Illumination: How One Woman Made Light of the Darkness

By Sophia van Buren

On Sophia van Buren’s 14th wedding anniversary, the police come knocking on her front door. The news they bring about her husband triggers a revelation that instantly causes Sophia’s suburban life to collapse. It destroys one world, but creates another and will ignite something within her, forcing the woman buried under years of diapers and coupons to emerge.

*Illumination* is not a bitter lament. It’s a modern mother’s odyssey – a quest for hope, levity, and the courage to follow one’s inner light through dark times. Sophia does find hope, but first she must overcome the shadows cast by those conditioned to judge. Ultimately, *Illumination* is a story of rebirth and true love that begins where Sophia’s previous world ends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sophia van Buren
• Release date: Mar 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458180254

Sophia van Buren

At the tender age of 19, I met a man. An older man. I moved in with him and his son and eventually dropped out of college, 10 credits shy of an English degree. We got married on my 21st birthday, and for the next 14 years I hunkered down in the suburbs with my growing family. I made pancakes on weekday mornings and drove my kids and their friends to soccer practice, clipped coupons, and attended Couple's Bible Study every week with my husband. On my 35th birthday and 14 wedding anniversary, everything about my life changed in a matter of minutes. Eight years later, I self-published a book that covers a three year span of my life, beginning with that fateful night. *Illumination - How One Woman Made Light of the Darkness* is the story of how sometimes, what you least expect to happen does, and how, when one life collapses, a new one begins. When I'm not writing, I'm working, shuttling my kids around, or taking photos. My husband and I live in Portland, Oregon.

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ILLUMINATION

How One Woman Made Light of the Darkness

by

Sophia van Buren

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Sophia van Buren on Smashwords

Text copyright © 2010 Sophia van Buren.

All rights reserved

Cover photo copyright © 2010 Anna Aden

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Names and places have been changed,

but this is my story, and I’m sticking to it.

~ Sophia van Buren

For Mister Stellar

And of all illumination which human reason can give, none is comparable to the discovery of what we are, our nature, our obligations, what happiness we are capable of, and what are the means of attaining it. -Adam Weishaupt

INTRUDER ALERT

Lead him away from the children.

It was the only thought running through my mind as I stumbled through the dark hallway of my home. I banged my arm against the wall loudly, knowing the intruder would follow me as soon as he had recovered from the vicious attack in the bedroom. I frantically groped my way to the front door. If I could just lure him out of the house, the kids might be safe. Finding the deadbolt and gripping the cold, brass knob, I twisted it to the left as the intruder entered the room.

Sophia! Soph! Babe – it’s me!

The voice was Mike’s. I turned around quickly to see. He stood there in the hallway in his white BVD’s and socks, staring at me with a perplexed look on his face. As the veil of sleep and shadows receded, I realized the stranger I’d been trying to escape was my husband.

Jesus Christ, Babe! What the hell? It’s just me.

Just moments before, I had woken in a panic. I sat up and looked around. Squinting in the darkness of the bedroom, I did not recognize the stranger breathing steadily underneath the pastel quilt beside me. I jolted out of bed, screaming. The stranger jumped up and ran around the bed, grabbing me roughly around the waist. He clasped his hand over my mouth to stifle my shrill siren. Like a wild animal, I bit down as hard as I could on the meaty hand before throwing a sharp elbow into his protruding gut. The burly man grunted and stumbled back into the darkness of the bedroom, freeing me from his grasp long enough for me to dash out of the room and down the hallway.

Now, standing at the front door, still poised to rip it open, I stared at the dark figure that I’d been running from. It was Mike, my husband of almost 14 years.

Leaning back against the wall next to the front door for support, I slowly slid down it into a crumpled heap on the cold linoleum floor. A rush of adrenalin had been coursing through my veins, and the stinging metallic residue I had felt in my groin, stomach, and armpits I could now taste and smell.

As terror and confusion gave way to relief and exhaustion, I cradled my knees and dropped my head onto my arms. Hot tears fell onto my skin. Apparently, I had been crying. Stray tears created dark blue streaks as they grazed my light blue cotton nightgown on their descent.

What the fuck was that all about, Babe? I mean, shit - one minute I’m lyin’ there in bed and the next you’re screamin’ bloody murder. I thought there was someone in the house with a gun or somethin’.

Mike held his right hand gingerly in his left. I noticed something dripping from his hand onto the linoleum and remembered I’d bitten him - hard.

Oh my God, Mike, you’re bleeding! After pausing, I added, almost in a whisper, I’m so sorry.

I stood up from my collapsed position on the floor of the entryway and shook my head, perhaps an attempt to also shake off the psychological trauma I had just endured. I tried to prepare myself for dealing with my husband’s wound and the crimson dots now collecting on the floor under him. But as the realization that I had physically harmed my husband in the safe confines of our home fully struck me, I couldn’t help but wonder if something was wrong with me. I’d never actually hurt anyone before. But dreams like the one I’d just had were happening more often, almost every night now, and the sense of doom was increasing with each one. Filled with overt warnings to escape, to grab my children and get out of the house, they rattled me awake. I would sit upright, trembling, often covered in a thin film of cold sweat, my throat tight, stifling a scream.

There had been a few other nights when I’d acted out. One night I ran into Jackson’s room and picked him up from his crib and stood there for a moment, waiting for whatever had terrified me to materialize. Blinking, I forced myself to see through the cloud of my dream, finally realizing that my children and me were home, safe. I carefully placed my slumbering son back into his crib and covered him with a blanket before creeping back into bed with Mike, who had never woken up.

Fully upright and finally feeling a bit more stable, I stepped toward my husband. I took Mike’s injured hand and cradled it carefully in my own, leading him to the hallway bathroom. He flipped on the switch and we both squinted in the harsh, fluorescent light before assessing the injury. Thick drops of blood dripped into the freshly scrubbed sink, spattering the otherwise pristine white bowl. I turned on the cold water, rinsing the crimson droplets in a swirling pattern down the drain. The design reminded me of an art project I’d done with the kids at the daycare, in which they had attached paper plates to an old record player, turned it on, and squeezed red paint from a recycled ketchup bottle onto the spinning paper plate.

I’m sorry, Mike, I apologized again in a whisper.

I was now overcome with exhaustion. As an obedient Christian wife and mother, my biggest worries and fears consisted of simple, everyday household occurrences - finding a missing shoe right before the school bus would arrive, running out of graham crackers, or making arrangements to get to Couples Bible Study on time. I could handle the daily rigmarole, but waking up in terror in the middle of the night on a somewhat regular basis was beginning to take its toll on me.

My shoulders drooped as I concentrated on cleaning my husband’s wound. I reached my arm around Mike to unroll a few loops of toilet paper, folding it into a thick padded square, and held it to his injured palm. The bite marks were deep. I applied pressure and stood for a while looking at our reflection in the harsh glare of the bathroom mirror. Mike was gazing at the thin line of cracked and yellowed caulking around the sink.

I need to caulk that.

He sounded like a Muppet speaking through his yawn. He had already forgotten my midnight panic attack and was concentrating on another task to add to his long list of unfinished household repairs.

I stepped into the hallway onto the brown shag carpeting, slightly crisp with age, to get a Band-Aid and some Bactine from the first aid kit in the kitchen. I returned to the bathroom and took in the stark sight of my husband standing there over the sink, eyes closed and mouth open. His hand had strayed from the running water and now rested limply on the edge of the sink. Mike was a stocky, barrel-chested man, with the build of a long retired football player. With his head tipped back, it gave the illusion that it sprang almost directly from his shoulders. The loose, mottled, pink folds of skin on the back of his neck reminded me of a package of vacuum-sealed hot dogs. Wiry, white hair grew wildly out of his shoulders, chest, and back, appearing in a thick tuft out of the top of his tighty-whities, like a tangle of fishing twine. He was still wearing tube socks, just like he did every night for the past seventeen years, pulled up to the middle of his muscular calves. His pale stomach resembled a flesh colored fanny pack hanging over the tight elastic waistband of his briefs.

I sighed. Watching him standing there like that, in the Costco underwear and socks that I always bought for him in a six pack, I tried to see in him the man I’d fallen for so long ago. Back when I was eighteen, I’d described Mike to my friends as an older, experienced, hard-working blue collar guy with a big heart. He had reminded me of a fair-haired Christopher Reeves. But this man in the bathroom may as well have been a stranger.

An unwelcome thought dashed through my mind. The pit of my stomach churned and a sharp, prickling fear crept up the back of my neck, as if my intuition was screaming from my deeper subconscious, warning me that something was very wrong. I found myself recalling an incident the year before when Mike had been accused of sexual harassment by a co-worker at the hospital where he worked as a scrub tech. I’d stood by my husband, a Promise Keeper and leader of his Men’s Accountability Group, like a dutiful Christian wife should. And yet, something continued to nag at me. Finally, it crystallized in a single, stark question - could Mike be the stranger in my dream who was the threat to my children and me?

No.

I hadn’t intended to say this word out loud, but I did, and forcefully. It pierced the stillness of the house and roused Mike from his trance. He snorted and jerked his head upright, pulling his hand from the running water. I stepped behind him and put my hand on his back. I patted Mike reassuringly, and then traced light circles soothingly through the wiry hairs.

It’s okay. Here, let me help.

I spritzed the Bactine onto his hand, which now sported a bright red half-circle from my dental impression, and covered it with two Scooby Doo Band-Aids. I turned off the faucet and whispered to my husband that he should head back to bed.

Everything’s okay now, Honey. Get some sleep.

I wiped out the sink, being careful to polish the faucet, and looked up at my own reflection. Amidst the specks of dried toothpaste in the bathroom mirror, I saw a woman with mousy brown hair that hung in chunks over her shoulders. Tired, green eyes stared back at me, and I noticed thin new lines etched into the thin skin around them. A woman, the same one who remembered being called cute or pretty years ago, stared back at me - a tired, worn-out, older version of that young girl. I had gained weight, baby weight as I liked to put it, and no one had called my pretty for a very long time. I wondered if my bed was actually filled with not just one, but two strangers.

When had this happened? How had this become my life? This wasn’t the life I had imagined as a young woman with the world in front of me. This wasn’t a dream-come-true story, like the ones that filled the novels I’d poured over in college English Lit classes. But this was my life. I was proud to be a loyal wife and a good mother. I liked having a family. And anyway, I thought, how do you know if you belong in the life that you’ve chosen, or the life that happens to you? Maybe my life was not a fairy tale, I reasoned, but it wasn’t as bad as my nightmares, either. I decided reality is like suburbia - the in-between of what you thought you wanted when you were young and what your life becomes when you grow up. Maybe purgatory was a better comparison - it’s not the greatest place in the world, but not the worst, either.

I rubbed a square of soapy wet tissue on the mirror, trying to erase a few of the toothpaste splatters, but decided to leave it for the morning. Tossing the wad of tissue into the garbage next to the toilet, I flipped off the light and headed back to join my now snoring husband.

I stealthily crawled into bed. I noticed that my hands were still slightly trembling. As I curled up near the edge of the bed, I told myself that the lingering dread I could not dismiss was due to the bad dream, not reality. Nevertheless, I lay motionless, silently praying for the light of dawn.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOMMY

I walked up the steps to Pastor Gil’s 1970s split-level Brady-Bunch-style house. Looking down, I focused on my sock-covered toe poking through the worn hole in my white Keds. Today was my thirty-fifth birthday, but, just like every Wednesday night, Mike and I were attending Couples Bible Study. Mike would be leading tonight’s discussion.

It wasn’t only my birthday, it was also our fourteenth wedding anniversary. Years ago, I thought it would be clever and romantic to get married on my twenty-first birthday. A homemade three-layer carrot cake, covered in lemon cream cheese frosting and decked with 21 glowing candles, doubled as both birthday and wedding cake.

Plans for this anniversary were quiet and modest, which I told myself was fine. I was used to it. Over the years, Mike and I celebrated this date without much fanfare. One exception was two years prior, when we splurged by hiring a babysitter and having dinner at the Chart House restaurant. The ripples from that expense wreaked havoc on our household budget for many weeks. Consequently, any date nights after that night, even the ones marking important events, remained Arby's and Blockbuster Video affairs out of necessity. Tonight, I was just hoping to quietly celebrate with my husband after the children were tucked into bed.

Pastor Gil greeted us with handshakes and hugs at the door and ushered us into his living room. Almost everyone in the Bible group was there, sitting in a semicircle of plastic and metal folding chairs, talking and laughing quietly, holding dog-eared Bibles with needlepoint bookmarks from the Christian Supply Superstore sticking out of them. Jackson, who had recently turned four, and seven-year-old Claire, ran down to the daylight basement to play with the other kids. I plopped Faith down on the cream-colored Berber carpet in the middle of the circle. Faith, perhaps accustomed to the drill, clutched Pat the Bunny from a pile of children’s books.

In addition to the weekly Couples Bible Study gatherings, Mike attended a group with the husbands called The Men’s Accountability Group. They got together every week and talked about family and faith and, more specifically, how to be good husbands and fathers. They often referred to themselves as the Captains of their Household Ships. Mike was very invested in the church and teachings. He ushered every Sunday, read self-help books about leading his family in a Christian way, and listened to Christian talk radio on his drive home from work every night. He believed in the end of days and read the Left Behind series. On weekend mornings, Mike prayed and read passages from the Bible out loud to me as I sat next to him on the couch in our living room, my legs cozily draped over his, sipping coffee with powdered non-dairy creamer.

Just a few weeks prior to our last anniversary, Mike attended the massive Promise Keepers convention at the Memorial Coliseum in Portland. On the third day of the convention, wives were permitted to attend with their husbands. Hand-in-hand, joined with 6,000 other couples, like a herd of obedient followers, we’d resealed our wedding vows in a mass ceremony. Everyone left with a cellophane wrapped certificate, handed out at the exit gates, to prove the official Promise Keepers certification of holy recommitment.

The wives in the group also had a lot in common, beyond their placid smiles. We came to Bible study meetings, took care of the kids, made casseroles, sold baked goods at the church fundraisers, and led youth groups on Sundays. During the summers, we planned out and led youth camps. Most of us were either stay-at-home moms or ran in-home daycares, which allowed us to stay with our own children while still bringing in a little money. I was often invited to scented-candle parties, scrapbooking events, Pampered Chef shindigs, and something called Country Home gatherings, at which dutiful housewives sold chotchskies meant to adorn suburban homes in a cute, country fashion. It was not an overly exciting group, I thought, but it was comfortable and safe, and as fellow church ladies, we understood each other. Every one of us knew how to stretch the food budget, get crayon stains off the wallpaper or gum out of a child’s hair – we considered domesticity something of an art form. We were women who shopped at Target and WinCo, watched Oprah while the children napped in the afternoon, and went to tee ball games armed with juice boxes and Gummy-Os. They giggled with me when I admitted to using Bounce fabric softener as perfume, and they all had a wardrobe of sweat pants like me.

A hush fell over the group as Mike turned to the passage in the Bible that he would be reading – the passage that he had chosen for the purpose of our group to consider and discuss.

Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church

and gave himself up for me, that he might sanctify me,

having cleansed me by the washing of water with the

word, so that he might present the church to himself

in splendor, without spot or wrinkle or any such thing,

that I might be holy and without blemish. In the same

way husbands should love their wives as their own

bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. For no one

ever hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes

it, just as Christ does the church.

On the eve of Valentine’s Day, tonight’s theme was Love and Commitment, and the Bible passage the men selected and Mike read to open the meeting was fitting. We bowed our heads as he read. With closed eyes and clasped hands, we were linked together, each pious couple, side-by-side in folding chairs in Pastor Gil’s living room. The shellacked, myrtle wood decoupage Jesus plaque on the wall looked benevolently down at us and the tape player, in concert with the reading of the passage, softly filled the room with tinny yet uplifting Christian pop music.

After the reading, each person took turns talking about the challenges of the week. We all prayed for each other and for people in the church out loud together, and then adjourned to the kitchen. Duncan Hines cupcakes, decorated with pink frosting and red sprinkles, graced the artificial wood kitchen table, and everyone helped themselves to paper cups filled with liters of the generic equivalents of Sprite and Diet Dr. Pepper. Pastor Gil led the group in singing Happy Birthday to me as I sipped Dr. Pepper between laughs. I smiled shyly and blew out the candle poked into the top of my cupcake. Mike laughed at the appropriately funny Hallmark card everyone had signed in honor of our anniversary. Finally, it was time to head home and I gathered the kids together and piled them all into the forest green minivan.

Happy Birthday, Mommy, I love you.

Claire hugged me around the neck as I tucked her into her princess-style bed. I smoothed stray bangs from her brown eyes and tucked them behind her ear. A sheer canopy net hung over the bed, decorated with tiny fabric flowers and butterflies that had been attached with a hot glue gun. The glittery clouds and stars that Grandma Gi Gi and I had painted on Claire’s bedroom walls shimmered softly from the light in the hallway. I made my way to the next room to hug and kiss Jackson while tucking his Batman sheets tightly around his chin, as he slipped into a deep sleep.

A bottle of Cook’s champagne from Albertsons was chilling in the fridge. After all of the children were asleep, I planned on starting a fire in the living room fireplace and spending a quiet, rare romantic moment together with Mike before officially ending the day. After fourteen years of marriage and three years living with him before that, tonight was a 17 year milestone.

I changed Faith into pink footie pajamas and, holding her tightly, walked into the laundry room to get a blanket. She snuggled her soft, pink cheek into the crook of my neck. I breathed in the familiar powdery scent of baby. I stood there for a moment, quietly rocking side-to-side in the ancient mommy dance, shifting my weight from hip to hip in rhythm with the white noise lullaby of the softly humming machine. I pulled the dryer door open to pluck a faded but warm yellow blanket from it and draped it over Faith’s head, tucking it around my sleeping baby.

I was in the heart of my home. The laundry room was always soothing to me. It smelled of fabric softener and faintly of spray starch, and, for some reason, I always felt completely safe there. It was my unofficial sacred space. In this domestic sanctuary, I transformed dirty laundry to clean, neatly folded piles and I wondered if other mothers felt, just like me, that this act was one way to physically demonstrate my love for my family. Even the choices for detergent and stain remover felt like an extension of that love. I took comfort in knowing that I had the power to resurrect one of the kids favorite t-shirts, seemingly ruined by stray drippings from a melting Popsicle or chocolate milk.

It was in this center of my home where I often found myself dancing my children to sleep, sneaking bites of fruit roll-ups by the handful, and every once in a while crying hidden behind the door, my quiet sobs muffled by the spin cycle. (If Mike thought I was in the throes of a huge load of laundry, he would never interrupt.) My laundry room was the perfect hideout. Rearrange the piles of laundry just a little, and voila - instant mom fort.

There was a knock at the door. I stopped moving and strained my ears to listen for Mike’s heavy footsteps. Deciding I didn’t hear any, I stepped out into the living room and glanced at the kitchen wall clock. 9:35 PM. As I made my way to the door, still holding Faith, I ran through a quick mental list of people that it could be, but didn’t arrive at any likely candidates.

I approached the glass-paneled front door. The porch light threw a yellowish glare onto the grave faces of two police officers as they stood motionless on my porch.

Little did I know, my suburban refuge was about to be demolished.

THE SINGULARITY

That’s odd, I thought to myself, what could they want?

The neighbor kid was in high school and his dad was often out of town. I considered that maybe something was going on over there. Balancing a sleepy 18-month-old Faith over my shoulder, I opened the door.

Good evening ma’am, sorry to bother you this late, the older one said. Is your husband home?

Sure. Just a minute, I said, smiling reassuringly at them.

I still thought they must need to talk about the neighbor kid, and it did not seem odd to me at all to hand this matter over to my husband.

Mike?

No response.

Mike…?

I walked a little further towards the hall.

Mike!

After another moment, he emerged from the back bedroom. He was wearing his purple Big Dog sweatshirt, grey sweat pants, and crocs. He stopped for a second at the end of the hall. Looking up, his expression portrayed his surprise at seeing the late night guests standing outside the front door. He finally stepped forward to shake hands with one of the men.

Hello, officers. Come on in, Mike said, scratching his stomach through his sweatshirt. What can I do ya’ for?

Neither officer reacted to Mike’s attempt to pal around with them. They hesitantly stepped into the house. I waited to see if I could help answer any questions about the neighbor. The shorter, younger one looked at me uncomfortably from the corner of his eye and shifted his weight a bit from one foot to the other. The taller policeman beckoned Mike aside and talked quietly to him.

Hey Babe, I’m gonna talk to these guys for a while. Go on back to bed. We won’t be long.

He turned his back to me and spoke in a hushed tone to the police officers. That was my cue to leave. I stood there for a second, wondering if I should stay anyway, and find out what was going on in the neighborhood. They sought further privacy by walking into the garage, now a converted daycare playroom for the kids I watched after school. I saw the lock turn on the door from the other side.

To me, it seemed weird. Why would they need privacy? Was there something going on with the neighbors that would upset me?

Faith rubbed her face back and forth restlessly against my shoulder. I stood there at the door for a few minutes more, swaying back and forth as Faith fell asleep, wondering what my husband could be talking to the police about.

I walked back to Jackson’s bedroom to make sure he was still asleep. I gently laid Faith down in the crib, moved the Elmo Sleeps book from the floor back onto the bookshelf, closed the door partway, and tiptoed out of the room.

Mike and my bedroom shared a wall with the garage. Recalling a trick I had seen in the movies, I grabbed a water glass from the bathroom counter, opened the sliding closet door, and sat down on the floor. Completely hidden behind the hanging clothes, I put the empty glass to the wall and pressed my ear to the bottom of it, hoping to hear the conversation going on between the police and my husband.

I strained to hear words, but all I could decipher were hushed tones and muffled voices. Mike’s voice was the loudest, but I still couldn’t hear what they were saying, until I caught the word rape.

I almost dropped the glass. Now I understood why they excused me from the conversation. Maybe they thought I’d be upset or worried.

Hearing the garage door into the house open, I quickly crept out of the closet, put the water glass back on the counter, and jumped into bed. Mike will tell me what happened, I thought. I won’t be upset - after all, I should know if there was a rape in our neighborhood.

Mike didn’t come to bed for a while. I kept waiting and listening, trying to figure out what he was doing and why it was taking so long. Covers pulled up to my chin, I listened intently. I could hear a few dishes being rinsed and put into the dishwasher, then the hall closet door opening and shutting, but it was mostly quiet in the house.

So much for our anniversary toast.

Finally, Mike came to the bedroom. He brushed his teeth, drank water from the glass that I had just used to eavesdrop, took off his sweats, and climbed into bed in his underwear. This night was definitely not as romantic as I had hoped.

He turned away from me in bed. I rose up on my elbow, resting my head on my palm. I wanted to know what was going on.

What did they want? I asked him politely, but with intent.

Oh, nothin’, he replied calmly. Just something at work.

Mike worked at a group home, a care and treatment center for the mentally ill. His friend was on the board of directors and had gotten him the maintenance job last year, after Mike had been suddenly let go from St. Peter’s Hospital, where he’d worked as a lab technician. 2001 had been a hard year for our family. I recalled the morning when Mike had received a call from the hospital telling him not to come to work. There would be an investigation. Mike’s fellow employee, a female technician, had accused him of sexual harassment. During the weeks that followed, I stood by Mike, worrying about him, frustrated and angry that anyone would accuse my husband, of all people. He was a husband and a father, after all. He came home to me every night after work and would never be the type of guy to cheat, much less sexually harass someone. And at work? No way. Anyway, I justified, he looked more like a bloated Drew Carey than Superman these days, and was about the least romantic person I’d ever met. He was the direct opposite of a smooth-talking ladies’ man. He was just Mike, for God’s sake. And Mike was a far cry from the type of guy who would ever hit on women. Anyway, even if he were handsome and desirable, he was a dedicated father and family man, not to mention knee-deep in Christian Fundamentalist activities and teachings. He would never do anything inappropriate. I was sure that it just wasn’t in him, and I had defended him adamantly.

Mike? What happened?

I had heard the word rape, and I wanted details.

I told you Sophia, it’s nothin’. Just someone at work, he said again. Quit harpin’ and go to sleep.

He fluffed his pillow and plopped his head back down, signaling the end of the conversation. I felt an unsettling wave of nausea and doubt wash over me. I wasn’t sure why, but my heart was beating fast. I hadn’t felt this unsettled since my last dream.

THE BIG BANG

I woke up on Thursday morning at 6:00 AM and stared at the ceiling. It was Valentine’s Day. The night before had been odd, to say the least, and I hadn’t slept well.

Our anniversary had gone unconsummated, the champagne remained unopened, and my new nightgown was still in the box. I couldn’t get the visit from the police out of my head, and I looked over at the expansive back of my husband lying there and wondered how he could sleep so soundly. From the little information I’d gleaned from the whole affair, something at his work was dreadfully wrong. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the story that he wasn’t telling me.

This was the first morning in over two weeks that Mike did not get up before