I knew he was lying.
He honestly thought I couldn’t tell?
Perhaps he thinks fragile because of my accident, and that the permanent weakness in my left hand somehow altered my vision and made me blind to what he was doing behind my back. Or maybe he assumed I’m utterly unsuspecting. But I see that look in his eye, the way his throat bobs ever so slightly, how he sucks in his lower lip after the lie has been locked, loaded, and shot out into the universe. Such subconscious things, and he’s none the wiser.
“I’m going to go for a drive,” he told me. “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”
Hmmm, I scoffed to myself. So that’s how long she makes you last?
I put the cup I was washing down in the sink, a thin layer of soap foam sticking to my hands, looking as if my skin started bubbling from the anger stirring up inside of me. But I molded my face into a mask of complacency.
Yes, this was the lie.
“A drive,” said the man who seldom leaves the house, save for trips to the post office or the grocery store. He always hung around the house, doing odd jobs. When we first were married, I called him Mr. Fix-it. Now he was leaving for an hour...or two.
“Alright,” I said as brightly as I could, feeling my teeth gnash together as I turned to face him fully with a closed-mouth smile.
Mouth.
As if I didn’t know where his would be while he was out on his “drive.”
“You’re glad to be rid of me, aren’t you?” He added sarcastically. He always had this notion is his head that I don’t like it when he leaves, as if I feel safer when he’s around. But the only thing I really cared about was the fact that he’s good with the kids—especially the baby. Any moment when he can take them and let me breathe is greatly appreciated. It’s all I feel thankful for, at this point.
I let the soap drip from my hands down the front of my house apron, even to the floor. What’s one more mess for me to clean? Not like it’ll matter after he leaves today, though.
This time it would be much different than before.
I willed my eyes to saucer when they met his. “Uh-uh,” I smiled sweetly. He just blinked in response.
I dried my wet hands with the dishtowel, not bothering to ask him where he was going. Let him think that I don’t care. Or that I’m the oblivious one in this relationship.
Chucking the dishrag carelessly onto the counter, I sauntered past him as he stood in the doorway. I entered into the living room, where our oldest daughter sat playing with her dolls on the couch. The baby was down for a nap upstairs, after hours of screaming and crying.
“Anpan,” I bent down and whispered to her. I kissed her on the forehead as I said it, to cover from his lingering eyes that I muttered anything to her at all. Though she’s only six, she’s a bright girl. She gets it from me, no doubt.
He slinked his coat on one arm at a time, eyes drawn to me like a moth to a blaze that will surely singe its precious wings.
She nodded, and knew just what to do. “Do the can-can, mother!” She asked hastily. His eyes never left me.
I’ve trained her well. “Anpan” was our code-word for “Dad’s going out.” It was also her favorite dessert, which she gets made fresh for her from our kind Japanese neighbor next door. She knows that when I slip her the word, her job is to ask me to dance for her, pick up something she dropped, make me laugh at something silly, amongst other things. Last time he left, she spilled her crayons all over the floor, and I took my sweet time bending down to pick them up one at a time.
Each time, she asks me to do something different, and I leave the task I am to carry out up to her imaginative mind. Afterwards, I reward her by bringing her next door for some of that never-ending supply of Anpan. She asks me to do anything that doesn’t involve too much from my hands. Ever since I took that tumble on stage during a performance many moons ago, my hand has never been the same. And my exploding career came to a screeching halt. They called me “damaged goods.”
Though she had no idea why she was supposed to ask me to do such mindless things when her father was leaving, she did it nevertheless. It was our little secret, and she wanted the savory sweets.
Today, she asked to see me dance...and I was bound to oblige.
I tossed a lazy smile her way, telling her with my eyes, you did so good, my darling.
I hiked my housedress up to my mid-thighs, the grip on the fabric in my left fist much weaker than the right. No stockings on, no shoes. Just legs that looked like he never even touched them. I began to kick high, and my daughter giggled. She always loved to see me dance around the house. I’ve told her all about my days as a dancer, which never ceased to make her eyes go wide.
One kick, two kicks.
Back and forth.
A different kind of back-and-forth than he would be doing shortly.
I made sure to kick my legs up high in his direction, but didn’t break eye-contact with my daughter. There was no need to look at him; I already knew his eyes were glued to me. Gawking. My legs were flashes of silky white in his hungry eyes.
“Well, goodbye,” he said on a breath that rushed out like a babbling brook.
“Bye,” I called back a little sharply, still dancing. He’ll simply attribute that sharpness to my loss of breath from kicking.
When the door clicked shut, I stopped dancing. Leveled my breathing. My daughter always had the same confused look on her face after he left, but has stopped asking me why we must have a code-word, and why I do these things.
My answer was the same every time: because it’s just a little grown-up game.
When my heart slowed down to a jog, the anger laced itself back into my veins. This was the final straw, and he didn’t even know it.
“Honey, I want you to go take your pink backpack and fill it with only your very favorite dolls. We’re going to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.”
Giddy about our surprise visit, she rushed to her room to pack her little toys. I already had a bag with her clothes ready to go, one I had made up yesterday while I was doing the laundry. Same with the baby’s clothes, diapers, bottles, and other much-needed things that he wouldn’t even notice was missing while I was secretly packing. My own clothes and bag were a little harder to do, but I managed just fine.
I grabbed my packed bag from underneath the bed and looked around one final time. I stared down at the bed, remembering the times we had. Anger and sadness ping-ponged through my ribcage because I knew he was currently taking to another bed right now. I couldn’t tell if I was angrier at his hideous crime, or that he thought I was stupid enough to be unaware of what he was doing. I shoved my palms against my face to wipe away the stray tears that managed to escape.
Before leaving the room for good, I scribbled a note on the back of an old receipt for a coffee he once bought home for me:
Sarah, of all people? This is what you get for making such a mistake. For underestimating me. For undermining me. Well, CAN she really give you what you want? CAN you look at her now and say she was worth it?
Good luck trying to fix this.
I put the note on top of my apron, both of which I placed upon his pillow.
After I grabbed the baby and had my daughter in tow, I headed out of the house without another glance back. In our bags we had what we needed most, and I knew my parents would help fill in the gaps by providing us with the rest.
But before we left, we stopped by next door for one last to-go package of Anpan. My daughter deserved her prize.
