Nothing is Always Something

Nothing is Always Something

Published by Teresa Meeks at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 by Teresa Meeks

Cover Design and Art by Narvin Meeks

Edited by Donna Gerard & Narvin Meeks

Discover other titles by Teresa Meeks

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Chapter 1

It was still dark outside as my alarm clock announced the day with it's annoying beep. The sun hadn't risen to meet the world, yet, and as I rolled out of bed I wondered how I had gotten myself into this situation. Why hadn't I taken control of my life before now?

The shower, in my new townhouse, worked it's magic and cleared my head of cobwebs. As I wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror my thoughts went to Josh. My little tow-headed bundle of energy stood inches over the other six-year olds. Being all arms and legs he was going through the clumsy stage of bumping into and falling over everything. Even the most grumpy person couldn't resist Josh's contagious laugh. They would eventually join in.

As I dropped Josh off for school tears came to my eyes. The past few days, not to mention, the last three months had turned Josh's world upside down. He doesn't understand why his dad and I don't live in the same house anymore or why I am working when I have always been home for him when he got home from school. I feel as if I am a failure as a mom. I had Josh when I was 26. He is the love of my life and hopefully when he gets older he will realize that I divorced his father to save him and me from the abuse.

I left my husband, Marcus Anderson, three months ago. I felt I could no longer exist living with someone who was so verbally and emotionally abusive. Marcus, who is a fast talker, who thinks he's funny, is actually a genuine loser. He is 13 years older than me and isn't that much to look at. At 5'8", he is a little taller than me and is 40 pounds overweight around the middle. Marcus never grew out of the 1960s with his music, and the 1980s in clothes fashion. Soon I can see him being as big around as he is tall. His thick glasses resemble the bottom of a coke bottle which makes him look like Mr. McGoo with a mustache.

I was 19 when we married and I realize now that not only was I young and stupid, I believe he was my escape route from my parents I think he was more in love with the idea of marrying a young, curvy, 5'7 green-eyed strawberry blond. As things progressed from bad to worse he convinced me that I couldn't do any better.

Marcus couldn't keep a job for more than a couple of months. When he got a new job it wasn't long until his boss would discover his unscrupulous work practices. Things got increasingly worse over the last year.

Thank goodness for my friend Deborah. I met Deborah about five years ago at the park. I felt like she was the only person that I could confide in about my abusive marriage. Not having any other relationship to compare it to I thought Marcus's treatment was probably normal. Over time Deborah convinced me that it wasn't.

Standing only 5 feet tall, Deborah is a little, red-haired powerhouse. She always tries to dress like a supermodel walking the runway, but being as short as she is, she looks like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. Wearing five-inch high heels and a tight mini-skirt stretched over her too-large hips, she definitely makes heads turn as she prances down the street. Painting her botox-injected lips, which just happen to cover the entire lower half of her face, the same fiery color as her red hair, puts a smile on my face. She has a wonderful sense of humor and is extremely funny and even if I am in a bad mood or down, she puts me back in a good mood. Her no nonsense, tell it like it is attitude, is why Marcus couldn't stand being around her.

Walking through the garage one Saturday afternoon I happened to notice a tape recorder beside Marcus's toolbox sitting on the work bench. I thought it was a little odd because he was extremely meticulous about keeping all his tools in perfect order. If there was even a drop of oil on the floor he would get down on his hands and knees and scrub until it was spotless. I pushed play on the recorder and was surprised to hear mine and Deborah's voices. We were talking about Marcus and my latest argument. She asked me why I continued to put up with the abuse. I couldn't believe that he had taped my conversation. I was so stunned that all I could do was just stand there and stare at the machine. I had never given him any reason to mistrust me. Instead of facing the contempt and accusations that I knew were coming I decided to try another tactic.

When Deborah and I talked on the phone that evening, I told her that I loved my husband and was devoted to him and my son. Going completely against her nature, Deborah was silent. I knew her eyes must be rolling back in her head and I knew that I would hear about the theatrics tomorrow. When looking back now, three months later, I wondered why I tried so hard.

That evening Marcus was very attentive and sweet. My plan seemed to have worked, or so I thought. Later that same week I noticed that the tape recorder was still on Marcus's work bench, I decided to ask him about it. He erupted into a jealous rage. It was January 7. I remember the day well because that is when Marcus's emotional abuse turned physical. He attacked me with an intensity that couldn't be swayed no matter what I said to get him to stop. All I could do was try to fend off the blows. He never said a word. He just continued to beat me. He grabbed my arms and threw me on the bed. His grip on my arms was so tight that I knew that I was going to be bruised terribly. I kicked, scratched, and bit him, but he was too strong for me. I tried to kick him in his balls, but he turned his body and I only succeeded in kicking his shin, this didn't seem to faze him because he was so crazed but it hurt my foot. I tried not to scream or yell because I didn't want to wake Josh and upset him. After what seemed an eternity, but in reality was probably only five minutes, Marcus had gotten on top of me and wouldn't let me up. I couldn't breathe and I begged him to get off me. He was so enraged I don't think he heard me. He finally got off me and left the room.

I was so stupid that night. I should have picked up the phone and called the police. I was so mad I couldn't think straight. I should have thrown his ass in jail for domestic violence, but instead, I packed a bag. I had no intention of staying in this house any longer. Hearing the commotion I was making, Marcus came to the doorway of our room. He blocked the door and wouldn't let me leave. I pushed him out of the way and went and got Josh out of bed. I brought him back into my bedroom and after putting him in my king sized bed, I locked the door. I laid awake all night hugging Josh and silently crying, terrified that Marcus would get into the room. I decided then and there that Marcus wasn't going to ever get to me again. The next morning I loaded my and Josh's bags into my jeep Cherokee and drove to my parents home.

As much as I hated going to them for help, I hated Marcus more. My love for Marcus died that night with the first contact of his fist. I think my feelings had been deteriorating over the past few years, but last night was the straw that broke the camel's back. My parents were enraged with Marcus, and they accepted Josh and me with open arms.

Even though Marcus knew that he had destroyed our marriage, he still tried to reconcile. He said that he would move out until I asked him to come back. He moved the furniture from the den and also a sleeper sofa to a mobile home he had rented. He said he wouldn't come into the house unless I invited him. I was so naive to trust him after what he had done to me. He would leave flowers and cards on the front step which would immediately end up in the trash. I wouldn't even open the cards.

Josh cried off and on for days. The little guy was so confused and it broke my heart. He kept asking me where his Daddy was. I explained the best that I could that sometimes things change between mommies and daddies. I reassured him that his father loved him and he could see or talk to him whenever he wanted.

Josh and I finally went back home after spending a week with my parents. Things were quiet without Marcus. I kept myself busy cleaning house and taking Josh to the lakeside park to feed the ducks. I returned home one day and noticed something a little strange. The pull rope to the attic was hanging at a different angle than usual. It was then that I thought I should have the locks changed on the doors and put in a new entry code for the alarm system. I don't know why I didn't think about having this done before Josh and I moved back home. I was so stupid to not have thought of this before now.

That night after Josh went to bed, I lowered the attic’s folding stairs and slowly made my way up to the attic. I don't know what I expected. I still wondered why the rope had been in that position. I had been up there just a few weeks earlier putting Christmas decorations away. Marcus had added extra storage space by putting plywood across the beams.

The air in the attic was thick and dusty. It smelled like wood and bug spray. I pulled the light string and discovered that the light illuminated only about a five-foot radius. The shadows that the light cast made me uneasy and I felt like someone was watching me. My imagination was playing tricks on me. The fact that Marcus still had a key and being uncertain of his whereabouts made me very apprehensive about being up here. I looked around trying to see if anything had been changed or moved. Some boxes that I had put to one side of the attic had been moved about a foot. I also noticed that just past the plywood flooring, the insulation was pushed down. Gingerly stepping on the beams and plywood, I peeked around the corner of a truss and saw the same recorder the Marcus had been using to record my conversations. I could only stand and stare in amazement. I felt my blood begin to boil. I was furious. Without any concern in how I removed the recorder, I ripped it from it's hiding place and threw it down the attic stairs. When it landed on the concrete floor it broke into hundreds of little pieces. And that is where I left it for Marcus to find. So much for his promise that he wouldn't come in the house unless I asked him.

The next week I put the house up for sale and filed for divorce. I didn't have the money to hire a divorce attorney and I just wanted out of the house. So I processed the divorce papers myself at the courthouse and accepted the first offer on the house.

Marcus showed up one February afternoon to pick Josh up. I was fully prepared for him. I gave him half of what was in our bank account and half the bills. I asked him to sign the divorce decree and the contract to sell the house. Knowing that I could still have him prosecuted for his abusive behavior in January, he signed. He wasn't happy but I could care less.

The house closing was on March 15th and the final divorce decree was March 27th. Josh and I celebrated by spending the afternoon at Disney. We had a wonderful time.

With what money I received from the sale of the house I purchased a nice, little townhouse that was perfect for Josh and me. I was very fortunate that I knew the property owner because I had never had a job and had no credit. The townhouse was just the right size, two bedrooms, one and a half bath. I just loved it.

Chapter 2

My father was in the military for 24 years, so I grew up a military brat, moving every four years. I finally put down roots for the first time in my life in Evanston. With a population of 25,000, and not knowing even a small percentage of people, it still felt very much like home.

My next course of action was to find a job. I was bound and determined to not be dependent on Marcus or anyone else. The first few weeks after settling into my townhouse was spent filling out job applications. I was now going on week four of 40 hours a week looking for a job. I was getting very tired of wearing my only three nice business suits.

Every time I approached a business it was the same old story. I would tell them my situation and end up basically begging for a position. Things were tough in Evanston as well as the rest of the country. Ford County wasn't any different. It seems as though I applied at seventy-five percent of the businesses in the city. I applied for any and everything, including waiting tables, answering phones, cleaning toilets, even telemarketing. Sadly, I was told that I wasn't qualified. How hard could it be to talk on the telephone?

I was on my way home after another disappointing day when I saw Jones Plumbing and decided I would see if they needed any help. I completed the application and was sitting on a bench outside the store when Shirley Smithson, an old high school friend walked up. She still had the same look as she did in school, the high teased hair,