Lucky

I don’t know who I am. It’s dark in here. It’s the middle of the night and I am curled up in a ball on the fold out couch. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep because I don’t know who I am or what I am doing here. Biff is asleep on the bed. At least the pattern of his breath – a deep and heavy staccato – makes it seem as if he is sleeping, but I can’t assume anything about him. I don’t know who he is anymore either. When we met a year and a half ago, he was strong and tanned and wonderful. I was naive and carefree. We moved in together after only a month of dating. He used to light candles and pour bubbles into the bath water. Now my bottom lip is cracked from the force of his hand. The soft, pink flesh of my lip is torn and swollen, and it stings on the inside like a canker sore. I can feel my pulse throbbing through the cut. I roll over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling.

We were sitting outside, watching the sun set over the lake. It’s February, but the weather in California is mild. Beyond the thick cover of cedar trees I could hear the train moving through the mountains. Earlier in the day Biff had taken his chainsaw into the wooded area behind the house and returned with a load of firewood. He built a fire in the pit and was cooking chicken over the open flame. I sat in the lawn chair and watched him for a while. His body was bent forward over the grill and his hands worked quickly, flipping foil-wrapped potatoes. Each time he flipped, he snapped his hand away and fanned it at his side. That made me smile.

“I’m lucky,” I said. He turned to look at me and his hair fell into his eyes. “What?”

“I said I’m lucky.”

He tossed his head, moving the hair off his face, and he smirked. “Why are you so lucky?”

“Because of you.”

He took a few steps and leaned toward me. He took my face in his hand and traced my lips with his thumb. He kissed me softly and his fingers twisted in my hair. “I’m the lucky one,” he said. I stood and reached for his shoulder to draw him closer to me. He flexed his bicep and we laughed.

We sat outside and ate chicken and cobs of corn with our fingers. I watched the stars coming to light in the sky. The fire burned and crackled between us. After dinner I went inside to clean the dishes. Through the screen door I heard him talking to someone in the yard and then my friend Sabrina knocked and came inside. “Hey,” I said as I set the dishcloth down. “What are you doing here?”

She said that she had a fight with Steve and we sat down at the kitchen table to talk about it. She lit a cigarette and said she wanted a six-pack of Mirror Pond so we went to her car. I told Biff we were going to the store for beer but then on the way into town we changed our minds and decided to stop at the bar instead. Sabrina gave our order and paid with her credit card. We sat on the bar stools and listened to karaoke. The bartender read our tarot cards. We talked. Sabrina said she was tired of fighting all the time. I listened and nodded. Several hours passed. When I got home, it was late. As I made my way up the drive, the door to the house opened and Biff came out. He was naked and holding a nearly empty bottle of whiskey. “Where have you been?” he asked.

He followed me inside and closed the door. Then he pushed me down on the bed. I struggled to sit up but his arm swung forward and he caught my lip with the palm of his hand. The slap stung my face. I fell back on the bed and banged my head on the frame. I started crying. He clenched his teeth. “Don’t cry,” he said.

“But I didn’t do anything wrong.” He grunted and shook his head. “You don’t stay out until two in the morning.” He took the last swig of whiskey from the bottle and lay down beside me. The bed springs creaked while he shifted his body around and I waited for him to get comfortable. When he started snoring, I sat up on the edge of the bed and wiped my nose with my sleeve. Then I moved to the couch.

I’m still staring at the ceiling and the sun is coming up. I am expected at work today but I want to call in sick. I close my eyes and I check in with myself. Am I weak and submissive? Is that who I am? Am I stupid? Am I wrong? What the fuck am I doing here?? This isn’t the first time Biff has acted this way. Sometimes when he drinks, he loses control. Last month he made my nose bleed. We were driving in the car and having an argument. I was mad and yelling. He started to yell also but then he reached across the seat and hit my face hard with the back of his hand. I felt my nose pop, and blood gushed over my chin and onto my jacket.

I shake my head and take a big breath. I have to maintain control. I can’t call in sick. I lay on the couch until the last possible moment. I’ll be late if I don’t get up now so I push myself up on my elbows. I place my feet gently on the linoleum and tiptoe into the bathroom. My face is pale in the mirror. There are large, dark circles under my eyes. I touch my fingers to my mouth. The water runs cold out of the tap and I lean over the sink as I try to clean the dried blood off my lip. It doesn’t come off, not all of it, so I press a pink lipstick gingerly across the wound. I hear Biff stirring in the bed. I wait while he gets dressed. We don’t speak.

He drives me to work in his truck and I stare out the window. I wipe tears away from my eyes with a Kleenex. I fold and unfold the damp tissue in my hands. He parks outside of the building and we turn to face each other. He notices my cut lip and he looks at me with disgust. “Can’t you clean yourself up?” he asks. I gape at him in disbelief. I squeeze my fist tight around the door handle and count to ten in my head. I’m angry and I’m devastated but I don’t want him to lash out again. I sigh and say, “Whatever. It’s fine. If anyone asks, I’ll just pretend that I tripped on my shoelace and fell.” He doesn’t say anything. I wonder if he feels anything.

I say goodbye and close the door. He watches me as I walk across the parking lot. I watch my feet. They are furious, and they are flawless. They are doing their job perfectly. One foot in front of the other, my feet are moving me away from him. And then I make them stop. I always do this. I stop my feet from leaving him, every time they try. He calls my name across the parking lot and I turn around. Our eyes meet and he gives a small, sad smile of resignation. I know he’s sorry.

He turns back to the wheel and I watch him drive away. I know that this time will be just like the others, and that in a few hours I won’t be mad anymore. I know I’ll get in his truck at five o’clock and I’ll ask how his day was. I look down at my feet again and I know who I am. I am a woman who makes excuses for a man. I am a cliche. I am a lost little girl in an abusive relationship with an addict, but I don’t leave because sometimes, around a fire pit, and under a sunset, I feel lucky.