Where the Violets Grow

Chapter 1- Stained Glass

Lucy

I used to think that I knew what love was like.

I thought love felt the way sunlight looked streaming through the stained glass window in my grandmother's kitchen. I used to sit at the dining table for hours and watch the dust motes dance in the kaleidoscope of colored beams casting rainbow shadows on the floor. Ruby roses intertwining with triangular panels of emerald and violet. I thought love would be like that.

I know better now.

Now, I know that the sunlight looks the same bouncing off of that stained glass when it's shattered on the floor. It still catches every color, it still glitters when its edges are jagged enough to draw the blood from your knees. A spiderweb of lead framework ensnares what were supposed to be happy memories, but instead arranges them into a painful mosaic tinged with red as I kneel to pick up the pieces.

I'm suddenly yanked out of my stained-glass reverie, the rag drenched in household cleaner I was using to clean countertops still clutched in my hand, by the crunch of gravel coming through the window overlooking the front yard. My stomach drops a hundred feet through the floor and my palms become slick as I race to check the time. I reach the digital clock on the kitchen counter, and its numbers glowed a sickly green color.

4:06pm.

There's no way. I say to myself, there's just no way.

He's home 49 minutes early, and I haven't even had time to change out of my work uniform yet. Thirteen hours worth of sweat and grime had caused the stiff fabric to plaster itself to my back. I start sprinting through the house, thoughts racing of all the things I hadn't done yet.

Dinner isn't ready yet..

I still have dishes in the sink..

There's laundry to put away..

The bathroom isn't clean..

My heart starts to pound as panic sets in at the sound of his truck door squealing open and slamming shut. I get to the laundry room and rip my crusty blue button-down work shirt over my head. I don't blink as I hear the pop! of buttons bursting and scattering to the floor. I slide them quickly under the dryer, where I will retrieve them from later so I can sew them back on. I throw my soiled shirt into the washer, the same with my black slacks. I stop the dryer mid-cycle and dig desperately for a clean shirt and shorts. I find a mostly-dry pink cotton shirt and slightly less-dry white bicycle shorts. These will have to do. Slamming the dryer shut and restarting the cycle, I then dump the rest of the clothes in the hamper into the washer and start it without even bothering to pour in any detergent. The clothes are already clean, I just don't have any time to put them away now.

Daniel hated piles of laundry around the house.

I place the empty hamper out of sight in the utility closet before I pause for a second to listen. I could hear the steady transition from crunching gravel to the creak of our front porch stairs. I begin to count.

There are four stairs, and it takes six of his steps to the front door. I sprint down the hallway towards the kitchen, while I'm cutting across the living room I bang my shin hard enough on the coffee table to see spots boom across my vision.

Three steps...

Four...

I limp through the pain blinking away tears as I approach the kitchen sink. I nearly sob in relief as I see that the only occupants were Daniel's plate and fork from breakfast. I can hear him walking across the porch now.

Two..

Three..

I turn the hot water on full blast, ignoring how it became a scalding assault on my hands as I scrub the dishes furiously.

Five..

Six..

He's at the door. I hear the jingle of his keys, then the turn of the deadbolt. I shove the still dripping plate into the cabinet and drop the soapy fork into the cutlery drawer. I rake my wet fingers through my hair and gather it into a ratty bun on the back of my neck. Daniel hates my hair being down and unbrushed.

It makes you look like a slut, he reminds me sometimes.

I can't remember if I heard the door open and shut or not. Over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears, its hard to tell how much time has gone by. It takes thirteen of his steps -fifteen of mine due to my shorter stride- from the front door to the kitchen. I slow my pace and tried to force my breathing to steady by mechanically inhaling through my nose, careful not to make a sound. I walk as calmly as I can to the refrigerator to retrieve the chicken from its shelf so I can prepare dinner. I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention, and that's how I know he's stood at the kitchen entryway, watching me. While I'm ducked into the refrigerator, I grab a bottle of beer for him as an olive branch.

I try-unsuccessfully- not to flinch when I hear his keys drop like an anchor on the kitchen table. The silence that follows feels like trying to tread water in the open ocean at night, with no moon to tell you which way is up or down. I straighten and turn to him, conjuring up what I hope passes as a carefree smile.

"Welcome home." I try to sound breezy and happy to see him, but a strangled whisper is the best I can do.

Don't look at his eyes, I say to myself. Look at his shoes instead.

Submission is key.

I walk towards him while pretending that the black patent leather shoes attached to the long legs clad in charcoal suit pants were the most interesting thing I had ever seen.

Daniel is quiet as he takes the beer out of my outstretched hand. I can imagine him scanning the room, his eyes flat and cold.

"Dinner isn't ready." It's not a question.

I steady my breathing before I answer, careful to hide my trembling hands behind my back.

Quit acting so scared..

I can hear him say it in my mind as clearly as if he had spoken it out loud.

..or I'll give you a reason to be.

"I will have it ready before five," I hear my own voice say "I wanted to make sure you could come home to a tidy house first."

My voice wavers slightly at the end as I do my best to sound cheerful.

I feel his stare on me for an eternity, or it may just feel that way because I'm holding my breath. Finally, he sighs and turns to go to the living room.

"Start managing your time better," he says before he exits.

One step..

two..

three..

four..

Sixteen steps later, when I finally hear him ease into his favorite chair in front of the TV, my knees almost buckle. Relief washes up against the terror; he is in one of his better moods. There may be hope for a reasonably peaceful evening after all.

I look back at the clock.

4:12pm.

How time flies...

I get to work on making dinner, heart set on the hope I have for a cordial evening. I even catch myself humming softly as the gentle smells of rosemary and garlic greet me warmly. I filet chicken breasts and roll them in seasoned flour, egg, and breadcrumbs. While they sizzle in olive oil on the stove, I roll my shoulders to loosen the tension holding them rigid. I feel the melancholy from before giving way to just a little bit of giddy hope. Maybe tonight won't be such a lost cause after all.

Shortly before five o'clock I'm brushing garlic butter on a thick slice of toasted bread that I baked yesterday. I dress his plate, making sure to wipe around the edges for a tidy presentation. I set the table and take my seat across from his, hands in my lap, eyes forward. I know better than to call for him.

Daniel hates being rushed.

The old grandfather clock in our living room alerts us the time with five loud rings. I hold my breath when I hear his easy chair creak under his weight. A bead of sweat pools at the crest of my hairline as I count his footsteps with automatic precision. It's fourteen of his steps- seventeen of mine- from his chair to the kitchen archway. Then, it's six of his steps to the table.

Seven...

Eight...

Twenty total steps before I'm allowed to look up.

Ten...

Eleven...

I feel like I've forgotten something.

Thirteen...

I slowly cut my eyes up, trying to see what I could have forgotten...

The beer.

I freeze.

Daniel always has to have a fresh, cold beer to the left of his plate before he sits down.

I'm out of my seat before my better judgement can scream at me to sit down.

Not today... I beg silently. Please just let today be...

How many steps has he taken since I stood up? Three? Four? I couldn't remember, and the blood rushing in my ears as I frantically scramble to open the fridge and take out a fresh beer is deafening. My fingers close on one of the ice-cold bottle necks and I spin around...

...right into Daniel's chest.