Husband by Choice

JENNA TOSSED AND turned most of Tuesday night. She could handle whatever was handed to her. She knew how to put one foot in front of the other, how to get up in the morning and start off the day with the belief that she could make it a good one. She knew how to take things one moment at a time, to find even the smallest positive if that’s what it took to get through.

She just couldn’t figure out how to fall asleep.

Lila had asked her if she wanted to stay and talk. And Jenna knew the woman had been asking her to do so. She’d told her the same thing she’d told the policeman. She didn’t need anything. She was fine.

One of her bungalow mates got up just after three. Latoya, she figured. The older woman couldn’t make it through the night without a trip to the bathroom. She’d suffered bladder damage the last time her husband knocked her to the ground and kicked her.

Jenna heard movement. Waited for the swish of water going through the pipes as the toilet flushed. She counted sheep and thought about making oatmeal for Carly and Latoya in the morning. They both needed to eat more. And both had early-morning sessions at the main building. Latoya was starting a job as a sales clerk in the TLS gift shop, Pretty Dreams.

And Carly...she had her first physical therapy session tomorrow morning, to help her regain full use of her left shoulder, which her boyfriend had damaged by shattering her rotator cuff.

Yes, she’d make oatmeal. And at ten she was meeting her little client who was stuttering. It would be good to work.

She’d also met a woman the day before who wanted to lose her heavy South American accent with hopes of becoming as Americanized as she could. Romar had come to the States as a mail-order bride and loved the country, but had become a victim to the man who’d purchased her. Fighting for her freedom was

made harder by her inability to make herself understood. Because helping people lose accents was part of the work of a speech pathologist, Jenna was going to work with her every day for as long as the two of them were residents of The Lemonade Stand. She’d made it clear there were no promises after that.

She lay in bed, making mental lists. And when each thought ended, she found herself right back where she’d started. Face-to-face with an image of the husband she’d left behind.

At four, when darkness and panic finally won the battle she’d been having with them, when she started to shake and her stomach had knotted to the point of hurting, she gave up trying to sleep. Throwing the covers back, she rolled out of bed and took a seat at the antique desk she liked so much.

The little things. They would see her through. She just had to focus. The antique-white color of the desk was nice. It reminded her of a bedroom set she’d once seen in a magazine. She’d been about ten and sitting with her mother waiting in some office. She’d long since forgotten what they were waiting for. But she remembered the magazine, and showing her mother the picture.

She’d come home from school a month later to find a similar set furnishing her bedroom. Complete with a canopy bed.

Jenna pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them. And when the tears threatened to come anyway, she knelt at the side of her bed, pulled out the diary she hid there every night, and, sitting on the floor with her back against the bed, she began to write.

* * *

DAY SEVEN.

Tonight I gave my husband away. I cannot pretend otherwise.

Officer Wayne Stanton. It’s a name I will never forget. At first I feared him, as I fear most people in uniform. The uniform, after all, is a shield that protects those who wear it from being accountable.

But that’s old news.

Officer Wayne Stanton. As soon as he told me that he was there on a mission for Las Sendas P.D. Officer Chantel Harris, I knew what I’d done. I sent Max straight back to Jill’s best friend. The woman was in love with him, even if he wasn’t aware of that.

I’ve never even met her, and I knew she loved him. He told me some of the things she’d said, but I also saw the cards she sent. Every Christmas. When Caleb was born. Anytime anything special happened in our lives.

They were addressed to both of us but the messages had been highly personal. And clearly only for Max.

He’d said it was because she didn’t know me yet.

But he never offered to introduce us.

And now I’ve given him reason to call her. To seek out her help.

Hands trembling, Jenna glanced over what she’d written, hardly able to read the scribbled words. And still she felt the pain of them.

She’d had to let go before. So many times. Why did it have to hurt so badly this time?

The dark of the night belongs here, in the only place left where I can truly be myself. These pages.

Max hasn’t accepted that I left him. I really thought that the keys in the cup holder would do it.

She had to pause again as tears blurred her vision. She’d cried when she’d left those keys there, knowing that by doing so she was stabbing Max in the heart.