Saving Avery (4 page)

Before I can make another move or decide what I want to do, the girl looks at the clock on the wall, grabs her purse and flies out the door.

"Damn," I mutter. I definitely blew my chances today. I've never seen her interacting with any of the staff except for Rosie. Maybe they're friends and Rosie can tell me about this mystery girl. I'm desperate to know more about her, and I really want to put a name to the pretty face. I glance down to the paperwork in my hand. After my rounds are done, I'll find Rosie. Maybe she can shed some light on this situation that I feel I'm knee-deep in already.

*

After my shift is over, I walk to the nurses' station in search of the one person who can give me the answers I need. Rosie glances up as I approach. "Dr. Harrison," she acknowledges.

I first met Rosie in my orientation several days ago. She has a reputation from all the doctors for being phenomenal at her job. Besides the praise, what stuck out to me the most were the bright and colorful scrubs she had on that day and every day after that. Today, she's wearing bright green scrubs with a Scooby Doo print. I bet the kids just love them. "Do you know the name of the girl that volunteers here?" I ask her.

She lifts her gaze from a stack of papers and says, "You're going to have to be more specific. There are several volunteers, Doc."

"I saw you with her earlier. She has long dark hair."
And the most gorgeous blue-gray eyes I have ever seen
, I think to myself. " You two were talking just before she left for the day."

Her face scrunches up with a big grin, accentuating the wrinkles around her eyes. "Oh! You mean Avery Mason."

Avery
. The name suits her. "Is she mute?" I blurt out.

Rosie chuckles. "No, Dr. Harrison, she is not mute."

My curiosity peaks. I wonder why she wouldn't say even one word to me. Maybe she's just extremely shy. "How long has she been volunteering here?"

"Oh, several years now I suppose. Since she was in high school." She taps her pen against the desk and smiles thoughtfully. "She's a total sweetheart."

She didn't need to tell me what I already knew. Just from seeing her in the hallways and with the kids I know she has a great personality.

"She's married," Rosie says cautiously. "But not happily," she adds in a quiet and tentative tone.

I raise a brow. "Did she tell you that?"

"No." Rosie hesitates, and I can see a pained look on her face. "She didn't have to." I'm curious as to what she means, but she quickly adds, "My shift is almost over. We can talk more tomorrow if you'd like, Doc."

I nod. "Nice to see you again, Rosie."

"Same here."

My legs feel heavy as I walk towards the exit. I’m no longer knee-deep in the situation. I'm barely keeping my head above the quicksand. I didn't know Avery was married. In fact, I didn't even think to look for a ring on her finger. I had been so mesmerized by being in the same room with her, that common sense just went right out the window.

As I get in my car, Rosie's words come back to me. She said Avery's not happily married. I wonder what she meant by that. I shake my head. It's not as if I even know Avery well enough to pursue anything with her, and I certainly don't need a workplace romance during my first week here. I sigh and scrub a hand down my face. In spite of that, there's just something about her that makes it seem there's more to her than meets the eye, and I desperately want to figure her out.

AVERY

My stomach drops when I see Nathan's black BMW sitting in the driveway, and I curse the construction on the highway that delayed my trip home. I can feel my heart attempting to leap out of my chest as I park my white Mercedes beside his car. With trembling hands, I open my purse and find my anxiety medication. I pop two pills in my mouth and swallow hard. I can barely stand when I get out of the car. My legs are shaking as I attempt to make my way to the house. I stare at my watch. Every second that ticks by will only make it worse. Forcing myself to hurry, I will my legs to move faster up the steps to the front door.

Plastering a phony smile on my face, I walk into the living room where I know he'll be waiting. Nathan is sitting in his favorite leather recliner with his eyes glued to the clock on the wall. His three-piece tailored black suit looks impeccable, as always. The charcoal-colored tie is pulled loose from around his neck, and the first three buttons of his white linen shirt are unbuttoned. His blond hair is disheveled as if he spent some time running his hands through it just moments earlier. His expression remains impassive as he states, "You're twenty minutes late."

I can't tell yet if he's angry or very angry. There is a big difference when it comes to Nathan, and it can mean the difference between letting things slide or getting hit. "I-I ran into s-some traffic on the way home from the h-hospital," I stammer nervously.

He stands, and those light blue eyes that I have come to fear so much pierce right through me. "Maybe volunteering at the hospital isn't such a good idea after all, Avery."

Panic begins to set in. He can't take that away from me. It's the only reprieve I have from this glass and metal prison he calls our home. "It won't happen again," I whisper.

"Speak up!" he barks.

"It won't happen again," I say, louder this time.

He nods and walks over to me. I resist the urge to flinch under his gaze and touch as he leans in and gently kisses my forehead. "It better not," he warns. He pulls back and stares at me for a few seconds. "Well, I guess dinner is out of the question since you're ---." He pauses and checks his watch. "Twenty-three minutes behind. You're lucky I'm in the mood for Chinese tonight."

"I'll get the menu," I suggest, thankful for the excuse to get away from him.

"Change first into something a little more suitable," he says as he walks into the kitchen.

Nathan has a particular taste for the clothes I wear, and scrubs and sneakers are definitely not part of that particular taste. I rush into the bedroom and change into a beige shift dress. My hands are shaking as I zip up the back. He hasn't punished me for being late…yet. I close my eyes and take a deep breath and say a little prayer that everything stays calm between us until he goes to bed.

When I walk into the kitchen, Nathan is at the breakfast bar pouring a glass of wine. His eyes boldly peruse the length of my body. "Much better," he remarks before taking a sip from his glass.

My lips curl into a tentative smile, and I pull open a drawer to search for the menu. I try to steady my trembling hand as I offer him the tri-folded piece of paper. Instead of grabbing the menu, he grips my wrist and pulls me roughly against him. He stares down at me, his index finger gently grazing my cheek.

I swallow hard and wonder if, or perhaps when, he's going to punish me. Being with Nathan feels like constantly being trapped in a small room with a venomous snake. You never know when it's going to strike, but you know it will eventually happen and that it will hurt.

"When are you going to let me make you an appointment?" he asks. I cringe inwardly. He always brings up the discussion of me having plastic surgery. In fact, it's one of his favorite topics. His eyes dart around my face as he silently picks out all of my imperfections that only he can see, that he always sees when he looks at me. "We could start small with some Botox around your eyes and mouth." His eyes drag down my form. "Definitely need some lipo," he mutters before sighing heavily. "It would take a lot of work, but I could make you better, Avery. I could make you beautiful."

His words slice right through me, and I squeeze my eyes tight to force myself not to cry. Nathan hasn't paid me a compliment since we first started dating when he used to tell me I was the most beautiful girl he had ever met. Since we've been married, his critiques of me get worse and worse. I would never go under anyone's knife, especially not his. I know I'm not perfect, but I used to be secure with my body image. I used to have a sense of self-worth and feel pretty. Now I find myself constantly keeping an eye on my weight, although I never fluctuate more than a few pounds, and the doctor tells me I should actually gain a few. And every now and then, when I'm in front of a mirror, I catch myself absentmindedly looking for the so-called flaws that Nathan sees on my face. My insecurities keep growing and adding up every time he brings up how much work I need to be his version of beautiful.

His fingers drift down to my left wrist, and I inhale sharply. "I wish you would let me take care of this scar. I could make a clean revision, making it more consistent and almost invisible when it heals." His thumb absentmindedly trails over the raised skin. "It would be as if it never even happened."

Yes, he would like that, wouldn't he? Everything is better, in his eyes, when it's brushed under the rug. I like the scar. It reminds me that I survived even if sometimes I wish I hadn't.

When I don't respond, he eventually releases his grip on me and says, "Just order me my usual. I'm going to drink my wine out on the deck until the food arrives."

I nod as he walks away. I release a long, shaky sigh, unaware that I had been holding my breath. Closing my eyes, I clutch the granite countertop. I only have to make it through a few more hours until he goes to sleep. I just hope he keeps the monster inside of him at bay until then.

*

We eat in silence. Nathan's phone buzzes for the fifth time in the past several minutes, and he glances at the screen. A slow smile spreads across his face. I wonder what or perhaps who is making him smile, but then I decide I don't care. I wouldn't be surprised if Nathan is cheating on me…again. I've never had concrete proof of an affair, but there have been several women I've been suspicious of over the years. Most of them have been his numerous secretaries, each one more stunning than the last. I have heard his colleagues make jokes about the revolving door to his office when it comes to Nathan's employees. He changes secretaries more often than his underwear, and I don't doubt that he fired them after growing tired of them sexually.

In the past several months since my suicide attempt, he's barely touched me in the bedroom. I'm sure someone else is fulfilling his needs. Nathan isn't the type to just not want sex. I only wish I knew who was sleeping with my husband so I could write her a thank you note. Feeling his hands on me, the same hands that hurt me, makes me die a little inside. I can't find pleasure with him when he continues to give me so much pain.

He puts down his chopsticks and stares at me from across the table. His smile doesn't waver, and I can't believe my good fortune. I broke one of his
rules
by being late, and he's actually being pleasant. "I forgot to tell you that I've been asked to be a guest speaker and presenter at a national medical conference in Seattle. I'll be gone for a week."

I can't stop the surprise from registering on my face, but I quickly cover up the emotion with a forced frown. All I want to do is jump for joy, but I learned a long time ago how to fake my emotions when it comes to Nathan. He never sees the true me.
Never
.

"I'm catching a flight Friday afternoon and won't be returning until next Saturday."

I just have to make it through the rest of this week, and then Nathan will be gone for seven whole days. On the outside I appear sad, but inside I'm ecstatic. In the back of my mind, I have been planning for an opportunity like this for such a long time --- an opportunity to try to leave him…for good this time. He's been limiting his trips for out-of-state clients and watching me like a hawk since I tried ending my life six months ago. But I've been doing everything I could lately to get him to trust me all in preparation for a chance like this.

He places his elbows on the table and steeples his hands, placing his chin on top of them. "I trust that you won't stray while I'm gone," he says with narrowed eyes trained on me.

I stare back at him. I don't know if he's implying I'm going to leave him again or if I'm going to cheat on him. Perhaps both. Nathan has made it very clear as to what would happen if I ever looked at a man, talked to a man or, god forbid, ever touched another man. I can remember when our former pool man flirted with me one day. I wouldn't even call it flirting as much as just a casual hello, a smile and a wink. His actions seemed so harmless to me at the time, but Nathan saw something very devious in those small gestures. The next morning Nathan beat the man so badly that he was in a coma for almost a month. Whatever anger he had left after the beating he took out on me. The lies I spun for the emergency room staff flowed freely while I sat under Nathan's stern gaze.
"I fell down a flight of stairs."
I don't know if the ER doctor necessarily believed me, but Nathan's reputation and his money were very persuasive. I know firsthand that anything and anyone, for that matter, can be bought.

And as for leaving him, he's also made it very clear as to the consequences for my actions. I remember the first time I thought I could run away. After we were married for only a few months, I decided I couldn't take any more of the verbal and physical abuse. I packed a suitcase and hopped a bus at the nearest station. I was halfway across the state when the bus I was in got pulled over by several police cars. Nathan's father is the chief of police, and Nathan filed a missing and endangered person report the moment he discovered me gone. His father put all of the department's manpower into finding me. After my dramatic capture, I endured all I could with Nathan for weeks until I was once again yearning to run away.

I have tried everything imaginable over the past few years to leave him, but nothing has worked. And when I made a last-ditch effort to leave this world physically, even that plan failed in the end. Staring down at the jagged scar on the inside of my wrist, I push my memories back down where they belong. "You can trust me," I say finally.

He clasps his hands together and nods once. "Well, I'm going to bed. I have an early meeting and surgeries scheduled all day." He stands and walks over to me. I don't even have time to react when he suddenly grabs my face roughly, crushing his fingers into my cheeks and jaw until I whimper in pain. He glares down at me and says through gritted teeth, "I expect you to be on time tomorrow evening, Avery. Don't. Disappoint. Me." He enunciates the last three words, making them sound like a threat. Then he releases me and disappears up the stairs to our bedroom.

My fingertips gently massage my sore jaw as I blink back tears from the pain. I cautiously wiggle my mouth back and forth. My jaw isn't broken, but it hurts like hell. And here I actually thought he wasn't mad about me being late or perhaps had forgotten all about it. I should have known better. Nathan never forgets, and he most certainly never forgives.

After a few seconds of composing myself, a sigh of relief washes over me knowing that he's sleeping in the other room. One more day down. And that is exactly how I live --- day by day. I can't look into the future, because all I see is darkness. There is no light at the end of my tunnel. Not yet anyway.

My muscles slowly begin to relax. I'm always so tense around him, constantly on my toes, anxious and waiting for his next move. Without finishing the rest of my dinner, I stand and clean up the dining room and kitchen until it's spotless. Nathan wouldn't have it any other way. Being one of the country's best plastic surgeons, he spends every day making people---mostly celebrities---look perfect. And in that liking of perfection in his work, he expects it at home and everywhere else in his life. If only he practiced that perfection with his own personality.

After grabbing an afghan from the couch, I slip out the back door and onto the deck that overlooks the ocean. The smell of salt water fills my lungs as the soft breeze blows my long hair off of my shoulders. I close my eyes and picture myself in a different place where there is no pain, no sorrow. It's a short-lived bliss, a chance to forget my life for a moment. But the black cloud lingering overhead is always there, always threatening to come down around me at any moment.

I wrap the afghan around myself before walking down the stairs and onto the wooden pathway that leads right to the sandy beach. This stretch of beach is private, and there are only five houses along it. The house to the right belongs to a retired and quite famous restaurant owner. He's hardly ever home, however. The house on the left at the end of the row has been empty for over two years. The asking price is steep, and it's going to be a hard sell in the struggling market. The realtor is constantly trying new tactics, raising and lowering the price and holding an open house every few months, but nothing seems to be working.

Shifting my gaze from the house, I look towards the ocean. The sun is setting, and the sky is filled with purple, blue and orange. I stake my claim on the beach near the water, pull my knees up to my chest and push my feet into the cool sand. I wrap the afghan tighter around me and begin my nightly routine. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes, and I let them fall freely. My sobs are masked by the crashing ocean waves. This is where I seek solace every night. I cry because I think I would explode if I didn't get some sort of release. With pent-up emotions always running rampantly through me, I have to vent somehow.