Page 1 of When We Were More
CHAPTER 1
Tillie
I’m trapped. My husband has me right where he wants me—under his thumb—and I can’t do a thing about it. I’ve been tossing and turning for more than an hour. I should get up. I stumble out of bed and make my way to Gram’s kitchen to get some water, my favorite room in her house. It’s not fancy, but I love the care my great-grandfather put into building this house. I love it more because of the memories I’ve made here with Gram. We’ve spent a lot of time in this kitchen over the years, and those are some of my best memories. Simply being in the room, a small wave of happiness washes over me, and I’m grateful for it. I’ve experienced so little of it lately.
I fill a glass with water from the tap, then walk out to the front porch, grabbing my favorite afghan from Gram’s couch on the way. The cedar double-seater swing Grandpa made Gram is where I always sit, so I make myself comfortable on it. I wrap myself in the blanket. It’s an unseasonably warm night for October, and I probably don’t need a blanket for warmth. Still, it brings back good memories of when I was safe and loved. I need that right now, so I stay huddled beneath it, keeping one leg out to make the swing sway back and forth.
I let my mind wander, trying to push the memory of the text messages I found on Joe’s phone from the spot in my brain where they became seared. The words were painful, but if they left any question that my husband was having an affair, the photo confirmed it. I can still see it clearly in my mind. In every way that Joe didn’t like something about me—my curves, my height at five-feet-eight-inches, even my hair color—she was the opposite. The petite blonde with big breasts, a flat, muscled stomach with narrow hips, and thin thighs. She was wearing a deep red sexy bra and panty set, stiletto heels, and had one finger in her mouth, seductively posing for a photo she sent to my husband.
What’s worse is that I’ve met her. Three months ago, at a university fundraiser where he teaches sociology, Joe introduced her to me as his teaching assistant. I recall noting the way she gave me a tight smile but peered adoringly at my husband through long, dark lashes. She appeared enamored with him. I know because I was her five and a half years ago. True, I wasn’t his TA, but I was nineteen, away from home for less than a year, and I fell fast and hard for Joe. He was ten years my senior, attractive and charming. I convinced myself to overlook the fact that he was my professor. Hero worship will do that to you.
A single tear rolls down my cheek. I feel many things right now, but exhaustion is the primary one. Well, that and embarrassment. I’m drained emotionally and physically of energy, and I’m humiliated.
I gave Joe an ultimatum when I found the texts, sure that he’d end the affair. I thought he’d cancel the conference he was packing for. The conference I’d just learned about via the text fromheris a good excuse for a five-day trip with his mistress in tow. When I had asked about going with him, he told me he would be too busy to spend any time with me. He said it wouldlook bad because none of the other attending professors were bringing their wives. Now I know why he gave me those excuses. Still, I was stunned that I found out about his affair, and he still left to spend five days in San Francisco with his mistress.
As I think about it more, I shouldn’t be surprised by his response. Why should he stop the affair? Like he said, he doesn’t have to. I can still hear his cruel laughter and recall his words as if he’s sitting here with me and just spoke them. Even the notion that I would consider leaving him is amusing to him.
“Where are you going to go, Tillie? With what money?”
“I’ll go home. I’ll get a job there and take care of myself.” I throw the words out with a confidence I don’t possess.
He laughs at me. “Your parents certainly aren’t going to help you. Plus, who’s going to hire you? Three years out of college, and you’ve barely worked. Do you?—”
“I haven’t worked much because you won’t let me!” God, hearing myself say the words makes me physically ill. He won’t let me? How did I get here? In a position to be under someone else’s control?
“That’ll sound great in an interview when a potential employer asks about the gap in your work. You’ll shoot straight to the top of the list of candidates, I’m sure.” Some people use sarcasm for humor. Joe uses it to hurt. To cut deep and with precision.
My confidence waning by the minute, I foolishly try to appeal to his heart. “I’m your wife. Don’t you love me? You would lose me to keep her?”
He stills, and I hope that the obvious pain in my words has gotten through to him. Then his expression turns from apathetic to a sneer.
“Let me be clear. I’m not losing anything. I’m not giving her up either. There’s no choice to make, Tillie, and if there were, look at her, then at you. I’m pretty sure we both knowhow you’d fare in that. So don’t fucking push me. You’re not leaving, and you’ll deal with the situation because you, my dear wife—” he pauses and grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger, pressing too hard, “—have no choice.” With that, he roughly uses his fingers to push me away, shuts his suitcase, and walks out of our room.
I’ve been sitting here for some time, listening to the katydids and staring out into the dark expanse of land that makes up the property. I use the tips of my toes to make the porch swing move back and forth, which creaks softly as it does.
“How did I let this become my life?” I mutter to myself.
I’ve been at Gram’s since yesterday. I waited until Joe was gone, mid-flight, to text and tell him I was taking a day or two to see Gram while he was away. I had already made the three-and-a-half-hour drive to her house by the time he even got the text message. He was not pleased.
He tried to call me, but I let it go to voicemail. That alone will be enough to infuriate him. When I listened to his voicemail, he barely contained his fury. “We’ll discuss this when I get home. Don’t let her fill your head with any stupid ideas, Tillie. You’re not her.” Then, right before the line disconnected, I heard a woman’s voice in the background.
Joe and Gram have met several times, and he’s been clear that he doesn’t like the way she carries herself. She’s too confident for him, and she has an air about her that lets you know, without her saying it, that she’s not somebody to try to push around. I’m guessing that’s why he always has an excuse for why we can’t come to see her more often.
I recall a visit a few years ago when we were driving home, and I was sad to be leaving, but grateful for the time we had spent together. Joe turned to me for a second before putting his eyes back on the road. Then he said, “You’d do well not to letyour grandmother rub off on you too much, Tillie. Women being like that… It’s unbecoming.”
With only a few words, he killed my joy from the several days we had spent with Gram, as well as any hope that he’d come to see her as family. That broke my heart since she’s the only family I’m still close to. Not that I’d be close with my mom or sister, even if Joe weren’t against me seeing them and my dad. My dad is almost as cruel as Joe. But still, he’s my dad, and I should fight to see him more.
The faint squeal of the screen door pulls me from my thoughts and gives Gram’s presence away before she comes and sits on the other end of the swing. It’s eleven-thirty p.m., and the woman goes to bed at eight-thirty. Guilt that she’s up and that maybe I woke her washes over me.
She doesn’t say anything at first, and we sit together, swaying on the swing for about five minutes. Then she takes my hand in hers.
“Are you okay, Tillie girl?” There’s worry in her voice. She could always read me like a book.
I offer her the best smile I can muster, not wanting to make her concerned about my life outside of here.
“I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“You’re anything but fine right now, sweetheart. I know you, and I can see that you’re hurting.”
