Because (Seven Year Itch #4) (2 page)

“Don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

“Maybe I do. I’m sick of you always trying to be right about everything. You won’t let me do what I want. You have no trust for me whatsoever. I work fifty hours a week so you can have a nice house. All you do is complain.”

“It’s your job as my husband to take care of me, as I do for you. I give ninety percent and you give ten, if that.”

“That’s hilarious. You assume you have it all figured out.” He rubs his face. “I never wanted this. You trapped me when you got pregnant, but I’ve never blamed you, not once.” His hands wave around in my direction. Immediately I feel wretched, like I’m just a fat piece of shit he can’t stand being married to. “You think I can’t get something better?” This was a common threat. When I complain this was what he always throws in my face. “I don’t have to be here, Shay. You’re lucky I’ve stuck around this long.”

Call it a gut reaction, or maybe the fact that he is glutton for punishment, but my knee jerks, driving force right between his legs. Never in my life have I ever heard of someone getting kicked where the sun doesn’t shine while they are erect. I watch my tough husband collapse onto the floor in excruciating pain. With my hands coming up to shield my amusement, I feel a sting come back to my eyes. Inflicting pain on him wasn’t my goal. I don’t want violence to take control of the situation. “Shit. Bran, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.”

He shoves me away. “Get the fuck off of me. What the hell, Shayla?”

A short cackle leaks from my lips. “You wouldn’t have gotten kicked if you weren’t being a dick. All I’ve ever asked is for you to love me. Is it that hard? Do you have any idea how it feels to hear you say those things to me?”

“Quit your griping. I’m the one on the floor, probably sterile now. Damn woman. I’m dying here, and you’re still blabbing about what you want. Just shut the fuck up already.”

I reach for him again, unable to give up trying. “Are you okay?”

“I will be once I’m away from you.”

I pull my legs up to my chest and begin to cry as I watch him sit up straight and slow his breathing. “I think you should stay home tonight. I might have caused internal injuries.”

“I think you should suck my dick, but you’d probably screw that up too.” He promptly stands. “You’re lucky if I come home at all after the shit you just pulled. Do me a favor. Don’t do that shit you always do. I’m putting my phone on silent this time. Oh, and I’m not driving, so don’t even consider getting in the car to hunt me down. I’m meeting Toby and we’re leaving my car at his house. I’m not letting you embarrass me again in front of the guys. I’m still hearing shit about it.”

“Please don’t go. Don’t leave mad.”

“Mad?” His eyes are filled with anger and nothing else. “You just kicked me in the balls when I was about to fuck you. You’ve given me shit about going out for a week. I’m tired of this. You’re not my mother. Get that through your damn head.”

“I never said I was.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to say it. I’ve never been punished more than this shamble of a marriage. I’ll see you when I see you.” I don’t follow him when he exits the room. It would only make him more angry. I’ve given it my best shot to keep him home, and failed like every other time.

Twenty minutes later I hear the sound of his Mustang firing up and the gravel kicking as the tires maneuver out of the driveway. The sound of feet let me know my daughter is coming. It isn’t like her to take an evening nap, but she’d been at T-ball practice and it wore her out. I wipe my eyes and do my best to recover from my latest bought of tears to reassure her nothing is wrong. This is my life. No matter how hard I try to turn away, I know I’d never be able to let go. Too much is at stake, and losing everything I care about isn’t an option.

Chapter 2

Before I continue with my story I think it’s safe to admit I’ve always been a romantic, seemly decided on finding Mr. Right while I was young and living out the rest of my life happy and in love.

Okay, I know you’re probably rolling your eyes at my assumption. If I knew now what I knew then I would have run as far away from love as humanly possible. I’d never wish this kind of pain and struggle on anyone else, certainly not someone trying to raise a child.

It’s not like I was giving a rundown of how true love works. I thought if we were sexually compatible everything else would fall into place. We didn’t have to be friends to fall in love, so I assumed.

Speaking of intimacy with my husband…

I no longer expect goodbye kisses or any at all. I’m lucky if we screw while facing one another. Usually he’d get an urge and bend me over, lasting about forty five seconds and then leave me filled with a dripping mess for the rest of the day. Our sex life isn’t spontaneous. It’s more premeditated.

We don’t mutually come together to ravage one another. I often wondered if it means anything to him at all. On most occasions we have sex because he wants to do something I don’t agree with. Apparently he thinks if he gives me sex I’ll give in and let him do whatever his cold-heart desires.

This time isn’t much different from the one before. Brandon has been getting on me about going out with his friends for the past two weeks. When it was originally mentioned he’d been vague about the details. He’d said they were meeting after work and going to happy hour at a nearby bar. The last time he’d done something like this he didn’t come home until early morning, claiming they all got too drunk to drive home. The thing is, I’d called and talked to him, offering to drive out in the middle of the night and pick him and his friends up instead of them having to pay for a room. The mere mention of it set him off. He didn’t speak to me for days afterwards, blaming me for being more overbearing than his own mother.

I was raised that a woman is an equal in the relationship, but also appreciated taking care of her man. I enjoyed doing things to make him happy. I felt as if our marriage would strive if I kept my man at a close arm’s length. In my heart I wanted to be resolved to the fact that him being content would ensure us a future without the worries of infidelity and regrets.

Not a single day goes by where I don’t wonder what goes on in his mind. It’s obvious he doesn’t tell me how he’s feeling. I’ve become accustomed to assuming the worst, because anything else wouldn’t allow for me to recover.

Aside from my everyday concerns, I still strive to satisfy him. If he wants sex, I give it to him. I still take pleasure in pleasing him. While he’s away I’d read about being a better lover, and even explore my body to ensure we’re both getting the pleasure we desire.

Brandon has his own ways of studying our sexuality.

He’d rather watch porn on his cell phone than together with me, and I’m not sure any other scenario will work for me anyway. Not that I’m a selfish person, but I feel like he’s cheating when he does that. I’m jealous those girls are everything I’m not. I’m insecure to a fault. I can’t help it. I want my man to devote his heart and soul to me completely. The idea of him getting turned on by another person irritates me to no end. I’m a hypocrite, because many times I’ve used my bullet to bring myself pleasure while imagining being with other people. Sometimes it’s the only way I can get off.

I’m damaged and he’s to blame.

So damaged I see a shrink once a week, because he says I’m mental. For the most part, I talk my head off and cry for about fifty-five minutes and then she tells me we’ll talk more during our next session. All she’s helping me to see is how much money I’m wasting going to her. She did offer me one piece of advice. She told me if I wasn’t happy I should end my marriage.

Why don’t I leave, you ask?

It’s simple.

He’s everything to me. He’s the father of my child. He’s the future I want to have. I still believe there is hope for us, I just don’t know the first thing about being able to achieve it. I’ve never been one to quit. When the going gets tough, I manage to find a solution.

This too shall pass.

I think.

When I look into my daughter’s eyes I know I can’t give up. There has to be some way to resolve this without tearing us apart. I’m at the end of my rope. This is going to kill me if I don’t do something about it.

I can’t turn to my parents, or his for that matter. They’d never understand. They don’t believe he’s as bad as I say. This has to be something I do on my own.

Later in the night Aberdeen is in bed with me. She always ends up here, and normally her father and I are against it unless he isn’t home to complain. She’s cuddled up against me, her little body full of sweat. I squirm away from her hold and readjust the covers, hoping it will cool her down. After further inspection I realize she’s burning up with fever. Worried something could be wrong, I lightly shake her awake. “Honey, wake up for Mommy.”

Her little eyes are heavy as they open. She’s lethargic, unlike her normal energetic demeanor.

“Sweetie, stay here. I’m going to get you some Tylenol. You have a fever.”

“I don’t feel good,” she mumbles.

As soon as I stand up to retrieve medication I hear her hurl. She’s projectile vomiting all over my bed linens and there’s nothing I can do but watch it happening.

I rush into the bathroom to grab a towel and the thermometer I keep in the open toothbrush holder slot. When I return she’s still throwing up. I slide on the mattress behind her and pull back her hair. There’s no point trying to contain the mess. She needs to finish first and then I’ll worry about the aftermath. “It’s okay. Just get it out, honey.”

It takes her a few minutes to stop heaving. That’s when I start wiping her face. She basically falls against my chest, so fragile and exhausted. “Open your mouth so I can take your temperature.” I’m trying the oral way first, but if she can’t manage I’ll go downstairs and fetch the ear thermometer. I don’t know why I prefer the old fashioned kind over the other.

We’re able to keep it under her tongue long enough for me to get a reading of one hundred and four.

Immediately I begin to panic. This is serious.

I start stripping off her soiled clothes so I can cool her body. Her light weight is easy to pick up and carry into the bathroom. “It’s going to be okay,” I say when she starts to whine. “I’m going to make you better. I promise.”

“My tummy hurts again,” she manages to get out before another bought of puke ejects from her mouth.

I’m halfway to the bathroom when I see it happening, so I begin to run. Once I have her in the empty tub I grab the wastebasket and hold it in front of her, while turning on the spigot to a temperature cool enough to lower her fever without shocking her. She’s helpless, and I’m desperate to alleviate as much of this as I’m able to.

I begin taking off her clothes, careful to keep her from sudden extreme movements. I’m full of worry, because I’ve never seen my daughter this sick before. Just hours ago she was fine, and now she can barely move. This can’t be a regular virus. Something is seriously wrong with her. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, like I have some kind of motherly intuition.

When I get her stripped down to her panties I noticed a rash on her stomach. This puts me in full blown panic mode.

Covered in what she has thrown up, I begin to strip out of my pajamas, while keeping both eyes focused on my daughter. She’s resting her head against the cold porcelain wall of the old claw foot tub. I can’t believe how fast she’s declining.

It’s imperative that I get her to a hospital as soon as possible. My cell phone is in my bedroom and I’m too concerned about leaving her to go grab it. While on my knees, I reach over and check her body with the back of my hand, feeling around to see if the water surrounding her is helping at all.

She’s still burning up.

I want to cry, but I have to hold myself together. Brandon isn’t home and I can’t scare her more than she probably already is. I pull the plug to allow the filled water to draw out and make a dash for the bedroom. I quickly dial the number to her doctor’s office and leave a message with the answering service for the doctor to get back to me. I don’t know when or if she’ll call, but I need to cover all bases.

When I’m back in the bathroom I fetch a towel and lift her limp body out of the tub. She’s barely able to stand and crying out. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s scared or in pain. “Calm down, sweetie. I’m going to take you to the hospital and get you better. It’s going to be okay. Tell me what hurts. What’s wrong, Ab?”

“I don’t know,” she screams. “Help me, Mommy. I’m cold.” Her body is shaking, her teeth chattering.

With no regard for the mess I’m leaving behind, I pick her up and carry her into her room, quickly dressing her enough to take her to the hospital. Even though I know she’s cold, I can’t bring myself to cover her up. I have to keep her as cool as possible, so once I start the car I roll down the windows. She is going to hate it, but its only a short ride. I’d read about high fevers causing seizures and even comas. I can’t risk that. Easton Memorial Hospital is only a few miles from where we live on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. I’m thankful for that, because my heart can’t deal with something terrible happening to my daughter.