Unconditional
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1
The first time he hits me, I don’t leave.
I’m not proud of it. I’ve read all the magazine articles and books, I can see Oprah watching with her disappointed-yet-understanding face, hear the mantra everyone choruses from the sidelines, but they aren’t me. They don’t understand.
They aren’t fresh from a round of engagement parties, the ink barely dry on the announcement. They aren’t moving into a five-bedroom house in the most exclusive neighborhood in town, still picking out drapes and a confetti of paint samples.
They aren’t twenty-six, the last of their sorority sisters to finally get the ring, the man, the stamped seal of approval that no, it’s not too late, the desperate panic in my chest can finally fade: I haven’t missed my chance. I can have a family of my own. I won’t be alone.
Besides, I tell myself, he didn’t hit me, not really. He grabbed me hard, sure, but I was the one who lost my balance, stumbled back against the closet door. He apologized, said he was stressed from work, I shouldn’t have picked a fight. It was my fault, too.
So I stay.
The second time he hits me, it’s a back-handed crack across the side of my skull that rattles through every bone in my body. I fall back in shock, grabbing hold of my dresser chair for balance as the world spins and everything I thought was safe shatters into a million pieces.
I taste blood, metallic. I feel the pain blossom, sharp and bright. And I know, this time, I can’t marry him.
I take a shaking breath and force myself to straighten up, lifting my hand to the tender flesh just back from my cheekbone. It stings to the touch, and I know there’ll be a mark. Maybe I’m in shock, or maybe there’s nothing left in me to be shocked, because already I’m thinking how I can hide it, with six guests waiting in the living room downstairs, and four courses still to serve.
I should be hurt, or scared, or angry. But I don’t feel anything at all.
I don’t love him, I guess I never did.
“Are you OK?” Alexander’s voice comes, curt. “I’m sorry,” he adds, not sounding sorry at all. “But this isn’t the time to nag me about summer shares and f**king vacation plans. I’ve got a room full of partners downstairs. Do you understand how important this dinner is?”
“I do,” I murmur, swallowing. When I finally turn to him, he’s checking his cellphone in the doorway, scrolling through some email or website. He looks so casual, I almost wonder if I’ve hallucinated the last ten seconds. Then my head throbs again, and I know it was no nightmare.
He did it. It was real.
You could never tell by looking at him. The expensive navy suit I picked out for him drapes over a solid body, his dark hair neat over a handsome, tanned face. He looks sturdy and dignified, the kind of man you’d trust with your life savings, invite to get a drink at the end of the day, tee up with for a round of golf at the club—not a man who’d ever raise his hand to a woman.
But appearances mean nothing, and shouldn’t I know that by now? After all, I’m the one who paints on a smile every morning, play-acting at being the perfect fiancée, when I know there’s something rotten and shameful hiding below my surface, an ugly truth I keep buried deep inside.
“I’m sorry, baby.” I manage a trembling smile, wanting it to be over, for it to be wiped clean from history. “I should have thought.”
He glances up. “It’s OK. Just, clean yourself up.” His eyes sweep over me. “I’ll tell them you’ll be right down.”
He turns and stalks out of the room. I hear him on the stairs, and then a moment later, there’s booming laughter from below; glasses clinking in a toast, the warm chatter of conversation.
This is your life.
The thought appears in my mind, unbidden, and my legs suddenly give way with the cold harsh truth. I sink down on the bed, layered with the finest Italian linens, stranded here alone in the middle of the stunning master suite I spent three months decorating.
This is what you’ve done with your life. This is everything you have.
A laugh burbles up in my throat, hysterical. I clamp a hand over my mouth. Not now, Carina. I order myself. You can’t fall apart now.
You don’t ever fall apart.
And I haven’t, no matter how close I get to unravelling completely. I keep it together, no matter what the cost. I’ve faked it so well, and so long, even I don’t know what’s real anymore.
I take a deep breath, forcing back the fear and icy chill of failure, and slowly rise to my feet. I go through to my en-suite bathroom and take out my makeup kit, carefully dabbing powder over the red mark until it’s hidden. I fix my hair again so it falls over my cheek in sleek blonde tendrils. I blot my lipstick, smooth my elegant dress, and fix a bright smile on my face.
Perfect. Just like I’m supposed to be.
Downstairs, I rejoin the party, slipping a fresh drink into Alexander’s hand. Scotch on the rocks, the way he likes it. He gives me a nod of approval, and I turn my smile to the rest of the group: three of the partners at his investment banking firm and their wives. The men are all like Alexander: in their forties or older, with expensive suits and receding hairlines and year-round tans. The wives are all like me: slim and young, with glossy hair and designer outfits, our faces smooth from weekly facials, diamond studs twinkling on our earlobes and draped off our wrists.
Suddenly, their faces all look wrong to me: fixed with wide smiles and flushed from laughter. Like they’re tribal masks, lurid and fake. A pantomime, all wrong.
The first time he hits me, I don’t leave.
I’m not proud of it. I’ve read all the magazine articles and books, I can see Oprah watching with her disappointed-yet-understanding face, hear the mantra everyone choruses from the sidelines, but they aren’t me. They don’t understand.
They aren’t fresh from a round of engagement parties, the ink barely dry on the announcement. They aren’t moving into a five-bedroom house in the most exclusive neighborhood in town, still picking out drapes and a confetti of paint samples.
They aren’t twenty-six, the last of their sorority sisters to finally get the ring, the man, the stamped seal of approval that no, it’s not too late, the desperate panic in my chest can finally fade: I haven’t missed my chance. I can have a family of my own. I won’t be alone.
Besides, I tell myself, he didn’t hit me, not really. He grabbed me hard, sure, but I was the one who lost my balance, stumbled back against the closet door. He apologized, said he was stressed from work, I shouldn’t have picked a fight. It was my fault, too.
So I stay.
The second time he hits me, it’s a back-handed crack across the side of my skull that rattles through every bone in my body. I fall back in shock, grabbing hold of my dresser chair for balance as the world spins and everything I thought was safe shatters into a million pieces.
I taste blood, metallic. I feel the pain blossom, sharp and bright. And I know, this time, I can’t marry him.
I take a shaking breath and force myself to straighten up, lifting my hand to the tender flesh just back from my cheekbone. It stings to the touch, and I know there’ll be a mark. Maybe I’m in shock, or maybe there’s nothing left in me to be shocked, because already I’m thinking how I can hide it, with six guests waiting in the living room downstairs, and four courses still to serve.
I should be hurt, or scared, or angry. But I don’t feel anything at all.
I don’t love him, I guess I never did.
“Are you OK?” Alexander’s voice comes, curt. “I’m sorry,” he adds, not sounding sorry at all. “But this isn’t the time to nag me about summer shares and f**king vacation plans. I’ve got a room full of partners downstairs. Do you understand how important this dinner is?”
“I do,” I murmur, swallowing. When I finally turn to him, he’s checking his cellphone in the doorway, scrolling through some email or website. He looks so casual, I almost wonder if I’ve hallucinated the last ten seconds. Then my head throbs again, and I know it was no nightmare.
He did it. It was real.
You could never tell by looking at him. The expensive navy suit I picked out for him drapes over a solid body, his dark hair neat over a handsome, tanned face. He looks sturdy and dignified, the kind of man you’d trust with your life savings, invite to get a drink at the end of the day, tee up with for a round of golf at the club—not a man who’d ever raise his hand to a woman.
But appearances mean nothing, and shouldn’t I know that by now? After all, I’m the one who paints on a smile every morning, play-acting at being the perfect fiancée, when I know there’s something rotten and shameful hiding below my surface, an ugly truth I keep buried deep inside.
“I’m sorry, baby.” I manage a trembling smile, wanting it to be over, for it to be wiped clean from history. “I should have thought.”
He glances up. “It’s OK. Just, clean yourself up.” His eyes sweep over me. “I’ll tell them you’ll be right down.”
He turns and stalks out of the room. I hear him on the stairs, and then a moment later, there’s booming laughter from below; glasses clinking in a toast, the warm chatter of conversation.
This is your life.
The thought appears in my mind, unbidden, and my legs suddenly give way with the cold harsh truth. I sink down on the bed, layered with the finest Italian linens, stranded here alone in the middle of the stunning master suite I spent three months decorating.
This is what you’ve done with your life. This is everything you have.
A laugh burbles up in my throat, hysterical. I clamp a hand over my mouth. Not now, Carina. I order myself. You can’t fall apart now.
You don’t ever fall apart.
And I haven’t, no matter how close I get to unravelling completely. I keep it together, no matter what the cost. I’ve faked it so well, and so long, even I don’t know what’s real anymore.
I take a deep breath, forcing back the fear and icy chill of failure, and slowly rise to my feet. I go through to my en-suite bathroom and take out my makeup kit, carefully dabbing powder over the red mark until it’s hidden. I fix my hair again so it falls over my cheek in sleek blonde tendrils. I blot my lipstick, smooth my elegant dress, and fix a bright smile on my face.
Perfect. Just like I’m supposed to be.
Downstairs, I rejoin the party, slipping a fresh drink into Alexander’s hand. Scotch on the rocks, the way he likes it. He gives me a nod of approval, and I turn my smile to the rest of the group: three of the partners at his investment banking firm and their wives. The men are all like Alexander: in their forties or older, with expensive suits and receding hairlines and year-round tans. The wives are all like me: slim and young, with glossy hair and designer outfits, our faces smooth from weekly facials, diamond studs twinkling on our earlobes and draped off our wrists.
Suddenly, their faces all look wrong to me: fixed with wide smiles and flushed from laughter. Like they’re tribal masks, lurid and fake. A pantomime, all wrong.
