Dear Diary, page 17
That still wasn’t enough for him. “Make sure you let me know when the next appointment is.”
“For what?” I asked. “Ever since I announced the pregnancy, you’ve been unavailable. It’s been three months, and not once have you asked me how I’m doing, how I’m feeling, nothing other than how it happened.”
“I haven’t asked you anything because I don’t believe you or anything you say.”
“That’s silly. Why would I make this up?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Myles said. “When was the last time you took your injection?”
“At my last visit a couple of weeks ago,” I said matter-of-factly. “Why are you so concerned all of a sudden? You stopped coming to appointments with me, remember?”
“Yeah, I do. That’s because you were stable enough to get yourself there and back.”
“And I can still manage to get myself there and back. So don’t concern yourself with what’s going on with me, my pregnancy, or my child.”
He let out a chuckle and walked over to his work area. He pulled out a book along with a brown paper bag. He held on to the bag but tossed the book in my direction. It landed close enough to me to see the title written in big letters.
“And you’re trying to make what point with this book, Myles?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “I did a little research, and if you’re really pregnant, then you would no longer be on an injection because it is harmful to the fetus.”
I peered at the book again. “Just because you ran out and purchased a book on managing mental health and pregnancy doesn’t make you an expert. Dr. Monroe and my ob-gyn have discussed my current condition and felt it was better to keep me on the injection than it was to take me off.”
He started to walk off but stopped. “What is the name of your ob-gyn?”
“Dr. None of Your Business,” I answered.
“As the father, I have a right to know and a right to be present for those conversations, especially when it concerns the health of my child. So again, let me know when the next appointment is.”
“I’m not telling you anything other than when to show up for the delivery. If I decide to have you there.”
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. Because he had it on speaker, I heard, “Dr. Monroe’s office. This is Amber. How can I help you?”
“What are you doing?” I asked. Little did he know there would be a surprise waiting for him on the receiving end of that call.
“This is Myles Sanders. I am Eva Sanders’s husband. Well, I’m not sure if she’s listed as Moss or Sanders, but I am calling to make an appointment for us to come in and speak with Dr. Monroe regarding a substitution for her injection since she’s pregnant.”
“I don’t need an appointment, Amber. I already know what’s going on.” I said from the background.
“One moment, please,” Amber said and placed Myles on hold.
I leaned my back against the sink, listening to the hold music with my arms folded across my chest because I knew he wouldn’t be able to obtain any information.
When Amber returned, she said, “Unfortunately, Mr. Sanders, we will need a release of information to discuss anything with you.”
“I signed one already when we first came into the office.”
“I understand, but it has since been rescinded.”
“Rescinded?” Myles asked.
“I’m afraid so,” she said.
“I’m afraid so,” I repeated. I removed that paper that granted release of my medical information to Myles. I was one step ahead, and since he acted like he didn’t care, there was no reason for him to have access to anything concerning me.
That poor receptionist. Myles didn’t say bye or anything. He just hung up.
“Here, take this.” Myles held out the brown paper bag.
I looked inside and laughed. “A pregnancy test? Really?” I tossed the bag on the counter.
“Just so I understand, you say you’re pregnant, but you are refusing to take the test that I have here for you?”
“You understand really well. I’m not taking it.”
“Okay, cool. Since you refuse to take the test and keep me in the loop with what’s going on, I will not do anything for the alleged baby until it’s born. I want a DNA test, too.”
I hated it when he threatened to leave me. “Leaving is not necessary. You are being silly.”
He pointed to the bag. “Are you going to take the test or not?”
“Are you hard of hearing? I already told you no.”
“I’m out. I’ll take what I can now and come back to get the rest of my things.” Myles turned to walk away.
Threats bothered me, and Myles had threatened me again. I couldn’t handle another person leaving me. He was just mad. I thought that once I finished cooking, he’d sit down and eat with me like we used to do. Then we’d have a conversation, he would calm down, and we’d be okay.
Even though I was preparing another twenty-minute meal that I’d found online this time, those twenty minutes were moving at a turtle’s pace. I wanted to sit and talk with Myles over dinner, maybe convince him to stay, but at the rate he used to pack, I wasn’t sure if the food would be done in time. He had two suitcases lined against the sofa and a gym bag sitting on the floor. He disappeared into his room again. When he came out this time, his arms were filled with clothes. It didn’t seem like he planned to come back.
I took slow, deep breaths, but the nervousness caused my entire body to shiver. I was going to run out of time. I looked at the chicken and back at Myles. He threw a bag over his shoulder.
I needed to gauge how much time I had, so I asked, “Myles, will you at least stay for dinner? It’s almost ready.”
He rolled his suitcases near the door. “Nah, I’m good.”
“I was hoping that we could have dinner together and talk.”
“There isn’t much to talk about at this point.”
“We are married, Myles. Remember in counseling she said we had to work through our problems?” I tried my best to guilt him.
He snapped, “Yeah, but our problems can’t be worked through.”
“Myles, please, I am begging you. Can we please sit and talk? Please.”
By this time, he had all his bags at the door. A gym bag rested on top of two large suitcases, and he was going back for something else.
He’s really leaving. “I never knew Myles Sanders was capable of leaving his pregnant wife alone.”
“And I never knew my wife would lie about being pregnant.”
“You’re a coward. Things get tough, and you leave me and your unborn child. What if something happens? This is not safe.”
He looked around the loft. “Look where you live. There is security all around. You’ll be fine.”
“Security cannot help me if something goes wrong with my health while I’m carrying this child.”
Myles cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay. I’ll call you sometime this week and provide you with my attorney’s information. Anything that needs to be said concerning the baby can go through them.”
I was miffed. “What do I need to talk to an attorney for?”
“This marriage just isn’t for me,” he said.
“You can’t leave me. I’m having a baby. Your baby.”
Myles dropped his bags, walked over to the counter, and picked up the pregnancy test. “Okay, all I am asking you to do is pee on this stick, and I’m good.” He held it out for me to take it.
I didn’t take it. I instead threatened him. “If you walk out that door, I’ll kill myself.”
“I would hope not, but that’s your choice.”
I was shocked at his lack of compassion.
“I have dealt with your episodes. I have dealt with your mood swings and seeing people who aren’t there. I am not going to stand here and allow you to control me by threatening suicide.”
“The only person I’ve seen who was not there was Sabrina, so don’t say ‘people.’”
Myles frowned. “You’re forgetting one. Michael.”
“If Michael is dead, prove it. Show me his obituary like you showed me Sabrina’s.”
“If he’s alive, then you prove that he is,” Myles argued.
When I didn’t move or say anything, he asked, “Are you gonna take the test or not?”
“Not.”
“That’s because you’re lying, Eva. I’m giving you the opportunity to prove to me that you are pregnant. If you’re lying, I am giving you the opportunity to admit to your lies. It’s that simple.”
“Why are you doing this, Myles? Are you in love with someone else?”
He sighed. “Don’t start that shit again, trying to flip it on me because I caught you in lies.”
I made another attempt to persuade him not to leave. “I’ll take the test after we talk over dinner.”
“You are crazy as hell if you think I am about to listen to another lie,” he said and turned to walk out of the kitchen.
Myles referring to me as crazy triggered something within me, and I reacted without thinking. The cast-iron skillet that sat on the stove with high flames rising underneath caught my attention. I grabbed it and smashed it against his head. He dropped to the floor. I hovered over him, waiting for him to get up, but he didn’t.
Entry 29
Dear Diary:
There came that sound at the door that I had anticipated for a week: three bangs, then silence. In that moment of stillness, I thought maybe I was getting worked up for nothing.
“Police!”
Maybe I wasn’t.
After my last phone conversation with Mrs. Sanders, I suspected the cops wouldn’t be too far behind. She had called Myles several times over several days, and because he couldn’t answer, she began to call me.
“He’s not here,” I told her, which technically wasn’t a lie. He was here but not here. Here physically but definitely not in spirit.
“When will he be back?” she pried. “It’s not like him not to call me or at least return any of my calls.”
She was getting on my last nerve. I could see why most married people wanted to get rid of their mothers-in-law. “He’s just busy. He’s gotten quite a few new clients. I haven’t talked to him much either.”
“That’s never stopped him from touching base with me before,” she snapped. “Well, when you hear from him, please tell him to call me. I am starting to worry.”
“Yes, ma’am. As soon as he walks through the door, I will have him call you.”
Did I care about soothing her concerns? Absolutely not, but I would say anything to relieve the pressure she had placed on me. She was pushy and controlling. Back when Myles and I were kids, I only encountered her during school functions, and even then, she held a tight rein on Myles. Anytime he walked from her side, she gave him the stank eye. That look was so deadly that he retreated almost every time. I was surprised he could hang out away from home as much as he did. The most Mrs. Sanders and I said to one another were “hi” and “bye.” It seemed like anytime we were in one another’s presence, she always tooted her nose up at me. Far different from when we started dating. She was a lot more welcoming.
Shortly after I hung up the phone with her, she called again. “Do you know why his phone is going straight to voicemail?” Mrs. Sanders asked.
“Maybe a meeting.”
“Very well. Have him call me.” She was abrupt, ending the call without warning,
Why couldn’t she just accept what I told her and leave it alone like his job did? Being his wife, I was listed as the emergency contact. When they called to inquire about Myles’s whereabouts, my response was simple. “I am so sorry. I was supposed to call to let you know that Myles is sick. I’ve been so focused on taking care of him that I forgot to call.”
They accepted what I said and wished him a speedy recovery.
But because Mrs. Sanders was pushy, she sent the cops to my door to perform a welfare check.
Was there a customary rule that required officers to bang precisely three times? Because they did it again, three loud bangs. “Police,” they called out once more.
The rhythm of my heartbeat changed.
I paced.
I panicked.
I paced some more. “Think, Eva, think,” I said aloud, but in a whisper so the police wouldn’t hear me.
My stupid brain wasn’t working. It wouldn’t think.
I panicked some more.
The breathing techniques that I learned in therapy were pointless. I couldn’t take in enough air. I couldn’t risk removing the surgical mask I’d worn to rid my nose of the stench of Myles’s decaying body that lay in the spare bedroom that he moved back into months ago to escape me. I had thought about dumping his lifeless body before anyone noticed, but he was too heavy, and our building was heavily guarded. I struggled just dragging his limp body into the guest room so I didn’t have to look at him. Or smell him as much.
The police officers knocked again. Working under pressure was not my strong suit, but I had to do something. I’d remain quiet until they believed no one was home, and then I’d dismember Myles and haul his body off in small sections. Security would never suspect a thing.
I blamed him for what happened. Had he swallowed his skepticism and trusted me, things would have turned out differently.
I tiptoed throughout the house, grabbing large suitcases and duffel bags. There was a loud thud, almost like a bomb had gone off. The cops had entered using a battering ram. I didn’t see that coming. I thought if I pretended not to be home, they’d leave.
They saw me standing in the middle of the floor holding a butcher knife. The layout of the loft left very few hiding spaces. With nowhere to run, I held the knife to my neck. This wasn’t the way I wanted to go. If it were up to me, I would swallow an abundance of pills. What I had was plenty of pills but not plenty of time. They’d simply force it out of my system like before.
We had a stare-off. Me versus the multiple guns pointing at me.
“Put the knife down!” the officers yelled. “Put the knife down or we will shoot.”
That didn’t seem like a bad idea.
The more they yelled, the closer they inched to me.
The short standoff, filled with commands for me to put the knife down, exhausted me. I gave up and did as I was instructed.
During the roughness of them trying to cuff me, my mask repositioned. I would never forget how strong that stench had grown since the first day I got a whiff. The odor latched on to my nose hairs, making a permanent residence the same way the hospital smell did. Only with this odor, my stomach churned, and my eyes watered. Even with a mask, I could still smell a rotting corpse.
A few days after I had dragged his body to his room, I decided to peek in on him just in case anything changed. I never checked for a pulse. Just maybe I had knocked him unconscious. It was an unsettling sight. His eyes were wide open. Rigor mortis had settled in. His body was bloated, smelly, and covered with insects, and liquid poured from his mouth. I wished I had never walked in there to see that.
As I sat, waiting to be escorted out, I watched as the officers searched my home. I saw one officer twist the knob to the door where Myles was. I warned him, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I couldn’t imagine anyone, not even the coroner, getting through that without vomiting a time or two. I had vomited. That was still in there, too.
“Why shouldn’t we look in there?” another officer asked.
I gave a one-shoulder shrug.
“We are going to find out what’s behind that door. We can already smell it.” He knelt in front of me, making eye contact. “Help us and help yourself. Just tell us so we can be prepared.”
His voice faded out as my focus turned to Myles’s room. The officers rubbed some type of salve under their noses before entering. The large, well-positioned white letters that spelled out POLICE on the back of the officers’ jackets were now stretched and uneven as they attempted to use them as additional nose guards.
I warned them. Plus, I was sick. Sick people like me didn’t go to jail. I’d do a little extended stint in the hospital and go home. But then the unexpected happened. The officers raised me from my seated position. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will, be used against you in a court of law . . .”
When the officer finished reading me my rights, I asked, “If I am going to the hospital, why are you reading me my rights?”
“You’re being placed under arrest.”
“Oh, no, people like me don’t go to jail.” My feet stopped moving. The more they pulled and pushed me to walk, the more weight I placed on my knees. With a jerk of my shoulders to the left and right, I managed to break free. An officer grabbed me by the back of my neck and threw me to the ground, where I suffered a few scrapes and bruises that required medical attention.
It was an unordinary ER visit. Usually, I would have to wait for hours before being seen. This time I was a priority and even had my own personal officer who sat outside the room watching my every move. Again. She wasn’t mean like that last time. In fact, she didn’t say or do anything.
I didn’t know what they thought I could do, being that my hands were tied to the bed for the safety of the hospital staff and myself. Again.
Following X-rays to ensure there were no fractured bones to accompany the bruising to my face from being slammed to the ground, some blood work, and bandages, I was escorted to the police station.
Entry 30
Dear Diary:
Once I was escorted to the interrogation room, the cuffs came off. Finally free, I massaged my wrists. They were sore and somewhat raw. Within hours, I went from tight cuffs to even tighter bed restraints and back to tight cuffs.
The door locking from the other side was a familiar sound. I had watched enough of The First 48 to know what was about to happen next. I’d sit in the bright, cold room while being studied from recording devices in a nearby area. This would buy detectives time to develop a strategy for approaching me and getting me to confess. There were so many things my body language would reveal. I knew that I would automatically be considered guilty if I went to sleep while I waited. I think they refer to it as “guilty sleep.”
