look at the bright stars and big moon that look back at me through the soaring living room windows. The dog and cat keep me warm. I wait for the tears to come, and they do. I’m surprised at how long they hang around.

  At some point, I fall asleep. I only know this because, sometime in the middle of the blackness, I awake to pain and a deafening break in the silent night.

  The cat leaps across my chest, scraping off a pound of my flesh with his claws as he flees. He frantically searches for a piece of furniture to hide under. No such luck. He scrambles into the basement. The dog pulls a full-on Cujo, snarling and snapping, attacking the front door, throwing herself against the glass panes.

  I jump unsteadily to my feet, still caught in the stupor of half-sleep. Like the cat, I also groggily search for a place to hide and am also shit out of luck in my empty house.

  An incapacitating concoction of confusion and fear leaves me dumbstruck and vulnerable, standing in the center of the room, illuminated by the moonlight, like the deer caught in my headlights earlier. I can’t even decide which direction I should move in, and it feels as if I’m moving in all of them at once. I know my limbs are in motion—I’m just not getting anywhere.

  My senses begin to sharpen at last, and I shoot across the living room, press my body against a wall in the foyer. Unfortunately, I’ve left my phone on the floor next to my pillow.

  Slowly, I inch toward the dog and the front door, trying to slow my ragged breathing, and peek out through the window without being seen. I can make out the long shadow of someone standing on the porch, but I can’t see the body. The shape darts to the left, and the silhouette disappears in blackness. The light of the full moon makes it hard to hide, but this person manages to stay shrouded in a wedge of darkness. I keep to the shadows between the windows, avoiding the wide shards of bright white that slash across the floor, hoping this visitor doesn’t see me, either.

  Why isn’t he retreating at the threatening, relentless barking of the dog? Why isn’t he afraid of Zoe’s menacing snarling? Does he know her and know that she’s all bark and no bite? Or is he actually incapable of leaving? Perhaps because he is now hanging over, rather than standing on my front porch? Is it my ex or just some random serial killer? Strangely, I’m struggling to figure out which of the two I’d prefer to encounter.

  Zoe’s bared teeth shine in the moonlight. She’s not barking anymore, but the low, steady growl gurgling from the base of her throat is the most frightening sound I’ve ever heard her make. She’s no longer throwing herself against the door. Her eyes are fixed on the door handle. It turns slightly. Her growl deepens.

  I scan the hollow house for something to defend myself with. Every shelf, every drawer is empty, every sharp or weighty object has been packed away. My only potential weapons are the pillow and blanket on the floor. Maybe I can smother myself before my assailant spends hours torturing me.

  There’s a loud ring, and I jump out of my skin, let out a half scream before I can stop myself. It’s my cell phone. I sprint toward it, grab it. No Caller ID. I answer, wait. Nothing. I hang up and dial emergency, start down the stairs into the darker basement.

  The phone call drops. We’ve never gotten reception in the basement. Damn it. Calling for the dog in a loud whisper, I rush toward the French doors of the walk-out basement and throw them open. Zoe is at my heels in a flash.

  I run through the doors out onto the expanse of lawn in the backyard. Illuminated with the flood of full moonlight, it’s as bright as a Friday night football field. I try to stick to the long shadows that the tall pines throw, make my way toward the woods a couple of cornfields away. The soft soles of my bare feet are assaulted by sharp twigs and ragged pinecones. Zoe is right beside me. The mugginess has only intensified with the hour—the wet heat claws at my throat. Sweat pouring down my face stings my eyes and runs between my lips, and I swallow salt—along with at least a pound of mosquitoes.

  A flash of light streaks across our bodies. Car headlights. I drop down on all fours in the grass, crawl into the cover of darkness behind a bush. My knees sting as the skin opens up against thistles and broken branches. A vehicle heads down my curving driveway. The dog resumes her alarm barking. This guy is certainly going to know exactly where to find us now if he wants to carry out his murderous plan. In truth, I don’t know if Zoe’s barking is any louder than my hyperventilating. I could just as easily be the one to give us up.

  I dial the emergency number on my phone again. No service in the cornfields, either. All we can do is make a break for it. I know these woods. He probably doesn’t. Unless it’s my ex, of course, in which case all I can do is try to outrun him.

  I yell for the dog to follow me, and we take off toward the forest, but a few seconds later, I look back over my shoulder and realize that the car has slowed but hasn’t stopped. It’s continuing down my laneway. It’s leaving the property. I reverse directions and run toward the driveway up to the top of the hill to catch a glimpse of the vehicle in case I can identify it. It’s a dark color, maybe black or navy, and small. That’s all I can gather.

  Red taillights flicker, creep down the road until they disappear around the bend. I take a moment to slow my breathing, feel safe for a few seconds until the thought crosses my mind that perhaps he wasn’t alone. Perhaps only his driver has left. Perhaps the criminal mastermind is still standing on my front porch.

  Or waiting inside my house.

  I don’t have a lot of options. I’m in bare feet and underwear, and I have a cell phone without reception and no car keys. I’ve got to hedge my bets.

  The dog and I run back inside the house, lock the basement doors behind us. We head upstairs slowly, silently taking one step at a time. It already seems as if I’ve made the wrong decision. The dog stays pressed against my calves. She doesn’t know what’s happening, but she’s picked up on my energy, and she’s as terrified as I am now. I feel like one of those dumbass coeds in a slasher flick. Why is she going back inside the house where we know the killer is waiting to slice and dice her? Because it seems the least shitty of all the shitty options before me, that’s why. And because it’s too late to turn around now.

  Chapter Five

  My guard dog has turned in her badge, but she’ll definitely let me know if there is an intruder in the house if only to protect herself. She’s sniffing around but doesn’t bark or growl.

  It looks as if there’s no one here.

  I cross the foyer to check the front door. It’s still locked. I flip the outside lights on, look out the window. No dead guys suspended from the porch roof. No live ones hanging around, either. I know for sure there’s no stranger danger now because my scaredy-cat Spook has emerged from the basement and is rubbing against my ankles, purring.

  I contemplate calling the police, but what do I tell them? Someone stood at my front door in the middle of the night and touched my doorknob but didn’t break-in, didn’t steal anything, and after a while, they drove off, but I didn’t get a good look at the person or his vehicle? I can guess how it would go.

  Cop, “Perhaps it was a friendly neighbor who popped by to say so long and wish you well in your move.”

  Me, “It was the middle of the night, Officer.”

  Cop, “Perhaps he didn’t know you were there and was checking up on the empty house for you. Or maybe he’d had a few too many and didn’t realize the hour.”

  The cops will do what they’ve always done whenever I’ve called them about my ex’s stalking. They’ll downplay the event, explain away the circumst
ances, and then when I insist that they take some action, they’ll walk around my property shining their flashlights under bushes and inspect my garage. I always felt as if they were humoring me, but still, when they told me that they’d keep their eyes on my house, it made me feel a little safer, even though I wouldn’t sleep well for weeks after.

  Dick has poked around my property ever since we separated, peering through windows, often with a camera. Sometimes he sends me copies of the pictures to make sure I know that I can’t make him stay away, that I can’t make him do anything, or stop him from doing anything. Dick is a control freak who seeks to control others because he has zero self-control.

  The police called me a couple of months ago to tell me that after a multitude of dealings they had with Dick, they had concluded that he’s obsessive, that he’s escalating, and that he’s made fighting me in court his life’s work. These things I already knew. They urged me to get a restraining order against him, but the cops don’t realize that judge’s rulings don’t mean a thing to a guy like Dick. Obtaining a restraining order would only force me to spend more time in court with him which is what he wants, so I didn’t do it. To be honest I have no idea what Dick is capable of. I do know that he’s a loose cannon, unpredictable—especially when he’s off his meds. A judge said once that Dick was the perfect example of the lengths to which a spouse will go to avoid his responsibilities. That said it all for me, and I’ve always wondered what lengths he will go to. I hope I never find out. I think his ultimate goal is to stop me from living happily ever after, and he does that by keeping me constantly on edge. So far, he’s been wildly successful.

  So, was it Dick who came calling? It sure as heck wasn’t someone selling Girl Guide cookies at three a.m. It could have been any opportunistic thief or even a trouble-seeking teenager. It’s a big, beautiful house, the For-Sale sign says Sold, and it’s plainly been unoccupied for a couple of weeks. But why didn’t the person take off as soon as the dog started barking? Why did he persist and try turning the doorknob knowing a large, aggressive dog was going berserk on the other side of the door, jonesing to sink its teeth into a meaty thigh?

  The intruder was also likely aware that there was a dog owner inside, too, albeit armed with only a pillow, but regardless, he didn’t know that, and still, he didn’t flee. Was it because he wasn’t here to steal appliances, he was here to steal my peace? Was it because he only came to scare me? On my last night in my dream house, was this trespasser’s mission to deliver me a nightmare? That’s what it’s beginning to look like to me. And if so, I believe my late-night, unwelcome visitor was indeed my ex. My night-stalker.

  * * *

  A brilliant morning sun and reverberating dog barks rouse me from some sort of rest although I wouldn’t call it sleep. My eyes are swollen, and my head hurts. We made it through the night with no more unexpected guests, thank Christ. Just to be sure, as per my routine of the past six years, I tentatively check for any dead men who might be hanging around my front door. Negative.

  I let the dog out, feed the pets, and curse when I remember the coffee maker is packed away.

  Before I leave a life and twenty years of memories behind, I take the time to step into each room to say farewell to the beautiful spaces and look through every window, taking mental snapshots of the lovely views of the fields and forests beyond.

  In my children’s bedrooms, I stand still, close my eyes, and breathe deeply. I remember how the rooms looked and felt when they were filled with my angels’ treasures—posters and books, favorite toys and love-worn stuffed animals, skateboards, and prized collections of rocks and shells. The most cherished memories I hold are those of my four sweet babies tucked into their snuggly beds, sleeping soundly under my roof. Those times I will forever miss.

  I say goodbye to my gorgeous kitchen and play back all the fun times and good food we shared around our pine harvest table. Candles burning, laughter, music, and the smell of baking cupcakes filling the air. And in the family room, I remember all the chaotic Christmas mornings and the cold winter nights spent cozily curled up in front of the roaring fire, munching popcorn and watching old black and white movies.

  Everyone has their challenges to deal with, but I can’t complain. Life has been wonderful to me. I choose to only remember the blissful times in this house, and that’s easy to do because truly there were too many to count.

  Knowing that perhaps the best times are past is a difficult pill to swallow. I remind myself that even if the next chapter in my life is only half as good as the last, that means it’s still going to be epically great. That greatness will be up to me to create. I’m going to give it one hell of a college try.

  One final walk through my bountiful, thriving gardens. A last look at my fantastical forest. The weight of these goodbyes is pressing down on me with so much pressure that I feel like my chest could crack open. There’s no way for me to leave this place other than by my performing a complete amputation. With no anesthetic. I rip a piece of my heart out and bury it at the foot of a favorite oak tree. I water it with tears. I will love this land forever. It will always be a part of me and I of it.

  * * *

  The surgery is a success. Although excruciatingly painful, the prognosis is the patient will survive the amputation. I am out of the woods. Literally. My old home and the forest shrink in my rear-view mirror as I drive away and my heart aches, tears and snot flying profusely. I have loved this place dearly, and I will miss it terribly.

  Change, I make peace with you.

  I hit up the drive-thru to grab a couple of lattes, then head across town.

  The temperature has dropped sharply, and there’s a much welcomed, cool breeze blowing now. Dark clouds are gathering in the sky above—my increasingly frizzy hair indicates that I probably don’t have a whole lot of time before they open up. The dog and cat are happy to curl up and sleep on the back seat of my truck—they’re as exhausted from last night as I am. I leave the windows open a few inches for them and lock the doors.

  I weave between the headstones in the cemetery, balancing the hot paper cups, following the worn path to Sinead’s final resting place. I hate the word final. I sit down on the grass in front of her and lean my back against her tomb so my BFF and I can share our millionth coffee together.

  “So, gal, tell me. How am I supposed to handle all this change without you here to kick my ass and tell me to pull on my big girl panties? How the hell am I supposed to say goodbye to everyone I love in this world, and my farm, and start some stupid new life without you or the kids by my side?”

  I wait for her responses, and I hear them. I’ll never stop conversing with my best friend. Predictably, she tells me to get on with things. To suck it up and be brave. To not confuse excitement with fear—to choose to be excited by the change instead of afraid of it. And after a long while, an hour or more, she tells me that it’s time for me to be on my way. And she tells me to be fabulous. And I promise my friend that I will be.

  Drips of water splash down my cheeks—A mixture of rain and tears. I down the rest of my coffee, pour Sinead’s onto the grass at the foot of her tomb. I run my fingers over the raised letters of her name on the bronze plaque. It’s still impossible to comprehend that this vibrant, vivacious bad-ass-boss-babe is gone at fifty. This unexpected and unfair turn in the road has definitely been one of the greatest shocks of my shock-filled life. I miss my number one gal pal every day.

  It’s time. My duties are done. I’m being drizzled on, and I’ve run out of excuses for delaying pushing the eject button and parachuting into my future. There’s no choice for me other than to move forward and having no choice has me feeling as if I have no options. But deep down, I know that’s bull.

  At this moment, the world is my oyster. I’m free to do whatever I want wherever I want, and how flipping amazing is that? I’m one of the fortunate few on the planet to even reach that pinnacle in life. No more boohooing for me. Time to find that bright side and focus on it, my signature fallback survival mechanism. I point my jeep north, crank up the volume on a Spotify Road Trip playlist, and venture out on my new feckin’ life.