Nicholas Sparks - Safe Haven

She made Kevin breakfast on Monday morning, just as she always did. Four slices of bacon, eggs over medium, and two pieces of toast. He was grumpy and distracted and he read the paper without saying much to her. When he was about to leave, he put a coat on over his suit and she told him she was going to hop into the shower.

“Must be nice,” he grunted, “to wake up every day knowing you can do whatever the hell you want to do whenever you want to do it.”

“Is there anything special you want for dinner?” she asked, pretending not to have heard him.

He thought about it. “Lasagna and garlic bread. And a salad,” he said.

When he left, she stood at the window watching as his car reached the corner. As soon as he turned, she walked to the phone, dizzy at the thought of what was to come next.

When she called the phone company, she was directed to customer service. Five minutes passed, then six. It would take Kevin twenty minutes to get to work, and no doubt he would call as soon as he arrived. She still had time. Finally, a rep got on the line and asked her name and the billing address and, for purposes of identification, Kevin’s mother’s maiden name. The account was in Kevin’s name, and she spoke in a low voice as she recited the information, in the voice she’d been practicing. She didn’t sound like Kevin, maybe not even masculine, but the representative was harried and didn’t notice.

“Is it possible to get call forwarding on my line?” she asked.

“It’s an extra charge, but with that, you also get call waiting and voice mail. It’s only—”

“That’s fine. But is it possible to have it turned on today?”

“Yes,” the representative said. She heard him beginning to type. It was a long time before he spoke again. He told her the extra charge would show up on the next bill, which would be sent out next week, but that it would still reflect the full monthly amount, even though she activated the service today. She told him it was fine. He took some more information and then told her it was done and that she would be able to use the service right away. She hung up and glanced at the clock. The whole transaction had taken eighteen minutes.

Kevin called from the precinct three minutes later.

As soon as she got off the phone with Kevin, she called Super Shuttle, a van service that transported people to the airport and bus station. She made a reservation for the following day. Then, after retrieving the cell phone, she finally activated it. She called a local movie theater, one that had a recording, to make sure it worked. Next, she activated the landline’s call-forwarding service, sending incoming calls to the number of the movie theater. As a test, she dialed the home number from her cell phone. Her heart was pounding as the landline rang. On the second ring, the ring cut off and she heard the recording from the movie theater. Something broke free inside her and her hands were shaking as she powered off the cell phone and replaced it in the box of SOS pads. She reset the landline.

Kevin called again forty minutes later.

She spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze, working steadily to keep from worrying. She ironed two of his shirts and brought the suit bag and suitcase in from the garage. She set out clean socks and she polished his other pair of black shoes. She ran the lint brush over his suit, the black one he wore to court, and laid out three ties. She scrubbed the bathroom until the floor was shiny, and scrubbed the baseboards with vinegar. She dusted every item in the china cabinet and then started preparing the lasagna. She boiled the pasta and made a meat sauce and layered all of it with cheese. She brushed four pieces of sourdough bread with butter, garlic, and oregano and diced everything she needed for the salad. She showered and dressed sexy, and at five o’clock, she put the lasagna in the oven.

When he got home, dinner was ready. He ate the lasagna and talked about his day. When he asked for a second serving, she rose from the table and brought it to him. After dinner, he drank vodka as they watched reruns of Seinfeld and The King of Queens. Afterward, the Celtics were playing the Timberwolves and she sat beside him, her head on his shoulder, watching the game. He fell asleep in front of the television and she wandered to the bedroom. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, until he finally woke and staggered in, flopping onto the mattress. He fell asleep immediately, one arm draped over her, and his snores sounded like a warning.

She made him breakfast on Tuesday morning. He packed his clothes and toiletries and was finally ready to head to Marlborough. He loaded his things into the car, then went back to the front door, where she was standing. He kissed her.

“I’ll be home tomorrow night,” he said.

“I’ll miss you,” she said, leaning into him, putting her arms around his neck.

“I should be home around eight.”

“I’ll make something that I can reheat when you get home,” she said. “How about chili?”

“I’ll probably eat on the way home.”

“Are you sure? Do you really want to eat fast food? It’s so bad for you.”

“We’ll see,” he said.

“I’ll make it anyway,” she said. “Just in case.”

He kissed her as she leaned into him. “I’ll call you,” he said, his hands drifting downward. Caressing her.

“I know,” she answered.

In the bathroom, she took off her clothes and set them on the toilet, then rolled up the rug. She’d placed a garbage bag in the sink, and naked, she stared at herself in the mirror. She fingered the bruises on her ribs and on her wrist. All of her ribs stood out, and dark circles beneath her eyes gave her face a hollowed-out look. She was engulfed by a wave of fury mixed with sadness as she imagined the way he’d call for her when he walked through the house upon his return. He’d call her name and walk to the kitchen. He’d look for her in the bedroom. He’d check the garage and the back porch and the cellar. Where are you? he’d call out. What’s for dinner?

With the scissors, she began to chop savagely at her hair. Four inches of blond hair fell onto the garbage bag. She seized another chunk, using her fingers to pull it tight, telling herself to measure, and snipped. Her chest felt constricted and tight.

“I hate you!” she hissed, her voice trembling. “Degraded me all the time!” She lopped off more hair, her eyes flooding with rage-fueled tears. “Hit me because I had to go shopping!” More hair gone. She tried to slow down, even out the ends. “Made me steal money from your wallet and kicked me because you were drunk!”

She was shaking now, her hands unsteady. Uneven lengths of hair collected at her feet. “Made me hide from you! Hit me so hard that I vomit!”

She snapped the scissors. “I loved you!” She sobbed. “You promised me you’d never hit me again and I believed you! I wanted to believe you!” She cut and cried, and when her hair was all the same length, she pulled out the hair dye from its hiding place behind the sink. Dark Brown. Then she got in the shower and wet her hair. She tilted the bottle and began massaging the dye into her hair. She stood at the mirror and sobbed uncontrollably while it set. When it was done, she climbed into the shower again and rinsed it out. She shampooed and conditioned and stood before the mirror. Carefully, she applied mascara to her eyebrows, darkening them. She added bronzer to her skin, darkening it. She dressed in jeans and a sweater and stared at herself.

A dark, short-haired stranger looked back at her.

She cleaned the bathroom scrupulously, making sure no hair remained in the shower or on the floor. Extra strands went into the garbage bag, along with the box of hair dye. She wiped the sink and counter down and tied up the garbage bag. Last, she put eyedrops in, trying to erase the evidence of her tears.