Chapter 3 - The Coldest Winter in Maui
Wednesday night arrived with a heavy,
oppressive silence.
I spent the evening packing Ethan’s suitcase for his "Seattle" trip.
I folded his sweaters.
I tucked his dress shirts into their plastic covers.
I even packed his favorite cufflinks,
the ones I had given him for our tenth anniversary.
I felt like a mortician dressing a corpse.
Every movement was methodical,
designed to keep the mask from slipping.
"You don't have to do that,
Mad,"
he said,
leaning against the doorframe with a glass of wine.
"I could have handled it."
"It's no trouble,"
I replied,
smoothing out a wrinkle in his coat.
"I want to make sure you have everything you need for the...
networking."
I looked at him,
truly looked at him,
searching for any hint of the man I had loved for twelve years.
I saw only a stranger wearing my husband’s face.
He was thinking about the beach.
He was thinking about Samantha’s laugh or Chloe’s touch.
He was thinking about how much he hated my "tired" face.
"Seattle is going to be freezing this time of year,"
I remarked,
knowing full well he hadn't packed a single item suitable for the Pacific Northwest.
"Yeah,"
he lied,
not even flinching.
"Lots of rain."
"I'll probably spend most of the time in the hotel ballroom anyway."
I tucked a small,
sealed envelope into the side pocket of his suitcase.
It wasn't a love note.
It was a copy of the forensic accounting report and a list of the offshore transfers.
I also included a printed screenshot of the Maui reservation I had found on the iPad.
But the centerpiece of the "gift" was a small USB drive.
On that drive was the security footage from our front porch from the previous month.
I had spent the afternoon watching it.
I had seen Chloe arrive when I was at the grocery store.
I had seen Ethan meet her at the door.
I had seen them disappear inside for three hours while Bailey was at her dance class.
I felt a surge of cold power as I zipped the suitcase shut.
"All set,"
I said,
giving the bag a final pat.
We ate dinner in a performance of domestic bliss.
Bailey talked about her math worksheet and her upcoming recital.
Ethan promised he would try to FaceTime her from the "conference."
I watched him promise a child a lie,
and I realized that there was no room for mercy in what I was about to do.
He wasn't just a cheater;
he was a predator who preyed on the trust of his own family.
Later,
after Bailey went to bed,
he tried to kiss me.
I turned my head just enough so that his lips landed on my cheek.
"I have a headache,"
I said,
the most cliché of all tired-wife excuses.
He sighed,
a sound of exaggerated disappointment.
"Always something,"
he muttered,
turning away.
I lay in the dark,
listening to his rhythmic breathing.
I wondered if he was dreaming of the ocean.
I wondered if he could feel the coldness of the room,
the way the air had turned to ice around us.
Tomorrow,
he would fly to his paradise.
And when he arrived,
he would find that the gates were locked,
the accounts were empty,
and the woman he left behind was the one who held all the keys.
I closed my eyes and for the first time in three days,
I slept.
May you like
I didn't dream of him.
I dreamed of a house with wide-open windows and no closed doors.
