But Dorthea had been wrong. He never did make that transition. He kept right on yelling and screaming and frothing at the mouth any time his ire was triggered. Anna asked herself all the regular questions following the horror stories she’d seen on Oprah. Anna asked herself time and again if this was abuse? If she was a victim? But because he never hit her and…because she chose him, for better or worse, she couldn’t see herself as a victim.
She most certainly was not a ‘battered wife,’ absolutely not. Anna lived well, travelled, came and went as she pleased…for the most part. She came from a well-to-do, well-educated family. Anna was self assured, not the type likely to fall prey to such…to such… to such…
Early on, the only marital problem Anna thought they had was that Erik ‘didn’t love her enough.’ She’d wheedled and cajoled, went through the entire gamut of Julia Child recipes, lost weight, gained muscle, studied his likes and dislikes, ultimately devoting herself to being the best stepmother (then, eventually, mother) in the world…in repressed hope of winning his respect.
Within weeks of marriage it became all too obvious that he had no respect for her. Once, when she cried because he called her by his first wife’s name in flagrante, he snapped at her, “Oh Christ shut up about it already…don’t act like you didn’t know I was marrying you to get a live-in nanny for my kids. Besides I would never compare you to her, you’ll never live up to her.” Anna remembers thinking at that time…‘I’ll show you.’ She showed him alright. She showed him she was taking on his challenge. She was going to prove him wrong. She intended to make him recognize how worthy and giving and caring she truly was.
Anna sits on the floor of her parents’ entryway absolutely dumfounded at what has become her life. She thinks now of Erik’s first wife, the dead one…as the lucky one. Occasionally she wonders about her death. At the time, in the early eighties, the entire world seemed to be offering alternative cancer cures. Erik chose for his beloved wife of barely four years, the mother of his two infant children, a Laetrile clinic somewhere in South America. After five months the breast cancer allegedly overwhelmed her. But Anna always wondered about this mysterious woman whose place in life she took over. The woman’s shoes were still warm when nineteen-year old Anna stepped into them.
Such thoughts are not helping her get off the floor. In fact, she’s rather encouraged to sprawl out further, get lower, sink deeper into feeling sorry for herself. How can her world be crashing in around her like this?
Anna spent so much of her time over the last few years feeling sorry for herself she’d become a veritable professional. But it was, and is, always in secret. Feeling sorry for herself had become her hidden talent. She never confessed honestly to what was happening, even to Dorthea. They never discussed any of it outright, just inferred in general terms.
When the kids were old enough to go to school Anna recognized she would never get the kind of love she needed, the kind of love she envisioned all her life, the kind of love she wanted from him. So she opted to simply steel herself against Erik. By that time she recognized he would never love her. And, frankly, that was fine. But he did love his children the best he knew how, and Anna could fault him less on that front. On that front, at least, there still seemed to be some hope.
What small portion of his life he spent playing father is what kept her from tearing their family apart. No matter how much she wanted out of their marriage even when she did ‘divorce’ him last time she chose not to rock the boat, not to interference with the sanctity of the Christian household or something like that…Erik had been going through a congregational phase. He must have read somewhere that big zealous churches were somehow good business. Anything that improved his bottom line was considered. The congregation turned out to be an insular community teeming with deformed and diseased relationships, which to Erik was hog heaven.
He is or had been a mostly decent father—particularly to Drew, who at the time of the secret divorce Anna felt needed Erik more than her oldest step-son, Greg. Her predecessor’s oldest, Greg, hadn’t returned since leaving for college three years ago. Greg was raised in the early years when Anna was still striving, still working furiously to win Erik’s love, approval, and respect. She wondered if that striving, that urgency hadn’t somehow made her a better parent, a more engaged mother to the older kids. But her own son Drew, years younger than Greg, somehow turned more to his father than the others. However, Betsy was Anna’s through and through, all out all in. Betsy and Anna together were bugs in a rug.
It was about when Drew and Betsy started school that Anna came to the conclusion she’d been gypped, tricked, ripped off, sold a bottle of snake oil, or somehow been beguiled by him, by her ideas about marriage, by love, or by all three.
Anna felt bereft of love, affection, partnership, teamwork, understanding…things she should have been granted by virtue of his vows. But Anna failed to recognize that simply by virtue of his vows at the altar she had been entitled to be loved, honored, and cherished. She hadn’t needed to earn it, win it, or gain it. Erik promised to offer her these gifts freely, without reservation or judgment; then he failed abysmally. This was one of the few valuable insights she gained from the innumerable counselors, therapists, and ministers they tried over the years.
She lies on the cold tile wondering what Erik could possibly be concocting. A hot stab of fear spreads through her body as the question ‘What is he up to?’ forms in her mind. The marble chill eases the impulsive flames of fear a bit. Her knees are Jell-O. For an instant she’s glad to be sprawled on the entryway floor, saving herself the trouble of falling.
Anna feels threads of speculation roping her down. Her mind throws out questions, each one an anchor. He could be…what if he’s…What do I do if he…He might…He could just…Just inviting the numberless possibilities to mind burdens her so much it’s impossible for her to sit up, stand up, and simply put one foot in front of the other. Truth is, Erik could be up to anything.
That’s the way the whole thing started, after all. From the very beginning Erik had been up to something, alright. Initially, that ‘something’ revealed itself in the shape of a guerilla wedding. He asked her at a fine restaurant, offering a modest promise ring; promising fireworks and full carats within weeks of their first date. At a cocktail party a few weeks later, when asked for the hundredth time in that short span, “So Erik…when’s the big day? Eh? Did you set the date yet?” Erik snapped, “…A week from Sunday.” And that was that. Anna was convinced he was driven by the urgency of his passion for her, his urgency to begin their adventure together.
Anna had thirteen days to plan her wedding, find a church, rent a hall, print and mail invitations—eh, scratch that—announcements. Find a dress, a florist, music, food, and napkins, choose entrees, plan a honeymoon, and decide where they’d live. At the time Erik and the kids were living with his mother. Since his wife’s death in the Bahamian cancer clinic, he’d retired to his mother’s to regroup.
Why was that bizarre wedding not some kind of omen to Anna? No, not entirely true…she was aware of some nagging drawback at the time. She remembers asking him more than once, “Why Erik…why do this in such a hurry?” The only response she recalls was, “Before I change my mind.”
But she thought he was joking. He said it like he was joking. Oblivious to his cruel frankness at the time, Anna felt only vague warning impulses from the back of her mind. Some warning signal…but she was too busy planning the wedding and organizing their life to pursue the reticent alarm buzzing low in the tenders of her gut. She had no time to investigate wild hunches or illogical wondering—at the time, she targeted her skills toward contacting a minister, fielding phone calls, and registering for gifts. It was a mad dash over the threshold, a leap of faith, an adventure, a commitment, a cliff. Anna dove in—fish to water, like the stocked pond past the west pasture.
In a heap on the foyer tile, in a postdusk haze, Anna breathes deep. No magical epiphanies blossom in her mind as she lies penitent and shocked. Right now her impulse is to crawl to bed and get a much needed night’s sleep. Things may or may not look better in the morning…but morning would indeed still come.
In the void before sleep, Anna decides to behave