Diary of a Mistress (8 page)

“What do I owe you?” Monica asked.

The taxi driver pointed to the meter and said, “Five twenty.”

Monica pulled her wallet from her pocketbook and counted out seven one-dollar bills. “Here you go,” she said, then got out of the cab.

“Thank you,” the driver said, before pulling off down the empty street.

Monica walked up her driveway, glancing inside her car as she passed by it. She approached the steps to her house and grew anxious. Through the window she could see that the living room TV was on. She had hoped Carlos would be asleep. She was too upset to face him. She knew that one word out of his mouth was likely to set her off, and she didn’t want another fight. But she desperately wanted to see her boys. She needed them in her arms.

Monica carefully unlocked the door, leaving it cracked. She peeked in the living room and noticed Carlos was asleep on the couch. She crept past him and up the stairs into one son’s room. “Chris,” Monica whispered as she nudged his arm. “Wake up, honey,” she said, and she picked Chris up and put him over her shoulder.

“Mommy?” Chris asked, wiping his eyes, still half asleep.

“Yes, baby, it’s me,” Monica said, holding him tight.

With Chris in her arms, Monica walked down the hall to C.J.’s room. She woke him from his sleep and held his hand, guiding him down the stairs.

“Mom, where are we going?” C.J. asked with a yawn.

“Shh,” Monica said. “We don’t want to wake up Daddy.”

“Monica?” Carlos whispered, as he awakened to see his wife picking up the car keys from the coffee table.

“Monica, what are you doing?” he asked, confused.

Monica ignored her husband. “Chris and C.J, go wait in the car,” she said, and she walked over to the front door. She pressed the unlock button on the car’s key remote. Carlos followed his wife and sons to the door.

“Monica, what are you doing? It’s one o’clock in the morning. The boys need to be in bed.”

“Me and the boys are going to my mom’s,” she told him sternly. Then she mumbled, “Don’t act like you know what’s best for them. You’re the reason they had crabs at three years old!”

Carlos had a confused look on his face.

“Listen, Monica, you need to talk to me and get whatever information straightened out. Our kids don’t need to be woken out of their sleep in the middle of the night for this nonsense!” Carlos stated.

Monica knew she was too upset to have a civilized talk with him. She just wanted to take her kids and leave.

“Good-bye, Carlos,” Monica said as she started toward the car.

Carlos grabbed Monica’s arm and turned her to face him.

“You’re not taking my children anywhere this late!”

Monica shrugged away from him. “Don’t put your hands on me!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Carlos asked, still confused.

“All right!” Monica said. “You wanna know? I can handle you messin’ around on me. I can handle you gettin’ another woman pregnant. And somehow, I was able to handle the fact that my kids got crabs from their trifling, cheatin’-ass father. But you went and fucked Rita! My best friend for years!”

Carlos was perplexed. “I did none of the above, Monica. Rita? Come on now, I would never disrespect you like that. Somebody lied to you. And until you’re ready to hear me out, you are not leaving this house,” Carlos said.

“You would say that, Carlos!” Monica said, becoming more upset. “Of course you’re gonna deny it! That’s what you men do! Now, I don’t want to discuss this with you right now. I just need to be with my kids and away from you!” she shouted, and turned away from him.

Carlos grabbed Monica and again she shrugged away from him, this time with more force than before.

“I
SAID
DON’T PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME!” Monica screamed, with hate in her tone.

“Quiet down! We have neighbors, and it’s too damn early in the morning!” Carlos said, becoming frustrated as he headed toward the car where Chris and C.J. were sitting in the backseat. “I’m putting the boys back to bed. If you want to take them to your mom’s, you can do it tomorrow. They need to be in their beds asleep, not put in the middle of your madness!” Carlos said. He stormed past Monica.

“Leave my kids right where they are!” Monica shouted, and she gripped Carlos’s arm.

“They’re my kids too!” Carlos said as he broke loose from Monica’s grip.

Monica walked up on Carlos and grabbed him by his T-shirt.

“Leave my kids where they are!”

Carlos turned around and shoved Monica slightly. Then he moved to get his children out of the car. But right before he could open the car door, he heard the click of the car’s lock mechanism. Monica had pressed the lock button with the remote.

Chris and C.J. looked confused and scared at the sight of their mom and dad fighting.

“Monica, open the got damn doors!” Carlos commanded.

“No! Let us go! I’m not staying here with you tonight! Why can’t you accept that?” Monica responded.

“Well, then, you go to your mom’s. Leave the kids here!” Carlos ordered.

“I’m not leaving my kids here with you!” Monica shot back, her voice dripping with attitude.

Carlos was beginning to lose his temper, and his patience was wearing thin. He turned around to face his wife, who was a few steps behind him. She tried to brush past him and get in the car, but he wasn’t about to let her take his kids. He gripped her and pinned her against the wall, leaving her feet dangling slightly off the ground. He forcefully snatched the car keys out of her hand and then let her go. He pressed the button to open the car doors.

“Y’all go back to bed,” Carlos instructed his sons as he approached the car again. “Everything will be all right; your mom and me need to talk.”

Meanwhile, Monica yelled, “No! Get back in the car.”

Not knowing who to listen to, the twins started to cry.

“This has gone too far!” Carlos shouted, pulling Chris and C.J. from the backseat.

“Mommy,” Chris cried out as Carlos breezed past Monica carrying both the boys. Monica followed behind Carlos cursing and screaming: “I CAN’T STAY IN THIS HOUSE WITH YOU! GIVE ME MY KIDS AND THE KEYS AND LET ME LEAVE!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.

All the while, the twins were still crying. Carlos put them down and used his hands to wipe their tears. “Go back to bed,” he told them as he walked them up the stairs. Monica continued to fuss, begging Carlos to let her take the keys.

Carlos walked into the kitchen, trying to get away from his wife. He opened the refrigerator, took out a jug of water, and started to drink straight from it. He needed to cool off. Monica entered the kitchen, still at it.

“GIVE ME THE FUCKIN’ KEYS! GIVE ME THE FUCKIN’ KEYS! LET ME LEAVE! WHY ARE YOU TRYIN’ TO KEEP ME HERE! LET ME GO!”

Carlos was sick of hearing Monica rant and rave like she was crazy. With the force of a pitcher throwing a fast-ball, he threw the car keys straight at her. Carlos didn’t budge when the keys hit Monica in the face. Instead, he continued drinking from the water jug. Monica was furious already, and getting hit in the face with the keys just added fuel to the fire. She lost control of herself. She lunged at Carlos, knocking him to the floor, and started pounding him in the chest with her fists. He was squirming, struggling to move from beneath her, but it seemed she had the strength of a man. She kept pounding him with her fists, pouring all of her anger out. Eventually Carlos just stopped. His body had shut down. He was unconscious. He was lifeless. Finally, Monica regained control of herself, bringing her hands to a halt. She started experiencing a piercing pain in her hand. Her eyes widened with fear when she realized she was covered in blood. She looked down at Carlos’s limp body. It too was bloody, and there were a bunch of puncture wounds in his chest, shoulder, and arm. His eyes were half closed, and his head was drooped sideways.

“Daddy!” Chris and C.J. yelled out from the entrance-way to the kitchen.

Monica quickly stood up and turned to face her sons. She ran over to them and hugged them tight, trying to keep them from seeing what she had done. She backed them out of the kitchen and took them up to the bathroom. Then she ran bathwater as she undressed them individually.

“Oh goodness, Mommy got blood on your clothes,” she said softly, tears streaming down her face.

“What happened to Daddy?” the boys asked, frightened.

Monica ignored them, mumbling under her breath. “Mommy’s going to get you two nice and clean and in some fresh pajamas.”

“Mommy,” C.J. whined, “why were you and Daddy fighting?”

“What happened to Daddy?” Chris asked again.

Monica continued to ignore her sons’ questions, rambling on about getting them changed. They cried and whined to their mother, asking about their father.

“Is Daddy hurt?” Chris asked.

Monica stopped what she was doing and looked up at Chris. She saw fear in his eyes. She suddenly rushed out of the bathroom, leaving her boys behind.

“Carlos!” Monica yelled over the banister.

“CARLOS! CARLOS!” Monica screamed louder.

Monica began to panic. She rushed into her bedroom and scrambled around in complete darkness, knocking things over and tripping over unpacked luggage looking for the telephone. Meanwhile, the boys’ cries could be heard from the bathroom, along with the running water.

Her mind was racing. She needed help. More important, her husband needed help.

“CARLOS! CARLOS!” Monica yelled, hoping for a response.

No response. Monica gave up trying to locate her phone and walked frantically into the bathroom, where she turned off the running water. She grabbed both of her kids and cuddled them into her chest, trying to comfort them.

“Stop crying, everything is all right. Mommy and Daddy are fine. Shh, shh,” Monica said, rocking her children in her arms.

“CARLOS!” Monica screamed while still holding her children. “ANSWER ME! CARLOS!”

Monica released her children. “Listen, you two stay in here until I come back upstairs, okay?” She rushed down the steps and went into the kitchen. It was a mess. There was blood everywhere. Glass from the jug was scattered about. Monica made her way carefully through the mess and picked up the kitchen phone. Beside the phone was a note with a phone number written on it, reminding Monica of the dinner reservations she had made for their ten-year wedding anniversary. Her emotional pain worsened.

“Hello,” Monica sobbed.

“Hello?”

“Mom!”

“Monica?”

“Mom, I need the police,” Monica managed to say.

“Monica, what’s wrong?” Monica’s mother asked, extremely concerned.

“Mom, Carlos isn’t moving,” Monica sobbed.

“Monica, stop crying. I can’t understand you,” her mother said.

“It’s Carlos, Mom. He isn’t moving. I keep calling his name. He won’t answer. I need the police.”

“Monica, I’m hanging up and dialing 911,” Monica’s mother told her, not completely sure what was going on but knowing something was seriously wrong.

“Hurry up, Mom, please,” Monica pleaded as she leaned her back against the wall. She looked over at her husband’s still and bloody body. She looked at her hands. They were cut up and smeared with blood as well. She dropped the phone, letting it dangle, bouncing off the wall. Slowly she slid down the wall to the floor, where she remained, scared to death, weeping, and screaming.

“CARLOS!”

Angela stared out of the van’s window, watching the busy early morning traffic. She was being transported to Norristown State Hospital to learn her fate. She smiled as she watched a group of teenage girls cross the street in their school uniforms. They reminded her of her own school days. Back when she and her now ex-husband were voted cutest couple and she and her friends were always joking around in class, cutting school and going to the mall, or participating in the school shows. Her happiest years were spent in high school, and she missed them dearly.

The driver pulled into the parking lot of the hospital. He and Angela entered the lobby and proceeded to the conference room where the hearing was to be held. The butterflies in her stomach were making her feel sick. She was praying to God every five seconds in her head. Please God, let Dr. Whitaker be here. Please let Ashley be on time. Please let them let me go.

The conference room was empty, with the exception of a young black guy dressed in a suit. He was sitting at the end of a long table, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper.

“Good morning,” Angela greeted the unfamiliar man as she sat beside him.

The man said hello and continued what he was doing. Angela couldn’t help peeking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the headlines. As she was scanning the paper, she came across an article about a woman who had almost stabbed her husband to death after finding out about an affair. Oh my God, Carlos? she thought to herself as she attempted to read the article thoroughly.

“Excuse me, sir, I don’t mean to be invading your space or anything, but can I read that article right there?” Angela asked, pointing to the page. “If you’re not reading it,” she added.

“Oh sure,” he answered, removing the page and giving it to Angela.

Angela’s worst fear was confirmed: Carlos Vasquez, a Temple University aerobics instructor, is in critical condition in Frankford Torresdale Hospital, where he suffers from multiple stab wounds allegedly inflicted by his wife, Monica Vasquez.

Angela gasped. Her face froze, and she felt paralyzed. Within moments other people entered the room and took seats. Among them were an older white woman with short red hair, whom everyone referred to as master or judge; the doctor who had originally 302’d Angela; and Dr. Whitaker, who would act as Angela’s public defender. Everybody greeted one another and greeted Angela as well. But she didn’t respond to any of them. Instead, she stared into space.

“Ms. Williams?” Dr. Whitaker said, a concerned look on her face.

Angela shook her head as if she was snapping out of a trance. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was thinking about something.”

“Are you all right?” asked the man who was reading the paper.

“Yes. I’m fine. We can start,” Angela said hurriedly, still appearing zoned out.

The master looked at Angela strangely, and said, “Well, it looks like everyone is present, so we can begin. Doctor,” the master said, gesturing toward the doctor who had committed Angela.

“Good morning,” Dr. Wayne began. “Ms. Williams was brought to Frankford Torresdale’s emergency room eight days ago, where I determined that she had attempted suicide. I based my analysis on the amount of Vicodin and alcohol that was found in her bloodstream. I believe that had she taken one more pill, she would have died, which is why I 302’d her.”

“Frankford Torresdale, Frankford Torresdale, Frankford Torresdale,” Angela mumbled.

The master looked over at Dr. Whitaker, who was sitting beside Angela. She shot Angela another strange look before she asked, “What have you observed from the patient, Doctor?”

Angela’s foot began shaking under the table.

“Good morning, everyone,” Dr. Whitaker began, trying to ignore Angela’s distracting behavior. “In these past eight days since being admitted, Ms. Williams has not attempted suicide, she has not asked for any items that could be used for such an attempt, nor has she spoken of any such actions. She also has not shown any signs of depression and has been in a better mental state with every passing day. I advised her to start a diary as a way of expressing herself privately. She took my advice, and not only has she followed it, but she has shared with me how beneficial the method was for her. Based on our sessions and on reports from other staff members, it is determined that Ms. Williams is not a danger to herself or anyone else, and is capable of being placed back into society.”

The master turned to the young black guy and asked, “What do you have for us today, Doctor?”

“Is the patient on meds?” the young man asked.

“Yes. I prescribed antidepressants,” Dr. Whitaker responded, looking through Angela’s chart.

“Well, she needs them now. Master, it’s clear that the patient still requires treatment.”

“That’s not true,” Angela said in her defense, again seeming to snap out of a trance. “You just want me to stay in Taylor’s. It’s your job to put me there. That’s why you’re here. What other purpose do you city solicitors serve? You’re just a prosecutor with a doctorate. You don’t know me. You haven’t worked with me. You haven’t seen how I’ve progressed. You’re just here to make me look unstable so they can commit me. I’m not stupid.”

Dr. Whitaker interrupted. “Ms. Williams, shh. You are making this very hard on yourself,” she whispered to Angela.

Meanwhile, the master watched Angela closely.

“All I wanna do is get out of here!” Angela shouted with tears in her eyes. “Something has happened to somebody I love dearly, and I need to be by his side!”

Everybody grew perplexed, not knowing what Angela was talking about. For all they knew, she was crazy and needed to be medicated.

“I don’t think she’s ready. Maybe a couple more months,” the city solicitor suggested to the master.

“Ms. Williams, I’m committing you to another sixty days in Taylor’s Institution for Behavioral Health,” the master said.

“Noooo!”
Angela sobbed. “Why are y’all doing this to me? Y’all want me to kill myself or something? Is that what y’all want?”

“Remove her, please,” the master said, as she focused on signing some papers.

Dr. Whitaker sorrowfully patted Angela on her back. The driver who had brought Angela to the hearing forcefully escorted her out of the conference room.

“Ashley!” Angela screamed when she saw her sister waiting outside the room.

Ashley just stood in the hallway with tears in her eyes. She felt bad for her sister, but there was nothing she could do. Truthfully, she thought it was best for Angela to be detained. At least then she knew her sister was safe. Whenever Angela was out, it seemed Ashley was always on edge, worrying that every time the phone rang it was somebody with some bad news about her sister.

“They want me to kill myself!” Angela continued to scream as she was being restrained and taken out of the hospital.

Meanwhile, Dr. Whitaker joined Ashley in the hallway.

“I don’t know what went wrong in there. Your sister was doing exceptionally well. I-I just don’t understand,” Dr. Whitaker said, vexed.

“I thought she would be getting discharged today. When I spoke to her, she said she had done real well and she was confident that she would be getting out. What happened?” Ashley asked.

“She just went blank. In the middle of the hearing, in front of the judge and the prosecutor, it was like she just blanked out. Then she verbally attacked the prosecutor and started mumbling things under her breath. I-I don’t know. I’m as confused as you are. But, anyhow, they gave her sixty days,” Dr. Whitaker said with pity. “I feel so bad for her. I mean, she really did try hard all week. She desperately wanted to get out today. She was determined not to get committed.”

Ashley shook her head and said, “Some things are just out of our control. I just hope she gets better.”

“That’s the truth,” Dr. Whitaker agreed. “Just keep in touch with her. Check in on her every chance you get. I’m sure she can use the support.”

“I will,” Ashley said, then she walked toward the elevator to leave the building.

Monica was sitting as far away as she could from the smelly homeless woman who was stretched out on the steel bench they had to share. Still in the dirty, bloodstained clothes from hours before, she felt disgusted. She was combing her fingers through her tangled hair when a heavyset black woman opened her cell.

“Monica Vasquez,” the corrections officer said.

Monica stood up from the edge of the bench and followed the officer out of the cramped cell. She didn’t know where she was headed, but she prayed it wasn’t anywhere near the woman who had been going through withdrawal in another cell or the one who had been complaining loudly about the bloody tampon that was in the toilet stinking up her cell.

“Match your feet up with those footprints right there,” the officer told Monica.

Monica did as she was told. She wanted to know what was going on but was too afraid to ask.

“Hold this under your chin,” the officer said, giving Monica a piece of paper. “I’m gonna take a front shot and a side shot of you. Then you’ll go over there and get fingerprinted.”

Monica broke her silence. “Um, excuse me, what is this for?”

“You’re being charged.”

“Charged? Charged with what?”

The officer yelled to another officer, “She wanna know what she’s bein’ charged with.”

“Attempted murder,” the other officer yelled back.

Monica’s heart dropped. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But, but…I didn’t attempt to kill anybody,” Monica said.

“Well, that’s for the jury to decide, not us,” the officer said as she snapped a picture. “Soon as you get done, you can make a phone call.”

When they finished fingerprinting Monica, an officer escorted her to a pay phone.

“Mom,” Monica said once her mother picked up.

“Oh, Monica, what are they saying?” Monica’s mother asked, concerned.

“They charged me.” Monica’s voice cracked.

“With what?”

“Attempted murder,” Monica struggled to say.

“Oh, Monica, sweetheart. It’s all in the news. They’re painting you as a monster. I have to keep changing the channel so the kids won’t catch it,” Monica’s mother cried.

Monica broke down, “Mommy, what did I do? I didn’t try to kill my husband. I didn’t and I never would have wanted my kids to see a thing like that, Mommy.”

“I know. I know. The minute they set bail, call me. I’m coming to get you, okay. I’m getting you out of there. We’ll figure this out together.”

“Mom, how is Carlos? Is he going to be okay?”

“He’s in ICU. But the doctors said they were sure he would pull through.”

“Oh, God,” Monica wailed. “What about the boys? How are they holdin’ up?”

“They would be fine if the damn police would leave them alone. They keep questioning them over and over. I had to tell them to get out of my house,” she explained, still crying.

“Mom, what did I do to deserve this? I just tried to be a good person, Mommy. I just tried to be a good wife and a good mother. How did I mess that up?” Monica cried.

“Monica, you hold it together. You didn’t do anything, you hear me? You just hold it together. I’ll be there as soon as they set bail.”

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

Monica hung up. She returned to her holding cell, where she cried the whole time she was waiting for her turn to see the judge. She had never felt so much pain in her life. The thought of Carlos being in ICU without her by his side was killing her. Then there was the fact that her kids were in the middle of this big mess that she created, all over a woman. She didn’t think she would ever be able to forgive herself for putting her family through so much over something so small and worthless. Her husband having an affair didn’t call for all that, she thought. She was paying big-time for her mistakes, emotionally and soon to be financially after figuring lawyer fees. She wished she could turn back the hands of time.

Angela was strapped to a stretcher with her hands and feet bound securely when she was returned to Taylor’s. The staff, including Vanessa, looked at her with shock. They didn’t expect to see her return, let alone in restraints. Her face was pale, and her eyes were half closed. She looked exhausted, as if she were passed out. Her hair was no longer arranged neatly in a bob, but looked frizzed and disheveled. Her clothes were wrinkled. It looked as if she had been in a fight.

Vanessa was the first to go to admissions. “What happened?” she asked.

“They said she just snapped and went crazy at the hearing,” an EMT told her. Vanessa followed procedures and reported the information she had gathered to the rest of the staff so they could prepare for Angela’s stay. One staff member went to Angela’s room to make sure there weren’t any items there that Angela could possibly use to harm or kill herself. Another staff member went into the kitchen to get lunch out for Angela. Vanessa checked Angela’s chart and prepared her meds.

Angela was taken to her room after being evaluated, searched, and given food and medicine. She had been cooperative, but in a puppet kind of way. It wasn’t like before when she eagerly did what she was told. This time she just let the staff do whatever they wanted to her. She wasn’t necessarily compliant, but she didn’t refuse any procedures either. She was like a corpse being prepped for her funeral. When staff members searched her, she stood slumped over, putting no effort into helping them along. If they wanted her arms lifted, they had to lift them themselves. When it came time for her to eat, Vanessa fed her. The only things Angela did on her own were chew and swallow. Vanessa even put her medicine in her mouth for her and held a cup of water to her lips for her to drink. All the while, Angela never spoke a word. Her facial expression never changed. For the staff, the difference between Angela the day before at the cookout and Angela hours after her court appearance was like day and night. In their field it was quite a common occurrence. But for Angela, it was devastating. She had come so far just to end up right where she started, and this time it was over a man who wasn’t even her husband.