Page 75 of Such a Good Wife

He moans and pushes his way into me, and I can tell he won’t last long by the pace he’s going.

“I want it hard,” I whisper. He doesn’t stop but slows a minute and looks at my face.

“Hard?”

“Yeah. Rough. Can you do that?”

“I can do whatever you like,” he says, biting my neck softly.

“Rough,” I repeat. “Make me tell you to stop.”

“Yeah? You want it rough?” he says, trying a little too hard for it to sound sexy.

“More. Punish me.” He starts to get into it now, holding my hand, restrained in his grip while he goes at me hard. Then he slaps my face.

“Yes! Do that until I beg you to stop. Then choke me.”

“Jesus, Mel. You really do like it kinky.”

“Do it,” I demand, and it’s turning him on. He obeys. He slaps me in the face, then a bit harder.

“No!” I scream, and he’s getting off on it. He slaps me again and I holler “no” and “stop.” Then he puts his hands around my neck and presses. He holds them there, and I grow light-headed, but he comes and falls to the side before it goes too far. He pants, slapping one limp arm over my waist.

“Jesus, Mel. That was...” He rolls off the condom and ties it in a knot, flicking it into the garbage near the bed. “Hoo-eee.”

He pats me, approvingly, then jumps up and goes into the restroom to pee. I gather my phone and my purse. And I collect my clothes from the floor. When he comes out, naked still, I’m trying to pull my top on by stepping into it and pulling it up around my hips.

“You’re getting dressed,” he says more as a fact than a question.

“Yeah, I stayed out way later than I should have. I’ll take you back,” I say, and he walks up to me and holds my breast, kissing me again.

“That’s a shame. We could do that a few more times.”

“Well, I have some time on Monday. We could meet here.” He looks astonished at this suggestion.

“Yeah, shit. I mean I’m on duty Monday, but only till about ten.”

“Do you have a lunch break?”

“I do now.” He smiles. And with that, he dresses and we drive back to his car. I couldn’t give a shit how he gets home from here. As soon as he shuts my car door in the Spits parking lot, I rush back to the motel room. When I arrive, Leonard Cohen sings “Hallelujah” from the speakers in the bar, and it pipes out into the parking lot. I creep back into the room carefully, as if someone might be there, ready to catch me midcrime.

I throw away the cup his lips have touched, and I pick up the soiled condom with a tissue like I’m collecting the remains of a smashed insect. I take out the small, plastic medicine syringe we used for Ben’s cough syrup when he had the flu. I suck up the contents of the condom into it and lie on the bed to inject it between my legs. I look at the footage I captured from the video I took on my phone. His run to the liquor store gave me more time than I thought I’d have to hide the camera perfectly out of sight and record. It’s all there. All of the slapping and asphyxiation are there, and when I get home, I can edit out the rest, so the only clip I have shows him assaulting me.

Then comes the hard part. I have been taking Claire’s prescription Xarelto out of her medicine cabinet for the last few days because it causes easy bruising and will help a lot with this next part. The blue circles around my neck are already starting to surface and look eerily like the ones he gave Lacy. I feel bruised between my legs from the power of his thrusting, so now it’s just my face left. Just one blow. Every other bit of evidence is there. I empty the wine bottle and look at myself in the mirror. Tears are already falling, but I have to finish.

I look at myself in the eyes—eyes that look so different than they did six months ago, because now I am a completely different person that I no longer recognize. I take in a deep breath and aim for my cheekbone, just under my eye. I strike it so hard that blood gushes from the cut the glass makes on the side of my eye, and my cheekbone swells and turns purple almost immediately. I let myself weep and scream for all the pain I’ve caused and the wrong I’ve done. I sob for what I have just done to Collin, but it’s the only way to save him.

Then I walk back to my car as Leonard Cohen turns to Tom Waits puffing out a sad melody into the night air, and I drive myself to the emergency room to report a rape.

***

32

THEY TAKE SWABS AND samples in the ER and bring in a domestic abuse counselor for me to talk to. They take photos of my injuries. I’ve already taken extensive photos of my own on my phone, and they ask if I want to press charges, and if I will talk about who did this to me. I say I can’t say who did it, that he’ll come after me, and I’m too scared. Lying to kind, genuine people somehow feels like the worst part of this so far, but I don’t need to say his name. Yet. His semen and DNA is safely tucked away from the samples they took, and a police report has been made, noting that the victim is too fearful at this time to offer a name.

Honesty, we said. From here on out. But it’s far too late for honesty. Sometimes, the truth will not set you free, but do quite the opposite. I’m the only one who can save us now, and I’ll do so by any means necessary. I think of sweet Ben as I drive home, his five-gallon bucket filled with crayons from many Christmases’ worth of stockpiling, his kickball game with the neighbor kids at the end of the cul-de-sac on summer nights, the easy way he shows affection and his chapped-lip smile. I think of Rachel’s first school dance coming up, of French braiding her hair on the back deck as we drink sweet tea and talk about the boys at school and her future as a veterinarian. We are their whole world. What would happen to them if one of us went away forever?

With that, I drop my fake cubic zirconia ring into a dumpster behind a Denny’s. In my car, I push out of my skirt and awkwardly pull on jeans in the driver’s seat so my outfit doesn’t raise any red flags, and I drive home to explain to Collin what happened.

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