Marital Bitch (8 page)

(Colleen)

I’m going to try
.

IT TAKES ME
approximately eleven minutes to clean up and get changed into something more acceptable than damp boxers and a wrinkled Red Sox t-shirt. All of the clothes I have with me are pretty casual, but I don’t have time to make it to my condo before going to the office.

I’m
in so much trouble. So, so screwed, and not the kind I wanted to be.

I put on my white sundress that I wore the other day and rush around looking for my mobile phone.
Brad comes down after using the bathroom. We haven’t spoken since my mother’s phone call. He watches me as I sift through the sofas for my mobile. I divert my attention, uneasy under his gaze. I don’t want him to tell me that being intimate is a mistake. I don’t want to be rejected. But above that, the most pressing issue is that I don’t want to be fired. Finally, I crack.

“Have you seen my phone?” I practicall
y beg as I toss cushions aside.

“Yeah,”
Brad scratches his head, yawns, and casually walks over to the kitchen. I practically leap over the discarded cushions as I race for the kitchen. Brad picks my phone up and tosses it to me. I catch it mid-sprint. The battery is dead. I run to my luggage and pull out my charger, plugging it into the nearest outlet. I wait with bated breath as it slowly comes to life.

“You
want coffee?” Brad hollers over the repetitive dinging of my Blackberry’s alerts. I’m too focused to answer him. 28, 29, 30, 31… Thirty-five one text messages, eight voice mail messages, and fourteen e-mail messages; and my palms are sweaty. What have I done? First I check my text messages: one from James telling us to make him an uncle; one from Darla telling us to ignore James, he’s drunk; four from Emily telling me that we need to get together soon; and twenty five from Thomas Nate. I am so screwed.

The first message from
Thomas was sent last night just after he left the party. He needed help in court this morning. The next five are also from the previous night from Thomas; various instructions and a few pleas for me to contact him so that he can brief me on the Perkins case. The rest are from this morning. They start out friendly, but the last five are to inform me that once I pull myself from my husband that I need to meet with him in his office as soon as possible.

Tears stream down my face. I can’t even believe that I didn’t set my alarm for this morning. I didn’t even bother to charge my phone. Missing a morning of work without notice is bad enough, but that I can muck through. Missing court is unforgivable short of a life or death situation. Dry humping the husband is not a life or death situation, and for the life of me, I cannot imagine an accep
table scenario to tell Thomas. I’ll just have to go in and accept whatever punishment Thomas deems necessary. I just hope it doesn’t cost me my position at the firm.

I stand up, careful not to yank out my charger and I look to
Brad with tear-filled eyes. He’s calm and cool, as always, and it angers me. Nothing shakes this man. This house could probably get foreclosed on and he would still be calm and cool, like there’s nothing to worry about. The coffee maker beeps and he pours himself a cup, drinking it black.

“How can you be so calm?
” I yell at him. He barely notices and just shrugs his shoulders. I scream, stomp toward him, and grab the mug from his hands. The steaming hot coffee sloshes out of the mug, scolding my hands; which only makes me even madder. Brad just watches me, still half asleep, an amusing smirk playing on his lips. It’s not really his fault that I’m late, but his aloof attitude has me spitting bullets.

“Oh, calm
the fuck down, already, will you?” His eyes narrow and he takes his coffee mug back. Now he looks like he’s getting annoyed. Good. “You can’t blame me this time, pretty girl,” he yawns lazily. I grumble in frustration and spin around, grabbing my purse and my barely charged Blackberry. I don’t have my car here, it’s across town at my condo. On my way to the door I eye Brad’s key rack, and an idea comes to me. I grab his keys and run out the door. He’s calling after me, trying to offer me a ride; but I don’t want to be driven.

“MS. FRASIER OR
should I call you Mrs. Patrick?” Thomas says, bite in his voice. My stomach churns in fear. He waves me in. “Shut the door, Colleen. We don’t need the entire floor aware of your short comings.”

I shut the door behind me and sit in a guest chair, awaiting my fate.
Thomas and I are close in age, but he’s the golden child of the senior partner. Thomas is not known for his people skills, but he’s a competent enough lawyer. He’s also not one for beating around the bush.

“When you were hired here,
Colleen, the firm made it perfectly clear what our stance was on our associate’s personal lives interfering with their commitment to the firm. Need I remind you of the commitment you made upon being hired?” I shake my head. No, I needn’t be reminded, thank you.

“Employment at
Nate & Caldwell is high sought after. Had it not been for your father’s connections in the D.A.’s office, you likely would not have been hired. Based on your University scores and your interview alone, you were not an ideal candidate for the position.” His words cut me to the bone. During my interview, Mr. Nate, Sr. asked me about my father several times, but I never thought much of it.
And my scores from University?
That must be a joke. I went to Harvard.

“Mr.
Nate,” I say as confidently as I can, “I went to Harvard. I received above average marks, and I do not appreciate the accusation that I did not obtain this position based on my own merit—that I had to have daddy help me—so please. I have no defense for my absence this morning.” I choose not to apologize just yet. I don’t want to sound like I’m begging or kissing his ass. I know Thomas wants me to kiss his ass more than anything right now.

He nods his head and shoves a piece of paper and pen at me. I peer over at the paper to find that it’s a performance contract. I pick up the offending paper to find that I am in more trouble than I had initially thought. This contract basically says that I am to not miss another court date, that I am to be in the office on time every day, and that my personal life—namely my husband—are not to interfere with my work. This feels extreme, even for
Thomas.

“Mr.
Nate, this contract feels a bit presumptuous considering this is my first offense. This was my first time missing any time at work since coming on board at the firm. I cannot believe that all associates are sanctioned at this level for a first offense.” I feel confident that I’m being picked on and I don’t like it.

“Ms.
Frasier,” Thomas says and then clears his throat. “Err—Mrs. Patrick, you are not yet a full associate. You are still in your probationary period and can be let go without cause. This here,” he waves at the paper, “is a professional courtesy.” Suddenly, I feel like I’m a small child and my parents are disappointed in me. I doubt the legality of the contract, but I feel boxed into a corner.

“So,” he says, the smug sound of superiority laces his every word, reminding me of my place. “I suggest that you sign the contract so that you may continue employment with
Nate & Caldwell; otherwise the firm will take your objection as your resignation.”

I sign the form. I have little choice, apart from unemployment; and in this economy I doubt that I will have many job prospects having been fired from my one and only place of employment as a practicing attorney.
Thomas, The Toad, as I will now take to calling him, dismisses me for the day. He suggests that I go home and get the honeymoon out of my system so that I can be in top shape for tomorrow.

I slink out of his office and keep my head down on my walk out. I hear murmurs from my coworkers, all wanting to know what happened and whether or not I’ve been fired. For people with such heavy workloads, they sure are spending a lot of time focusing on non-work-related affairs.

I make it back to the truck before I break. Sobs rack my body with such force that it cripples me. As people pass by and become more inquisitive about the sobbing woman in the pickup, I collect myself enough to drive home.

Home.

Home is my condo; my condo with my desk and my laptop and my filing cabinet. Home is neat and orderly and quiet. Home doesn’t have Brad and his shenanigans and all the bullshit, childish crap he talks me into. No, home—my condo—is my safe place. Back at my condo, my job isn’t in peril and my career doesn’t look so hopeless.

So I drive to my condo. I decide that I’ll figure out what to do about
Brad’s truck later. Right now I need to collect myself. I need to work on my case load and to be productive. I need a bit of normalcy before I crack under the pressure.

I sigh, contentedly, as I slide the key in the lock to my front door. Home is just a step away. I open the door and put my keys in my purse and stroll inside, feeling only slightly better than when I left The
Toad’s office. I turn on the living room lamp to find my condo nearly empty. I’ve only had this condo for a few months now and it was sparsely furnished to begin with; but now even the basics are missing.

My books that once sat in the large bookcase across the room are gone. I walk to the dining room to see that my dinette set is now missing two of its chairs and in the kitchen even my coffee maker and toaster are gone. Just when I’m sure that I’ve been robbed,
Brad walks out of my bedroom with James and Adam and Lindsay.

The boys look tired as they each have large cardboard boxes in their arms. But
Lindsay looks energized and she’s box-free. Horrified, I realize that they’re packing my stuff up to move it to Brad’s. We didn’t really talk about this, but it makes sense. The outside world would expect a married couple to live in the same house, and this place isn’t big enough for Brad to live here. Not that he’d leave the neighborhood, anyway.

Brad
spots me and he sets the box down. It’s marked “Girly Shit.” He walks over to me and holds my face in his hands, studying me. A tear slips down my cheek and I burst into tears. He pulls me tightly against his chest and holds me. I wrap my arms around him and sob.

Ever since we were kids,
Brad had a way of comforting me; and this is no different. He’s still here for me, still comforting me. I make a vow to myself that I’m going to try. I’m going to try to be a good friend and good wife, whatever that means. Thomas’s indication that I can’t handle being a married woman and having a career as well makes me livid. It’s everything my mother told me growing up—that I’d have to make a choice, that I would always regret choosing a career over having a family. I have no intention of any of them right; so I’m going to try. I just hope Brad wants to try, too.

(Colleen)

Game on, Patrick.

EARLIER IN THE
week I had promised myself that I would try in mine and Brad’s marriage. Every morning when he wakes up for work, before he puts his suit on, Brad makes us both a cup of coffee. It tastes like crap, but it’s the thought that counts. By the time he leaves, I’m just barely stirring in bed. Normal husbands would kiss their wife goodbye. Mine tells me to get out of bed and then smacks my ass. Four mornings in a row and I have yet to learn to get out of bed before I hear his footsteps trudging up the stairs.

Every night I make sure
Brad has dinner. Some nights I just order from some place I know he likes; pizza or hot wings or something like that. Other nights I try to actually cook. My skills are limited, though. His schedule is hectic. I never know if he’s going to come home in time for dinner or not. The nights he doesn’t, I fix him a plate and put it in the microwave before I head up to his bedroom that I’m slowly, but purposefully, taking over. When Brad finally gets home and crawls into bed, I curl up against him.

I think we’re working on some sort of record because we haven’t fought since the day
Thomas made me sign that stupid performance contract and that was nearly a week ago. When Brad found out about it, first he chastised me for not being smarter.

I thought all you Harvar
d grads were supposed to be smart, Colleen!

This shit ain’t legal. What’d you let that
prick boss ya around for, huh?

You want me to talk to him? I’m gonna talk to him. This is bullshit.

I didn’t want to hear it. Signing the paper, accepting Thomas’s words as gospel, and showing him that I have no backbone had been eating away at me since I told Brad. Oh, he was livid. I swear, if you’re not from the neighborhood, you can’t understand a damn thing Brad says when he gets mad.

After questioning my intelligence, he went about swearing in Gaelic and kicking things. He asked why I signed the contract. Through streaming tears I managed to tell him that I was scared of losing my job and not being able to pay the mortgage on my condo, thus losing that, too. I did, however, leave out the paralyzing fear of my inability to pay back my two hundred grand of student loan debt.
Brad knows it’s high, but he doesn’t know it’s that high. If he found out, he would have told me that nothing is worth that kind of debt, but I digress.

So, it’s Saturday morning and I woke up to a hard smack on my ass at an ungodly hour. The sun wasn’t even up yet. The only positive thing about
Brad having to be at work so early is that unless something happens on one of his cases, he comes home early, too.

I formulate a plan for the day. I want to clean up some and get
the husband’s laundry done and his suits to the cleaners. I’m sucking up, I totally am. I’m trying to seduce my husband through starched shirts and clean dishes. We’ve been so busy this week that the sex issue hasn’t come up again. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself because if I don’t wholeheartedly believe that Brad is too busy to rub himself against me then I’m going to feel rejected. It’s one thing to be rejected by a guy you just met, it’s quite another to be rejected by your best friend.

As it turns out,
Brad isn’t very messy; but every room I’ve been in looks like a tornado has hit it. I never really noticed how tidy he is in comparison. I’m hit with a sense of guilt for always looking at him like he’s some sort of pig.

I take the time to unpack as much of my stuff as I can. There’s extra space on the bookshelves in the living room, so I fill that up. With some creative reorganization I manage to fit all of my cooking utensils in the cramped galley kitchen. My pots and pans happily cohabitate with his and I’m not the least concerned with ever having to figure out what belongs to whom. When
Brad left for work today, the house was his. When he comes home tonight, it will be ours. I sound like an idiot, I’m sure, but I don’t care. I’m staking my claim.

After the kitchen, I find myself even enjoying finding room for my clothes in his tiny closets and already full drawers. I shove everything over in his sock and boxer-briefs’ drawer to make room for my socks. I can’t bring myself to put my panties or bras in there just yet—not before
Brad actually gets in my panties, anyway.

Unpacking doesn’t take very long and before I know it I’m on
to the very last box, which just has DVDs in it. It turns out, I don’t have very much stuff; and I’m grateful that whoever packed it up was methodical and organized about it. I’m guessing it was the husband. Thinking over how neat he organizes everything—something I hadn’t realized about him before—I wonder what else I don’t know about him.

Brad
’s DVDs are organized alphabetically by genre and then alphabetically within the genre as well. I had no clue he was this damn neurotic. I do my best to work within his system as I fit my DVDs in with his. Between Action and Comedy there is a lone, unmarked DVD case. For a moment I consider that it might be porn, but then I remember back in high school how he kept his porn in a rolling bin under his bed. Knowing Brad, that’s probably where he still keeps it. He truly is a creature of habit. Curiosity gets the best of me and I grab the unmarked case and open it, only to be shocked by what I find.

‘
The Notebook.’

Like, the chick flick,
‘The Notebook’. I can’t believe I’ve found this here, and he’s hiding it no less. But then I remember the whole gang going to see this movie in theaters. We had only just resumed being on friendly terms without it being super awkward between us after The Heather Incident. Brad sat at the end of the row and I was next to him. I had a large supply of tissues handy because I just knew I’d cry. But I didn’t need a single one. No, Brad used them all. That’s been our little secret ever since. I hadn’t even been tempted to ever bring it up to torture him with. It just didn’t seem right since it was such a significant turning point in our friendship.

I take the DVD out of the case and flip it around. It’s covered in scratches, both deep and shallow. It’s so beat up that I doubt it’ll even play. And I have an idea! I know just how to show
Brad that I want to try to make this work.

I rush to the kitchen and look for baking supplies. Of which, there are none. I can’t bring him homemade cookies at the station if I don’t have anything to make them. So, I improvise. If there’s one thing I learned from
Darla, it’s how to fake being a domestic goddess. To this day, James still doesn’t know that Darla’s famous lemon squares come from the corner bakery.

THREE HOURS, ONE
shower and four stores later, I’m walking into the station with a wicker basket in my hands, looking for my husband. I am so proud of myself for my forethought. I was lucky—the corner bakery had some reject chocolate chip cookies they gave to me. Old Mrs. Neilson even had an old Tupperware container for me to put them in. She wasn’t very helpful at first; that is until she found out the rumors about me marrying “The Patrick Boy” are all true. Everybody loves both Brad and James and if I didn’t love them both so much, it’d be sickening.

Love?

Um…

Yeah. Yeah, love. You know, like best-friend-love. Like first-kiss-love. Like
I-might-get-some-
love.

“Miss, this area is restricted!“ the woman at the front desk calls out to me as I pass. She has pale skin and beautiful strawberry blonde hair with lovely grey eyes. I have never seen any woman look this good in her dress blues.
She is stunning. I sort of want to s her already.

“Pardon me,” I say in a faux nice voice. I look at her badge and try not to sneer. I have an irrational hatred of her name.
“Vicky,” I say, drawing it out. “My name is Colleen Frasier Patrick. That means my daddy is the Chief, my brother is Detective James Frasier, my godfather and father-in-law is John Patrick, who is the Assistant Chief, and my husband is Detective Bradley Patrick. Please remember that.” My tone is snotty and I know it, but this “Barbie in Blue” needs to know who she is dealing with. I grew up in this station.

I breeze past
Vicky, ignoring her muttering about policy and waltz into the squad room. Brad is seated at his desk with James hunched over him. My dad and John are flanking them on both sides. They look so serious.

I walk over to them and offer a timid
, “Hello,” so as not to startle them. They each look at me with sad eyes. Each of their hellos is something akin to a gruff bark. I don’t even want to know what they’re working on. I’ve spent years blocking myself off from the gruesome world they work in, never asking many questions and always respecting their boundaries when it comes to what they’ll share about their work—and this is why—all too often they’re working on a case where someone has lost someone dear to them.

Brad
stands, crosses the desk and hugs me tight. His body is rigid and he’s burrowing his nose into my hair. I set the wicker basket down on his desk and curl into him. I know this hug. Brad needs this hug. When he’s working on a really bad case, he needs a hug. It grounds him, lets him know that he’s still here, with us. I’m more than happy to be able to be that for him.

“What
’re you doing here, pretty girl?” he asks and we pull apart. My dad has collected all of the papers they were looking at and has them safely in a manila folder far from my line of sight.

“I made you cookies,” I beam up at him.
Brad smiles and kisses my forehead. I lean up and kiss his cheek, shocking him. “You should look in the basket,” I whisper. Brad turns and starts to rifle through the basket, pulling out the cookie container first, his eyes dancing with amusement. I’m so excited and proud of myself that I don’t even see it happening—it being the chaos that is about to happen.

The moment that
James hears there are cookies, he grabs the container and opens it. Sure, they’re discarded bakery cookies, but they don’t look half bad as homemade cookies. Brad pulls out the Special Edition DVD of “The Notebook” that I’ve bought him to replace his deeply scratched copy; and quickly shoves in back in, his cheeks turning pink. He spies the box of tissues and doesn’t even move to pick them up.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, embarrassed because he knows the me
aning behind the DVD.

“There’s a note,” I say, prodding him to read it. I need to see his reaction when he reads the note. I spent a lot of time thinking about that note. I’m not quiet about it and my voice carries to
James’s big old honking ears. Before I can stop him, James finds the note in the basket and starts reading it. Brad tries to snatch it from my stupid brother but he dodges him in time.

The entire squad room watches the budding show as
James begins to read the note aloud. I put my head down, nearing tears. This was private and was never meant to be shared with anyone—especially not the entire squad room.

“
Bradley—,” James recites in a feminine voice. “—I wanted to replace your worn, but well-loved copy of “The Notebook—,” James pauses to laugh. This is so bad. I hear feet shuffle and chuckling from all around. “And the tissues are because I know that you can never make it through Noah and Ally’s reunion without tearing up—,” there’s more, but James stops reading, thank God.

One of the rookies whose name I’ve forgotten takes the opportunity to rag on
Brad. “I want all of you, forever!” he shouts to Brad. James is still laughing his ass off, though he won’t be for long—not after I tell Mama and Darla about this.

Big brother, you’re going down.

John claps his son on the shoulder, trying to withhold his laughter. “You know, son,” he clears his throat, “There’s no shame in liking those girly movies.” Brad pulls away from him, his back to me.

My dad takes the opportunity to chime in. “
John’s right, kid,” he rubs his mustache thoughtfully. “Those movies keep Louise’s engine going strong, even with the on-set of menopause.” I cringe and James verbally protests. I can hear John in the background agreeing. If I wasn’t so mortified and sorry for embarrassing Brad like this, I would be thoroughly disgusted by our fathers’ topic of conversation—our mothers’ libidos.

Brad
leans in close, his voice icy. “So that’s your game, Frasier?” he snaps. I gulp. This is not how you go about impressing your husband. Not at all.

“
Patrick,” I correct him, nose firmly in the air. He knows damn well what my last name is.

“Okay, then,” he smiles in the most unfriendly way imaginable. “Game on,
Patrick.”