Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (85 page)

“Bitterness
is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all
clean.”

― Maya
Angelou

~~~

Renata
Koreman

I spend the
evening with my friends from
Dwell with Dignity,
a nonprofit group of
volunteers and interior designers. We provide home interiors for families
including furnishings, art, bedding, kitchen supplies, and food in the pantry.

Our mission
statement is, ‘Helping families escape poverty and homelessness through design;
one household at a time.’

I’ve been
volunteering here for the last three weeks, with a great group of people who
welcomed me from the get-go. As Grant went off with the car, my new friend picked
me up on her way there. Marla is probably fifty, but has the figure of a thirty
five-year-old. An empty-nester, her last child recently left for college.

Tonight, we’re
sanding and painting a bedroom set that includes bunk beds and dressers. I’m
dressed in an old t-shirt and cutoffs, worn clothes that I don’t mind staining
with paint. My clothes are light and cool, as it’s quite warm in the warehouse
where we work.

I’ve been sanding
for almost two hours. Although I’m here with Marla tonight, I mostly find
projects I can do alone. I need some time to myself to think.

Today was the
biggest breakthrough I've had in ages. After that spanking, I feel fearless. I
should be happy, but my thoughts are focused on my fight with Grant.

What the hell
got into the man?
Usually, I wonder what
I
did wrong, but I’m
getting better at that knee-jerk tendency. His upset had
nothing
to do
with me.

Grant freaked
when he found out I had sex with André, but why?

I’m reminded of my
only known living family member, my blood relative, Uncle Robert, who sent me
to André in the first place. His cruel words he said to André about me echo in
my mind, ‘
The dirty little slut opens her legs to anyone. It’s a wonder the
little whore isn’t pregnant!’

Does Grant think
I’m a slut? How could he? He went through a number of prostitutes himself, so
he can’t point a finger. Besides, he’s well aware that I was a sexual
surrogate. He isn’t judgmental, or is he?

No, he’s jealous—he
has
to be jealous!

Yet, Grant was
all over the place today. Earlier, he fixated on André having sex with his
sister. He simply couldn’t let that go. I was surprised he gave it any thought
at all. They're both consenting adults. Why should that get under his skin?

If
anyone
could benefit from time with André, it's Betty Jo. Maybe André can yank that
big bug out of her uptight ass—she certainly needs to loosen up. I hope he has
the
Jaws of Life
handy. That bug sure is jammed in tight.

I thought Grant’s
issue was because he dislikes his sister so intensely, but now I’m not so sure.
When he found out André might be bisexual, he freaked. He acted like it was
some sort of betrayal. Then when he discovered André and I had sex together, it
really finished him off. But why?

I don’t
understand him.

Grant’s father
was hypersexual. Maybe finding how sexual André is was some sort of father issue
trigger. Is it the counsellor angle? I get that one never has sex with a
client, but André never did that with me. Wait, maybe in his mind, therapists
are supposed to be celibate? Has Grant got them mixed up with priests or
something?

The mystery is
interrupted by one of the girls stopping by.

“Y’all doin’ all
right, here? Can I get you a glass of water, soda… or hey, how ‘bout a nice
cold glass of champagne?” Katrina, one of the women who volunteers asks in her
soft Southern drawl with her welcoming smile. I never tire of listening to
Southerners speak.

“No, thank you, Katrina,”
I say, forcing myself to smile back, while wiping down the headboard I’m
working on. The girls nearby have already started painting other parts of the
bed a classy shade of blueberry. “I know where the fridge is. I’ll just finish
this first, then help myself.”

“OK then, but
y’all sing out if you need somethin’, ya hear?” she says, moving away to offer
drinks to someone else.

“Are you OK,
Renata?” Marla asks, suddenly standing beside me with concern etched on her
features. “You don’t seem quite yourself tonight.”

Marla is a kind
soul with a good sense of humor. We both enjoy the same kind of ‘feel good’
movies and usually discuss them at length while working together. I’ve been unusually
taciturn tonight. I guess it shows.

I shrug. “I had
a fight with my fiancé.

“Oh, honey! I’m
so sorry!”

As my
fingernails are filthy with dust, I consciously restrain my impulse to
anxiously chew on my nail and settle for biting my lip instead. “It’s our first
real fight,” I confide.

“Oh, there’s
nothin’ wrong with fighting, hon. It’s important to clear the air. I just hope
you didn’t let him win too easily! You stand your ground and make sure to get
your point across, won’t you?” She raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow.
“Politely, of course.”

I laugh. “That’s
excellent advice.”

In truth, I’m concerned,
but not too worried. Grant clearly ran into a trigger of some sort, then ran
off before we could deal with it. I’ll get to the bottom of this, whatever it
is. There’s nothing can’t be figured out with honest communication and effort.

This isn’t one
of my usual nights to volunteer. I purposely left to give him something to
think about when he comes home to find me gone.

I hope it
gives him a fright.

Cruel, but he
won’t suffer long. When he sees I haven’t packed my bags, he’ll calm down.

I startle,
caught off guard by a very strange noise, one I’ve never heard before. It kind
of sounds like someone sawing wood, but instead of coming from my surroundings,
it’s coming from my purse!

A few of the
girls look my way as I pull out my phone.

Holy crap.
This embarrassing noise is my ringtone! I suddenly recognize the sound of
snoring! Just before I answer the call, I hear a male snicker and Grant’s low
voice says, ‘
See? You do snore, but I think it’s adorable
.’

Other
volunteers, women of all ages and a couple of men, stare at me curiously with big
smiles on their faces. Oh my God, how embarrassing! My face burns, I must be
bright red.

Grant teased me
recently, complaining that I sometimes snore. I didn’t believe him. He must’ve
recorded me snoring and set it as my ringtone for a laugh. In other
circumstances, I’d be in stiches. Right now? When I’m mad at him for running
off? Not so much.

“Hello?” I
answer.

“Hi Renata, it’s
Sky. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, of course
not. What’s up?” I ask. “Is everything OK?”

“I just got
home. Is Grant with you?”

“No, I’m working
at
Dwell with Dignity
. Grant isn’t here. Why?”

“Did you know
André met with Betty Jo, Grant, and Alex tonight?”

“No.”

“I’ve been
talking to Alex—he’s a total mess. I saw Grant when he left and he looked
distraught, too. We’re both a little worried about him, so I thought I’d call
you.”

“Why? What
happened?”

“Alex and Grant
got some upsetting news. It’s Wilkinson family shit, really. I guess it shook
them. Anyway, Alex is all screwed up, but he’s worried about Grant. He keeps
calling him, but Grant isn’t answering. I know he’s an alcoholic and he’s been
on the straight and narrow for over a year—but if ever a man went back to the
bottle, it would be after tonight.”

My breathing
increases as I feel the beginning of panic. “
Jesus.
What happened this
time? Are the police involved?” I ask, fearful of the news.

“No, no police,
nothing like that. No immediate crisis, just some disturbing news. I’ll let him
tell you all about it. I will say, it’s bad for Betty Jo—not us for a change.
Still, the news hit both of our boys pretty hard. I have to get back to Alex. Do
you think Grant’s at home?”

“I hope so,” I
say. “With any luck, he’s there and just not answering his phone. If he’s
drinking we’ll deal with it. Thanks for the heads up. I’ll go home now and see.
I’ll text when I find him, so Alex doesn’t worry.”

I say goodbye
and hang up.

Before anyone
can tease me about my ringtone, I tell them there’s been a family emergency.
When I try to call Grant, it goes to his voicemail. I leave him a message and ask
Marla for a ride home.

~~~

The house is
dark and silent when I walk in the front door, but it’s a relief when I find
Grant’s car in the garage. He’s home.

“Grant?” I call
out from the kitchen. He doesn’t reply.

I quietly walk
to his bedroom and find him there. Exhaling in relief, I survey the scene. The
place is a mess. An old photo album is out, lying on the floor. Numerous photos
are strewn across the rug—many are ripped into two, some shredded into
confetti, beyond recognition.

In the corner of
the bedroom used to be a glass display stand filled with trophies Grant won
over the years. The stand is wrecked. Glass kicked in, it lays on its side.
Every single one of his trophies are also broken.

You’d think it would
be difficult to break metal and Plexiglas. Apparently not, if you’re dedicated
to the task—and you have a hammer! The hammer he used lies abandoned nearby.

As if in a
trance, Grant sits silently in a wingback chair. Shirt and shoes off, his
colorful tattoos seem to stand out more than usual, marring his smooth skin
like open wounds. The corded muscles of his chest, broad shoulders and his taut
abs draw me in, as usual.

Angst and pain
radiates from him, coming off in waves.

One hand resting
on his denim covered thigh, the other holds a photo. Grant's intense, unmoving
stare is directed at a glass
full
of an amber liquid sitting on the
table in front of him. Next to the glass is a
full
bottle of Scotch,
minus what looks to be approximately the contents of the glass.

He’s so beautiful.
He’s damaged, he’s hurting, but he didn’t break.

Grant
hasn’t
been drinking. Thank God.

“I take it
you’re redecorating?” I ask in a teasing tone.

His eyes lift to
mine, his lips curve into a slow smile. “I decided that I never wanted to see
those trophies… ever again.”

“Good idea,” I
say calmly.

My calm isn’t
forced. Looking at the scene, it's apparent that he must've been in a powerful
rage, but it’s burned out, now. The storm is over. He obviously had an eventful
evening acting like a human wrecking ball. Whatever crisis Grant has endured
tonight, he’s journeyed past the worst of it.

Most
importantly, I don’t think he’s touched a drop of alcohol. Sure, he bought a
bottle and poured a glass—but as far as I can tell, his glass is untouched.

“What’s this?” I
ask, gesturing toward his bottle of Scotch.

“This is me,
overcoming temptation tonight,” he says with a self-deprecating smirk.

I sit down in
front of him, on the end of the bed. “What about tomorrow night?”   

“I was hoping
you’d be back by then,” he says with a sheepish, boyish smile. “I may stumble,
but when you’re with me, I won’t fall.”

Oh, he’s
good.

I smile back at
him. He’s intentionally trying to charm me and holy hell, it’s working. Still,
he’s not getting out of this without an abject apology.

“What stopped
you?”

“I figured if
Jesus could do forty days and nights of temptation from the devil, the least I could
do is try to manage one.” He raises a dark eyebrow. “It was quite a battle, but
I won. When it came down to all of the things I
don’t
want to be, I
realized that being
‘a drunk’
nearly made the top of the list.”

“Ah, I see.”

I wonder what
made the top of his list. ‘
Murderer?’
No, for Grant, it would probably
be
‘coward.’
Whatever. For now, that’s a question for another day. I fold
my arms across my chest meaningfully.

His eyes light
with understanding; he knows what I expect. Tossing the photo he’s holding down
on the table in front of him, I catch a fleeting peek at it. Even with that one
glance I can see it’s a childhood picture of Alex, Betty Jo and Grant all
sitting beside each other on a fence.

He sits forward,
his beautiful smoky eyes meet my gaze. “I owe you an apology,” he says.

“Yes, you do,” I
agree, “
and
an explanation.”

“After tonight’s
shit—which I’ll tell you about later, the concerns I had about you being with
André don’t matter anymore. Maybe tonight was a moment of temporary insanity.
I’m not exactly sure why I was so upset, except that I felt insanely jealous.
When I came to my senses I thought, who cares if André had sex with Renata?
That was before I met you. Besides, he’s not having sex with you now. Why
should I be jealous?”

“Oh?” I murmur
encouragingly. “Well, why should you be jealous?”

“Because André is
a better man,” he replies, averting his gaze.

I laugh loudly
at this, highly entertained. “No, he isn’t. He’s a good guy, but André has as
many flaws and faults as the rest of us.”

Grant frowns.
“Why didn’t he marry you? Why didn’t you propose to him?” he asks. “You’ve
known each other for ages and you’re so close.” He shakes his head. “I can’t
understand that.”

“Stupidity can’t
be ruled out,” I quip playfully.

I was
heartbroken when I first realized my love for André was not the ‘getting married
and having children’ kind of love. André doesn’t need me.

Lucky for me,
Grant does.