Skin Like Dawn (11 page)

No answer.  

He tumbled up and down the stairs, searching for her brown face. 

Nothing.

He reached for his phone again. 

No answer.  

He realized that he was acting foolish, that Natalie was the rational one of their lengthy pair, and that she wasn’t far away. 

The Pacific Northwest was known for its crisp, clean air.  She was probably down the street, for a walk.  

But then an hour passed and she hadn’t returned.  He sat there, foolishly, drumming through a series of scenarios that didn’t seem to make sense.  So he dialed another number, heard three long rings, then the line connect.

“Hi, sweetie, what’s up?”

“Where is she?” 

“Well ‘hello’ to you, too—“

“Asha, where the hell is she?”

“What do you mean?  She has a working cell phone, you know…”

“When did you last talk to her?”

“Hmm, about an hour ago, why?”

“Where is she?  I won’t ask you again…”

“What do you mean?  She’s at the hospital…”

Panic struck his every nerve.  He stood to attention on the balls of his feet, blue eyes widened, breath caught in the back of his throat.

“What?” 

“Why are you yelling?  She’s at the hospital.  Something called St. Vincent.  You know, where she’s been working for a month?”

“Asha…” he paused, rolled his eyes closed, lips tightening into a thin line.  “Tell me you’re kidding…”

“You mean you didn’t know?  Tell me you knew…” 

He hung up the phone. 

He tried to tell himself to calm down.  He tried to tell himself to breathe.  But something was off – something had shattered.  The structured resolve of himself had degenerated into ashes.   The wall that’d kept him at bay had tumbled. 

Convincing himself of his anger and unabashed love for his wife, he clamored into his truck and drove off.  He thought of a number of ways he could handle this – none of them amounted to much.  His blinding ire kept him from thinking straight.  He just had to get to her.  He had to see her.  He had to know that he’d been deceived.  

And what then?  Would she apologize?  Would she atone her actions?  Quit?  

But it’s early, Brandon, he told himself, you’ll be sitting in your car for another hour or two.  

But that was okay.  He needed to calm down.  He needed to be clear-headed when he looked at his wife again.  He ruminated derisive things, irreparable things.  He could not control his thoughts.  They came toppling out, piece by piece, manic, splintering visions.

He made his final attempt at calling her.  He was given her one more chance to make it right.  

No answer.  

Shutting his eyes tightly, he squeezed his cellular phone between his hands.  He was sure he heard the plastic crack beneath the weight of his grasp.  

He took four long breaths, exhaling deeply in between, collecting himself.  

And he asked himself why.  Building up the courage to answer his own question seemed a more difficult task than he could handle alone.  

Here was his wife.  His fucking Tallie – living a life away from his.  What sort of purpose did it serve?

He opened his eyes again and they revisited the phone.  

He dialed more numbers, staring idly at the device without blinking.  

The line connected on the other end but he couldn’t speak. 

“Brandon, is that you?  You there?  What’s up?” 

“Mark…”

The sound of his brother’s comforting voice made more sense to him than anything he’d encountered in the past few months.  Overcome with the tone of familiarity, he exuded a heavy breath and replied, “I think I may kill my wife…”

NATALIE

SHE’D BEEN SHUFFLING THROUGH PAPERWORK WITH ZULY for hours and hadn’t taken a single second to glance at the time.  It was well past six o’clock, which meant she had only a small window to get home before Brandon.  

“Shit,” she muttered through clenched teeth.  

Zuly looked in her direction.  “Honestly, Nat…what’s the worst that could happen if he found out?” 

“Probably nothing out of the ordinary,” she replied, gathering to her feet.  “It’s just not something I want to be dealing with right now.  If I explain why I’m working, then it’ll open up an entire shopping center worth of drama that I don’t have the energy for.  My husband can be draining sometimes…” 

“Fine,” she replied.  “I just think it would be easier if you told him…” 

“Logically, yes, it would be,” Natalie began, reaching for her purse.  “But you don’t know my Brandon Greene.  The word “logical” never seems to register with him…” 

Zuly bounced her shoulders.  “Serves you right for marrying a white man…” 

They shared a small chuckle and Natalie hugged her goodbye.  

As she rode down in one of the main elevators, a small wave of sadness fell over her.  

She couldn’t even tell her husband about her new Cuban friend.  

“Where did you meet her,” he’d ask.  “And why haven’t I met her yet?” 

Keeping things from him proved to be increasingly difficult.  She’d always been a sucker for those big, blue eyes of his.  

She steered away from using her phone at work, but she’d thought about calling him the entire day.  There was always something about their volleyed banter that she looked forward to, even after all of the exhausting years between them.   

She’d give him a quick call about dinner, stop by the store on her way home, and pick up his favorite beer.  She figured he’d had a long day at work and needed a distraction from his arrogant boss and her bratty, impregnated whining.  

She’d spend the night reminding him that she was her Brandon Greene, and that he was loved.  

She scrambled in her purse for her phone as she sauntered through the automatic double doors, waving at Marvin, the security guard as she passed through.  She purposely kept the conversations between them light and fleeting.  He was beginning to become sweet on her.  

The sky had fallen, leaving a periwinkle stream through a clear, black sky.  She was beginning to appreciate the air on that side of the country.  The purity of it was endearing. 

“Hi, baby,” she’d say.  “I can’t wait to see you…I miss you like crazy when you’re at work…”

He’d chuckle in reply and murmur, “Well, I’m more than willing to allow you to show me how much you’ve missed me, once we’re together in that house…alone…”

“Keep talking like that, Greene,” she’d reply with an unmistakable grin.  “And you’ll get nothing…”

“There’s something growing in your stomach that proves I can have every single last part of you…”

“Damn you, Greene.” 

“Love you too, Tallie.”

But something happened when she looked out toward the parking lot.  Something strange. 

She saw an SUV that looked eerily similar to her husband’s black 4Runner.  She rambled closer, slowly, absentmindedly.  

She looked at her phone, gaping at the dozen or so missed calls from him.

Her heart fluttered wildly, knocking against the clothes that attempted to keep it at bay.

“No way…” she muttered to herself.  “No fucking way…” 

And then he exited the vehicle, and leaned against it, arms folded across him masterfully.  

She swallowed thickly.  

His beautiful lips had tightened, jaw clenching, black hair floating in the light breeze.

He wasn’t pleased.  She was sure that in all the years she’d known him, she’d never seen him angrier.  

For a second, she thought about running in the opposite direction.  But she knew her Brandon.  She didn’t doubt for one damn instant that he wouldn’t come tumbling after her.  

So she continued to walk toward him, knowing full well that she was carrying his child and that he shouldn’t harm her.  

“Brandy…” she murmured.  She couldn’t breathe.  Explaining why and how and what the hell she was doing proved inevitably futile.

“Baby…” 

He simply continued to stare at her, an unbending, unblinking glare that stabbed right through the very core of her. 

His silence scared her far more than his impending words ever could.  

“Say something—“

“Nat!”

It was Zuly.  But she didn’t turn to acknowledge her.  She didn’t take her eyes off of Brandon. 

“Nat, you forgot your…oh, you must be Brandon…”

He didn’t take his eyes off of her’s.  He didn’t move.  Didn’t fucking flinch.  

She was seriously frightened.  

“Okay, I see I interrupted…I’ll…I’ll just see you in the morning, Natalie…”

Once Zuly was out of earshot, Natalie tried once more.

“Let me expla…”

“Get in the car, Natalie.”

“Don’t talk to me that wa…”

“Get your ass in this car right now.” 

She complied, recoiling at the harsh tenor of his raised voice.  

He drove slowly, methodically, and she watched him, lips parted idly as though she wanted to say something.  

She mouthed his name, almost whispered it, but he didn’t take his eyes off of the road.  She tried to think of a dozen ways to make him feel better, but she couldn’t reach him.  A hazy overcast covered his eyes, a peculiar darkness, only seeking relief when a flash of some other car’s headlights flooded them fleetingly.  

She smelled his nearness, the acquaintance of it, and reminded herself that he was hers, and that he was never too far out of reach.  

She lifted her fingers slowly, reached out toward him, and laid them gingerly atop his bicep.  He quickly snatched it out of her grasp.  

“So help me God, Natalie Chandler, if you touch me right now I’ll die.” 

The harshness of his tone brought stinging salty tears to the brim of her eyes.  But they never fell.  

Resorting to her own inner defeat at being caught in a lie, she simply turned her head to the window.  

It was the longest car ride to date.  

He pulled into the driveway, and removed himself from the car in one swift movement.  She tried to call for him again, but nothing came out.  Nothing.  She watched him stalk into the house and slam the door behind him.  

She sat there, motionless, rapid heartbeat aching in her chest, blood running with the warmth that fear had attempted to run cold.  

She should have known some semblance of passion was coming.  But not this.  Not right now.  Not when things were already becoming questionable between them.  She took long, deep breaths.  She needed to explain herself.  

He could not control her every move.  How did he have the power to?  What did he really expect her to do?  Lay in bed each day, waiting for him to come home and fuck her?  What sort of purpose did she serve with him? 

I’m not Martha! I’m not Martha! I’m not Martha!

Screaming it in her head made her feel better.  

She looked toward the front door of their house, and then slowly closed her eyes.  

Her husband was inside.  Brandon Greene was inside.  Her Brandon Greene.  He was never too far out of reach.  

As she approached the door, she half expected him to be in some murky corner of the house, hiding from her until he felt better.

But he wasn’t; he was sitting in an armchair in the living room, in stark shadow, fingers laced together in his lap.  

She wasn’t sure if it was the lack of light, the silhouette of her husband’s intimidating height stiffened to an uncomfortable stance against the furniture, or his silence that petrified her more.  

“Brandon,” she began.  “I want to talk about this.”

He didn’t move.  

She wanted something from him – anger, draining emotion.  

She moved closer to him.

“Brandy…”

She wanted to forget the decade between them, the exhaustive years of him putting up with her bullshit the best he could.

“I just needed something for myself…I…”

She cautiously moved closer to him. 

“Say something, Brandon…”

He refrained, but he looked at her.  She quailed under his unblinking scrutiny in her direction, cerulean eyes vacant and tired. 

“I just needed to feel my own identity again,” she replied earnestly.  “Not as Mrs. Brandon Greene.  Not as a pregnant woman.  But me…Natalie…

“You know me better than anyone, Brandy,” she pleaded.  “You know where I find solace…”

The long silent pauses between her statements were killing her.  He didn’t take his eyes off of her every movement. 

And then she witnessed something she hadn’t seen in some years.  In a flash of virgin moonlight peeking through a parted curtain over the window, she saw the gleam of a tear sliding down his cheek. 

“Oh…baby,” she replied weakly.  She knelt before him.  

“Baby…” 

She reached toward him again, aching for him, restless for his embrace, his touch.

“Natalie…please…”

He closed his eyes tightly and another tear slid through, gliding down his jaw, settling on his lips.  

She reached upward toward his face, lightly wiping away the salty liquid with the pad of her thumb.  

“Baby…” she whispered.  The tears clawed their way up her throat, making it difficult to breathe. 

She moved her face toward his, as though with the intention of sealing her mouth over his with comfort.  

He glared at her every move, until, without notice, he took hold of her arms, moving her out of his reach.  

And with a few, long purposeful strides he was out of the door again, slamming it shut with one quick flick of his wrist.  

She remembered howling, “Don’t go!” as the sobs took hold of her body, allowing her to collapse languidly down to the floor.  

She cried a little there on the floor.  

She was waiting for him to storm back in, thirty minutes or so later, sweep her up into his big arms and carry her to bed.  

That’s the way things had always been, right? He never strayed too far away from her, right? 

The tears hiccupped violently in her chest, as she struggled to stand to her feet.  She instinctively grasped at her belly, as though she were desperately searching for some other life force in the cold, dark room.  

Without any knowledge of the baby’s sex or actual development, she’d affectionately named her belly “Harper”, after her granddaddy.  But she hadn’t told Brandon.