Phantom
: Chapter 22

September 18, 1944

Is that what John has felt for the past sixteen years every time we made love? The notion almost enrages me. How dare he experience something so mind-bending while I felt . . . nothing like that!

How dare he not even care!

“Men,” I spit beneath my breath, my tone filled with derision as I scrub angrily at the tomato sauce caked on the countertop from tonight’s dinner.

“What, Mama?” Sera asks from behind me, startling me so badly I let out a screech and nearly drop dead from a heart attack.

Twirling around, I gasp her name, hand over heart as I try to breathe through the fright she gave me.

She smiles at me sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, baby,” I breathe, letting out a laugh. “I didn’t hear you come downstairs.”

John appears in the kitchen a moment later, concern etched into the crow’s feet around his eyes. His hair is mussed, and I can smell the whiskey leaking from his pores from here.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, Sera just frightened me. Everything is fine and dandy,” I assure, my annoyance trickling back in now that he’s here.

Ronaldo used his mouth on me a second time after we . . . did whatever the hell we did. It was too carnal to call it lovemaking. Too animalistic.

Afterward, he had to leave, though it appeared to pain him as much as it did me.

It left me plenty of time to quickly scribble in my journal about the awakening I had just experienced before locking it in the safe behind a photograph of me in the hallway. Ever since John threatened to read my journal, I refuse to even bring it out around him, and he knows that to be the case. Rather than becoming more suspicious, he’s only ashamed. He knows I no longer trust him, and truthfully, I’m relieved that my sordid love affair will never be discovered.

At least not while I’m alive.

After, I bathed the smell of my sins off me, freshened my hair and makeup, and redressed with a more modest set of undergarments—and with my underwear over the girdle this time.

Sacrificing my comfort to appear sexy is a privilege only for Ronaldo.

I completed all this by the time Sera came home from the deli after school, oblivious to the awful crime her mother had just committed.

I was floating on clouds all day until John came home hours after his shift should’ve ended. His dinner on the table had long since grown cold by the time he stumbled through the door, his eyes bloodshot and hair a mess. While he promised he hadn’t been gambling, he refused to tell me where he had been, and he reeked of whiskey.

He didn’t smell of another woman, but frankly, I would almost prefer he have an affair than waste all our money.

Regardless, it devolved into another fight. Sera was thankfully doing her homework in her room when it got heated, but it resulted in his slamming me against the wall and growling in my face to “mind my own goddamn business.”

“Take care of our daughter and be a perfect little wife. Those are your only two duties as a woman.”

It was dehumanizing, and I saw red. My palm connected with his face, and in return, the back of his greeted mine.

I shouldn’t have hit him first. I know that, yet I was still in shock that he had hit me back. In our entire relationship, John had never hit me. He’d never raped me, either. Yet that’s exactly the man he has become.

Despite my budding relationship with Ronaldo, it was devastating to experience the exact moment that I gave up on my husband for good. I loved him for sixteen years. I stood by him in happiness and in turmoil. Through the gift of our beautiful daughter, and the death of any future children.

All for it to crumble away as if it was nothing.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you scream like that,” John comments, chuckling softly and bringing me back to the conversation.

You would if you ever tried.

I’ve been seething about that since the moment John suggested we make love tonight to “resolve our tension.” The thought of lying with him after having lain with Ronaldo earlier makes me sick to my stomach.

Guilt should be eating me alive at this moment, yet I can’t help but look at my husband as if he’s the intruder.

“I don’t think you’ve ever heard me scream like that, either,” I agree, forcing myself to keep the mood light purely for Sera’s sake. “Did you need anything, dear?” I direct my question toward my daughter, pointedly ignoring her father.

“Can I have some ice cream?”

I glance at the clock hanging on the wall, noting that it’s after nine p.m. Normally far too late for sweets, but I don’t have the heart to deny her at this moment.

“Sure, baby. But!” I hold up a finger, pausing for dramatic effect. “Don’t get used to this. You know better.”

She’s too excited to care about my warning and skips toward the freezer with a blinding smile stretched across her face.

Instantly, my aching heart eases, and though I’ve begun to loathe my husband, I sure do love the little human he helped me create. And for that, I’m grateful for him anyway.

September 22, 1944

“We’re going out to celebrate tonight with Frank,” John announces as he comes down the steps. I’m in the living room opening up Frankenstein, prepared to read it again for the millionth time.

It’s been four days since Ronaldo and I first slept together, and he’s visited me every morning since. It’s Friday night now, and with Sera and John home on the weekends, I’m unable to see him until Monday rolls around again. He promised he’d visit then, and it’s all I can think about.

This past week has been full of more pleasure than I’ve experienced in my entire thirty-five years. It’s safe to say I’m addicted to the man, and he has not only invaded my dreams but my every waking hour.

I frown, setting Frankenstein down on the stool.

“Celebrate? Celebrate what?”

A wide grin stretches across John’s face, and he splays out his hands on either side of him as if presenting a prize. “We’re caught up on all the bills!”

I blink, thunderstruck by his declaration. He keeps his position for several moments until he realizes I’m speechless. Excitement glimmering in his eyes, he rushes over to me, carelessly grabbing my book and setting it on the floor so he can take its spot on the stool before me.

He grabs my hands, leaning close as he says, “I told you I was going to fix my mistakes, and that’s precisely what I’ve done, Genevieve. I know I was awful to you these past few months, but things are looking up now. Things are going to be better. I’m going to be better.”

My mind races trying to figure out how he could’ve possibly pulled this off. Frank told me how much John owed from his gambling, and I saw how many bills piled up, only deepening our debt. Unless he won a large sum of money, it’s impossible for him to have accomplished such a feat.

“Did you win big? From gambling?”

He shrugs coquettishly, deliberately giving me a cryptic answer, which only raises my concern rather than soothes it.

Even so, there’s so much eagerness in his gaze, and I don’t have it in me to snuff it. Regardless of my growing resentment toward him, I do still care for him. And at this moment, he looks more like the man I fell in love with than he has in a long while.

“That’s . . . That’s amazing, John,” I finally choke out, forcing a relieved smile onto my face.

And I am relieved. Relieved that Sera will continue to have a roof over her head, food in her belly, and a warm bed to sleep in at night. But I’m equally concerned. I have an unsettling feeling that while John may not owe money any longer, he owes something far greater than that.

His life.

John jumps up, tugging me to my feet and dragging me to the center of the living room. He laughs as he raises my arm in the air, prompting me to twirl around on his finger.

When I spin back toward him, he pulls me into his embrace, holding tightly on to my hand while his arm bands around my waist. There, we sway while he hums the tune to his favorite song, “All the Things You Are” by Tommy Dorsey.

I rest my forehead against his chest, hiding the tears welling in my eyes. The faint smell of whiskey clings to his breath and clothes, and my heart breaks a little more.

If things were normal, I’d place a red kiss on his lips, and just this once, he wouldn’t gripe about the stain I left behind. I’d even sing the lyrics to this song while he hummed. He always said I had a beautiful voice, but if I were to use it right now, it’d crack into pieces.

I vowed I would love him for the rest of my days, and I took those vows seriously. If I were a forgiving woman, I wouldn’t let a few terrible months be the end of an otherwise happy marriage. I wouldn’t have betrayed my promise to be faithful.

Yet I struggle to regret my choices.

God, how I wish that wasn’t the case. Part of me feels obligated to give John another chance. To forget Ronaldo and invest everything I have into fixing this marriage.

Be a perfect little wife, he had said.

That’s what’s expected of me.

But I’m tired of doing what’s expected of me.

Every human on this earth is born pure, and all it takes is one day, one decision to change that forever. And sometimes, the damage can last a lifetime.

John’s transgressions shouldn’t be forgotten, even if they were a first.

He gambled away everything we had and put our daughter at risk of becoming homeless.

He invaded my body.

He hit me.

And even now, he continues to drown himself in alcohol. Some of those transgressions have already become habits.

So, while I mourn the death of our marriage, I can’t find it in me to forgive him. Nor can I find it in me to fall back in love with him again.

To put it simply, John Parsons doesn’t deserve my love. Not anymore.