Friday morning arrived with no warning in the house.
The alarm rang.
Dale showered.
I made coffee.
He complained that the weather might delay a roofing job, then asked whether I had seen his other pair of work gloves.
I told him they were in the garage.
Everything looked ordinary.
That was what bothered me most.
A person could spend years beside someone and still wake up one morning knowing nothing about him.
I went to the salon early.
Before turning on the lights, I checked the certificate beside my mirror.
The frame had a scratch in one corner.
I had meant to replace it for years.
Now I stood looking at it as if it were a document from another woman's life.
I unlocked the front door and prepared my station.
My scissors went into their usual place.
My appointment book stayed in my handbag.
I didn't want to leave it where somebody might pick it up.
At ten, I called Patrice.
She reminded me to keep my actions lawful and to let her know if Dale tried to pressure me into anything.
I told her I understood.
Then I went back to work.
The first customer wanted a trim.
The second needed her color corrected.
I smiled at both women and listened to their stories.
I had always believed that a salon chair gave people a place to say things they couldn't say at home.
I had never considered what it meant to be the person listening.
By lunchtime, my shoulders hurt.
I ate half a sandwich at the counter and opened the appointment book.
Patrice had asked me to remember the documents Dale had brought home.
I tried to picture them.
There had been insurance forms.
Bank papers.
Company documents.
A stack of pages he had said needed my signature before a deadline.
I remembered sitting at the kitchen table with a pen.
Dale had stood behind me, touching my shoulder.
"Just the marked places, sweetheart."
I had signed where he pointed.
Sometimes I read the top line.
Sometimes I didn't.
I had always thought that a husband who loved you would never use your trust against you.
I had never asked myself what happened if that belief was wrong.
I wrote down what I remembered.
I did not pretend to know which documents mattered.
I simply recorded the occasions I could recall.
A few were clear.
Others were no more than fragments.
The sound of Dale's pen tapping the table.
His hand covering the corner of a page.
His voice telling me there wasn't time to go through every detail.
I felt foolish.
Then I felt angry with myself for spending so much energy feeling foolish when Dale was the one who had chosen to deceive me.
At two o'clock, I checked the front window.
Ashley was not there.
I had expected her to visit that day, but her appointment was not until the following Thursday.
She had told me that Dale wanted the papers notarized on Friday afternoon.
I didn't know whether she planned to come inside with him.
I didn't know whether she had any idea what the documents contained.
I only knew she had helped arrange the meeting.
At three, I cleaned my station.
I folded the towels.
I put the combs in the disinfectant jar.
I checked that the notary stamp was in its usual place.
Then I called Patrice again.
She said she would arrive before Dale.
I didn't ask what she intended to say to him.
I trusted her judgment more than my own at that point.
At home, I had spent years avoiding difficult conversations.
At work, I had learned how to sit quietly while someone told me something painful.
Neither skill had prepared me for what was coming.
I looked at the certificate one more time.
Eleven years.
That was how long it had been hanging beside my mirror.
I remembered the day I had put it there.
A customer had needed a document notarized, and I had helped her arrange the appointment.
I had been proud of earning the commission.
It was a small qualification, but it meant something to me.
Dale had barely noticed.
He had been busy with work.
I had told myself it didn't matter.
Now I wondered whether his lack of interest had been ordinary carelessness or simply another way our lives had separated without my noticing.
I couldn't answer that.
I didn't need to answer it yet.
At home that evening, Dale talked about the business.
He said a payment was late.
He said the equipment costs were worse than expected.
He said we needed to be cautious until things improved.
I listened without arguing.
He reached across the table and touched my hand.
"I appreciate everything you've done to help us get through this."
I looked at his fingers resting on mine.
I thought of the dentist's office.
The Saturday mornings.
The sore feet.
The skipped appointment.
I thought of Ashley's ring.
"You're welcome," I said.
He seemed satisfied.
After supper, he took his phone into the other room.
I stayed at the table.
The overhead light cast a pale circle across the wood.
There was a faint mark where I had once spilled coffee.
I had scrubbed it until the stain faded, but it had never disappeared completely.
I used to think that if I worked hard enough, I could make every problem in our house look smaller.
I had scrubbed floors.
I had stretched money.
I had swallowed questions.
None of it had made Dale honest.
I went to the drawer and checked the appointment book.
The pages were still there.
The notes were still legible.
I closed the cover and put it away.
Tomorrow, I would meet him at my station.
I would listen.
I would not sign something merely because he asked.
And I would no longer confuse being a good wife with being an easy person to fool.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: The White Lexus Waited Outside While I Prepared My Station, and I Wondered How Much Ashley Really Knew About Me
The Woman Who Kept Coming Back Every Thursday, Never Knowing How Much Her Casual Stories Were Costing Me
Part 6 of 24
